Matt gave her a smile. "I'd do anything for you, Sarah," he told her. "Don't ever forget that.”
I don’t know why we’re here in Port Royal after Sarah was going to be hanged here but we are. Somehow, we’re safe. I don’t know why. I think Malachite mentioned paying people off, but I don’t understand the complexity of the situation and don’t care that much to figure it out.
I’m standing outside the brothel, leaning against a column holding up the second-story balcony and waiting for Matt to tell me what’s going on and what it means for me. At that moment, Sarah walks out but before I can even say hello to her, I see a familiar figure.
It…can’t be.
It’s impossible.
What was Becky doing here?
Chapter 9
“Becky?”
I blink and my heart leaps into my throat because I’m not sure if I’m happy and excited or confused and upset. This doesn’t make any sense to me. Becky is my best friend. She was supposed to get married to Tom weeks ago. Why is she here now? Did she get sent back as well? If so, how does Sarah know her?
Becky gives me a smile—the same smile she’s given me plenty of times before, back in the twenty-first century—and I have to blink to make sure she’s real, she’s Becky, and she’s standing right in front of me. She’s wearing clothes from this century, her hair braided and pinned up, her breasts pushed together and her waist narrowed thanks to the corset. The more I look at her, the more I realize just how well she fits in here, and she looks so comfortable, so natural, that it’s hard for me to remember what she looked like back in my time. I wonder if I look the same way to her.
“Hello, Isla,” she says, and her voice is the same, her accent is the same. I don’t understand why Becky is here. In fact, I completely forget that Sarah is with me, watching me in the same way her brother sometimes does. “How are you?”
How am I? How am I? Is she serious?
“Becky, what’s going on?” I ask, throwing my arms out and stepping toward her. She doesn’t step back; she’s not intimidated by my outburst. In fact, the way she’s smiling, it almost seems as though she expects it. Which is frustrating in itself. She seems to know me so well and I have no idea who she is. “Why are you here? Why am I here? Can you help me get home?”
“Yes,” Becky explains, in that gentle way of hers. “That is, if you want to get home.”
I open my mouth to respond but I have nothing to say. I have too much to say. I don’t know what to say.
“Sarah,” Becky acknowledges with a nod, flashing her blue eyes at the brothel owner. “Do you mind if you give us some time alone together? I have much to explain to her, and I know you have much to attend to now that you’ve returned.”
Sarah looks over at me, almost like she’s making sure it’s okay with her that she can leave. How does Sarah even know Becky? I feel my heart swell because it’s the nicest thing she’s done since we’ve met. But I nod, letting her know it’s okay for her to leave, that I can handle this on my own. Because I can. I hope.
Once she’s gone, I look to Becky. I’m not sure what my face looks like. Considering I’m feeling a lot of different things, it’s probably not my best look.
“What is this?” I finally ask, my voice coming out raw. I think I even sound hurt, betrayed.
“I have a lot to discuss with you, Isla,” she says. “Let’s take a walk to the docks, and I will explain everything.”
Her hands go to her skirts, and she picks them up like she belongs here, like she’s used to the customs from here. I still trip over my dress, when I choose to wear one, which means I yank my top down, and I have to be careful because my boobs will pop out if I choose not to wear a corset. A lot of the dresses don’t actually require corsets, surprisingly enough, but since my boobs are big and tend to bounce (also, one is a little bigger than the other, and it’s terribly noticeable if I’m not wearing a bra), I prefer to wear a corset no matter what. Especially since it gives me the best cleavage I’ve ever had.
I don’t say anything in response to her, but I nod my head, carefully gather my own skirts, and walk next to her, trying to keep my feet from tripping over anything. The roads aren’t paved here, and people leave shit everywhere. Normally, I like to walk with my head held high, like I have swagger, but here, my eyes are constantly on the ground, trying not to run into anything that would send me flying on my butt and dirty up one of Sarah’s many dresses. I wonder if they’re all hers or if any of them come from her employees. The dresses are pretty dull, if I’m being honest, but they’re all relatively low cut, which gives them some pizazz.
