To Ruin a Rogue:

by Heather C. Myers

  Chapter 14

  A few days go by. Another prostitute is murdered, this one Karina, strangled as well. Nothing gets resolved, not with the bodies, not between Matt and me. Even now, I have no idea what we are, what we mean to each other. I don’t think he knows, either. I’m not sure if it makes a difference. If Matt knew the way I feel about him, would that change anything between us? We shared a drunken make-out session. I’m not sure if I actually said anything incriminating. I don’t think I did; then again, everything is blurry when I try to remember the kisses, the touches, the whispered words.

  And I want so badly to remember it all. I want to remember the feeling because I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, and it’s a feeling I want to be consistent and common and expected. I don’t know if Matt is this one in a million guy. I don’t know if I believe in true love or soul mates. I used to be absolutely sure against it. There was no way one person is destined for somebody else, not when there are so many people on this planet. I don’t think my feelings for Matt have entirely convinced me otherwise. What they have done is ensure that from this point forward, I accept nothing less.

  I always thought I was a happy person. My career was developing the way I wanted it to, I was on my own successfully, I had a guy I was seeing, and I had people who genuinely loved and cared about me. But I realize now that that was all a mask. It covered up the real issue of the lack of love I felt for myself. If I loved myself, I would let people in more, whether they were my parents, my friends, or my lovers. I wouldn’t feel the need to push people away, trying to protect myself from them. The truth was, I was protecting them from me. Because I didn’t truly believe I was worth being with. I didn’t think I was the type of girl worth committing to.

  Matt changed that. Or, at least, my time here with him did. I was happy—I thought I was happy—in my bubble of protection, content to observe the world around me happen without ever truly interacting with it. Without truly immersing myself in it.

  Here, I have no choice. I’m constantly required to make choices and if they don’t work out, time is too important for me to mope about it. I’m required to make more choices that may or may not work out. I don’t get to be a victim here. Life doesn’t just happen here. I take an active role in it. Which means I’m forced to trust myself. It’s only then that I realized I hadn’t before. I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t love myself enough to trust myself.

  I wasn't happy. What a joke! I don't even know what I was, but it wasn't happy. Here, in this time, I'm happy. I mean, I'm not smiling constantly and there are things I find myself stressing about, like a murderer on the loose and potentially being in love with an outlaw, but I'm content. I'm starting to trust myself more and more lately and that makes me… I don't know what the word is because I've never felt this way before. But it's a feeling that's important to me. It's one I want to cultivate so my body is used to it, so it won't accept anything less than this complete and utter faith in myself and the decisions that I make. Decisions that have real consequences like whether I live or die, whether I get arrested, whether something happens to Matt or Sarah or Billy as a result of that decision.

  And then it hits me, like someone threw a brick to my face. I trust myself to make decisions. Important ones. Which means I can make the decision whether or not to stay here. I can do it.

  Suddenly, my shoulders roll back and as I stare up at my ceiling, I realize that that has been holding me back. This fear I'll make the wrong decision and live to regret it for the rest of my life. Because once I do make this choice, I can't take it back. I can't ask for a do-over. I can't change my mind. It's one and done and that's it. And the weight of potential repercussions no matter what I choose has been holding me back from actively trying to figure it all out. I've been afraid. Because I don't know what I want. But even that is a cop-out. We all know what we want, we're just afraid. Afraid of what that means. Afraid of admitting it to ourselves, to other people. Just afraid.

  I don't want to be afraid anymore. I want to figure my shit out and get it together and make informed decisions without worrying. Because when I worry, I avoid, and when I avoid, the universe happens to me, and I won't be a victim to my circumstance.

  I wish I had someone to talk to about this. I wish I had one of my friends. Maybe even Becky. Becky would help me. Regardless of her lies, she was still my friend. I have to believe she still wants what's best for me. Maybe I can find her. Maybe she'll listen and give me advice and I'll be able to finally figure out what I want.

  I spring up from bed and rub my hands together. Finally. I have a plan I can actually do something with.

  I pull on some clothes and run a brush through my hair. I don't bother with makeup (I tell myself it's because I don't have the time, not because of what Matt told me the night we got drunk together) and slip on my shoes. Becky came to me last time, but Sarah seems familiar with her; perhaps she knows where Becky is now, if she's staying somewhere permanent I can go to.

  I head down the two flights of stairs. I know I can find Sarah behind the bar. She's good at serving drinks and it's the perfect place for her to keep an eye on both her girls and the johns without coming across as a hard-ass manager. I also think Sarah likes being behind the bar because it's her only real opportunity to socialize with people. She's not the most social person ever—which, because of her upbringing, I can understand—but she's softer when she's behind the bar, and she tends to smile more too, making her look years younger.

  Except Sarah's not behind the bar. It's empty. For the most part.

  I see the back of Corsa, one of the whores whom I was introduced to when I first got here. She's pretty, with pale skin, almond eyes, and dark hair. She’s slender, on the skinny side, but her face is so beautiful and the curves she does have are so supple that it's hard to pass her by. She's not as beautiful as some of the others, but she's striking. A head turner. A woman who usually received a double glance. It's easy for me to figure out that it's her because of her long, luxurious hair clipped up in an expertly woven braided bun. She also favors bold colors and silk—and with the way she earns her money, she can afford it. Today, she wears a fuchsia-colored gown with black lace. It looks great with her skin tone.

  She's on top of someone. At first, I think it's a potential customer, another john who finds her beauty exotic, her personality alluring. To be honest, I feel like I should start taking notes when I'm around the girls. They know how to draw a man in with not only their looks and how they present themselves, but with their personalities. They know how to adapt to every individual and be the perfect woman for each of them, no matter how different that is. Not that I feel I need to change myself for anyone, but if I ever need to employ my feminine charms in order to get what I want, that is the skill I need to learn.

  However, I draw closer and it's not just a john, it's someone I know. It's someone close to me. It's someone I think I may love. And I need to leave. Like, yesterday because… Because… Because…

  He takes his hands and wraps his fingers around her shoulders before pushing her away. I know I should have already hightailed it out of there. I know that. But I can't stop staring. Like some goddamn fool. Like a fish with my mouth hanging open, staring at some stupid collision that's on the side of the road. And I shouldn't look but I can't help it. I can't.

  "I already told you," Matt growls, narrowing his brown eyes at her, "I don't want you—"

  It's then that he notices me standing there. I'm sure I look so stupid staring, like some kind of voyeur. I shake my head and I smile, like this is a mistake. Like I have no control over the way my mouth spasms. I look away and point to the empty bar. I have no idea what I'm doing anymore. Sarah is not at the bar, which is completely inconvenient and annoying. I open my mouth to speak but words won't come out because I have no idea what I'm trying to say. Then, I close my eyes and I think I say something nonsensical like, "Yeah…" and then I walk off.

  "Isla," he calls after me, but