“I’m sure you have a lot of questions,” Becky finally says, once the brothel is just a building behind us. I snort, shake my head. I can feel tendrils of my hair clip the back of my neck, even though they’re supposed to be pinned up in a somewhat fashionable bun. I probably shouldn’t have gotten my hair layered a few days before the bachelorette party, but in my defense, I didn’t pencil in the time-traveling I’d be doing. “I’m going to explain first, if you don’t mind, and then you can ask me whatever you want.”
“And you’ll answer honestly?” I ask, and I don’t bother to hide the cynicism from my voice. “Excuse me if I don’t believe you.”
Becky smiles tightly, pushes her chin into her neck as her blue eyes look at the dirt on her feet. “I suppose I deserve that,” she says, looking back at me from the corner of her eye.
“You do,” I tell her, because I’m hurt and I need to deflect. I hate that it’s not a witty retort, because I’m pretty good at those. I guess I’m just caught off-guard. This is Becky, my best friend. It just doesn’t make any sense.
The strong scent of the ocean slaps my face the way a doctor used to spank newborns to get them to cry, and the hint of fish that taints the smell nearly causes me to vomit. I'm used to subtle ocean scents, not blatant ones, and I have to be careful with my breathing, lest I want to retch all over Sarah's boots. And she would not be happy about that.
The docks are bustling with activity. Boys are sitting on the wooden docks with a single fishing line, letting the sun burn their skin. Men are conversing noisily, happily. Dock fees are being paid; names are being scribbled on parchment. Women and their escorts check out who's coming and who's going. Supplies are being loaded onto ships while crews that have just arrived are being unloaded onto land. There's an air of happiness at the docks, and I feel myself get swept up in it when I understand why: it's a beautiful day, and with the sound of the rushing waves and children's laughter, it's hard not to feel good. Even if it smells horrendously.
"You're adapting better than I expected," Becky says, giving me a sidelong glance from the corner of her eyes. Her hands are behind her back, her shoulders rolled back. Even here, she's the epitome of beauty and grace.
"Bex," I say. I snap, but I don't mean to. My frustration is getting the better of me and I really am trying not to take it out on her, even though she's the reason for this. She's the reason for everything. "Let's cut the crap. Be honest with me. What's going on and how do I get home?"
"Do you want to go home?" Becky asked. She turns her head to face me, to look at my profile. She doesn't make me feel the way Matt does when he looks at me and I can tell she's searching my face for some kind of answer.
"What kind of question is that?" I ask, rolling my eyes. I follow her lead and stop walking so we're both in the middle of the dirt road with no point of destination. It's not abnormal to hang out in the roads, and since there are no carriages from what I can see, it doesn't look like we're going to impede anyone.
"A legitimate one," Becky says, her voice serious. "Isla, you want to know what's going on, right? I'm here to tell you. To put it plainly, you were born in the wrong time. It's very rare, but you were supposed to be born and raised here. Somehow, your soul got lost along the way and you ended up in the twenty-first century."
"But this is where I belong?" I sound like I don't believe her, and I can't get my voice to
come out any differently. I know I've traveled through time and rescued a woman from hanging. I've been beaten up and rescued by a dashing pirate. I should believe her. But it's still hard for me to wrap my head around.
"Yes." Becky nodded.
"Why now?" I ask. "Why send me back now? And how are you involved? Are you my best friend from college or some fairy godmother?"
Becky's nose wrinkles with a grin. "I like to think of myself as a guardian angel of sorts," she says. "As to why we decided to send you back now, it seemed like the most appropriate time. You graduated college, you weren't dating anyone—anyone that I knew about, anyway—and you were still young, which means you can adapt to society, to this culture. Besides your parents, you have no ties back home."
"Besides my parents?" I ask, completely aghast that she's able to brush off my parents like they're nothing, like they don't matter, like they're expendable. I stop walking because I can't move anymore. It hurts to breathe let alone move and I force myself to look at the ocean because if I look at Becky and her perfect face, I'm going to lose it and sock her. And I'm not a violent person. I’m vicious with my words and I don't even know how to make a proper fist. But I'm so pissed, I'll figure it out, because I want to punch her. I'm so mad I want to hurt someone or something. Anything I can do to take away what I'm feeling right now. "News flash, Becky: my parents mean the world to me. I love my job and my apartment and my friends. Which I thought included you, but you're a lie. Everything about you is a lie."
"I don't know what you want me to say," Becky says, and I almost punch her right then for saying that. How dumb. Why would she say something so insensitive? "I was assigned to guide you through your life, to keep an eye on you and see how you took to the new world. Then I was asked to make an assessment regarding whether I thought you should stay with this accidental life it placed you in, or the life you were meant to be born in."
"And I was meant to be born in a pirate's bed, in nothing but a club dress with no clue why I'm here?" I ask. "He thought I was a prostitute, Becky. What if he had—"
"He wouldn't," Becky says, and her voice is so curt I instantly believe her. Becky never talks like that unless she's absolutely serious about something. "I know Matt Scott. He may be a pirate, but he's not a rapist. In fact, he's your type. Physically, at least. He's tall, broad-shouldered, with a boyish smile. I know his eyes are brown, but I thought that was something you could look past considering the package as a whole. Technically, I could have had you wake up in what was supposed to be your room, where you were supposed to be in your life with no memories of your past. But I didn't. I let you keep your life on top of starting a new one."
I roll my eyes. She thinks she's done me a favor. "What's going to happen to me?" I ask. "In my past life? What's going to happen to me?"
Becky has good sense to look away. "You blacked out in front of a truck," she says, her voice low.
"So I die?" I ask, not bothering to hide the frustration in my tone.
"Well, that depends," Becky says, mysterious.
I give Becky a look. Girl always had a knack for the dramatics.
"On what?" I ask. I don't bother to hide my contempt or my patience. Instead, I throw daggers at her with my eyes, trying to pin her in place like a circus knife-thrower does to his partner. Except I'll actually hit the targets.
Her lips quirk up as though she expects this attitude from me and I'm suddenly catapulted back to when we first met, way back during freshmen year of college. It's always weird when pretty girls are nice to me. In my experience, they're making fun of me and I'm too stupid to realize it or they want something from me like answers on homework or essay topics. I'm not ugly or anything—I do well enough for myself—but it always surprises me when they go out of their way to talk to me because I'm usually the girl they're threatened by. I'm not as perfect as they are—I'm curvier, and my hair tends to frizz in the heat, and I have freckles—but I'm smarter and funnier and more relatable. And real. Guys tend to like girls more if they are who they are and not who they want us to be.
But Becky went out of her way to talk to me. She was nice in a genuine way and I didn't trust her all semester. It was only when we happened to run into each other at the pub after finals were over that we really hit it off. She's actually surprisingly good at beer pong and she's more awkward than I am when it comes to talking to guys. She's the prettiest girl I know, and her flaws endeared her to me because it was nice to see that she had her own issues when it came to the opposite sex.
Now, however, I realize the whole thing was based on a lie. Our entire relationship, the fact that she went out of her way to talk to me, it was a lie. And I think that, more than anything else, hurts the most.
"On whether you choose to stay or not," she finally says. "That's why I'm here, Isla. That's what I've been trying to tell you. It's not your fault you were born in the wrong time. But there's a requirement that you spend some time here, to be able to make a well-informed decision. Yeah, the new millennium has technology and jeans and women's rights. But that doesn't mean the eighteenth century is all bad. Remember, you were supposed to be born here. You'll fit in easier, be better at adapting than others who were specifically scheduled for birth later. Give this place a chance."
"I don't really have much of a choice, do I?" I ask.
Becky gives me an admonishing look regarding my sarcasm. She's never been a fan but would put up with it because she likes—liked?—being around me. "There's always a choice, Isla," she says. "I'll come back for you in three weeks. You can make your choice then. If you decide to return home, you'll wake up from a coma with no memory of this place except as a dream. If you decide to stay here, you'll die back home as a result of your injuries. The choice is yours." She pauses so her words have a chance to sink in. Then, she tilts her head in the direction of Sarah's brothel. "Come on. Let's get back."
I follow her without saying anything. I'm too caught up to figure out the best response for everything she just told me.
Chapter 10
When Becky leaves me in front of Sarah’s brothel, ONE, my chest feels heavy and it’s hard for me to breathe. Life as I know it is shattered, and my past—the very building blocks that have made me who I am, who I thought I was—is a lie. I’m a ship without an anchor, trying to keep steady in choppy waters during a lightning storm. I see no help in sight; even the horizon holds no hope for me because everything is black.
I don’t belong here, and yet, from what Becky tells me, I don’t belong back home, either. I have no foundation, nowhere I can go to feel home. I have no home.
I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know what’s right, what’s wrong, what’s possible, what’s not. I don’t know anything anymore.
I feel my eyes fill with tears, and for the first time since arriving in the eighteenth century, I’m crying. And not in the cute, girly way, where girls are still pretty with tears rolling down their cheeks one by one. Where girls still have their dignity.
No.
I’m ugly-sobbing, with snot running down my nose and my eyes gushing out tears nonstop, and sounds coming out of my mouth and nose that I’ve never heard before but definitely don’t sound dainty or attractive. I know I should probably go inside because I’m out in public in the middle of the day standing and bawling, and I’m pretty sure some passersby have given me odd looks, whispering to their children, and hurried along to avoid catching my attention, but for some reason, I’m rooted in place. I can’t move.
“Good God!” a voice exclaims from behind me, and there’s Sarah, giving me a look of disgust. “You know blubbering women make for bad business, even if they are pretty, don’t you?” She takes me by the shoulders and steers me inside. Though she’s not rough, she’s firm, and we don’t stop until we’ve walked up the winding staircase and down the hall to her room—a room off-limits to anyone she doesn’t personally invite herself.
We stop at her bed and she pushes me down into a sitting position. I keep my head ti
lted down so my hair is in my face and she can’t see the monstrosity that my face has become. My hands are shoved in my lap, clutching the skirts between my fingers because the material gives me something to hold on to.
Sarah doesn’t pat my back or tell me it’s okay. She doesn’t talk to me and she definitely doesn’t touch to me. She lets me cry in my own way and I do. I take full advantage of the fact that now, I’m almost by myself, and I can pour all of myself into this cry. It feels good—as much as the burning, jagged pain fills my chest—to release it. To be able to let it all out. I don’t even care that Sarah’s watching me. I need to get this out of me.
When I manage to get myself together, she offers me a damp washcloth. “You look like you could use a bath,” she tells me. “I’ll have my servants draw you a bath.”
“That’s really not—”
“I insist.” Sarah looks like she’s being kind, but she has the kind of eyes you don’t argue with. “When I’m feeling particularly emotional, a bath soothes me. Calms me down.”
She leaves me by myself for a bit and I look around, taking in everything from the elaborate painting on the wall, to the apricot-colored wallpaper that causes the room to glow. This is Sarah’s office; it has a dark oak desk that looks too fancy for a place like a brothel but somehow, it fits. There are writing utensils and ink, as well as parchment—paper—spewed across the desk. The ceiling is high, and it would be the perfect place for a chandelier. Instead, there’s a painting placed horizontally, so if Sarah ever needs a break, she can lie on her bed and stare up at it. It’s a simple painting, really; just of the sunset, but the colors are bright and bold, and it’s hard to look away from. There’s a window that faces the town of Port Royal, but because her office is on the third story, it’s not like anyone can really see her here anyway. It’s not a bad place to work, to be honest.
To Ruin a Rogue: Page 8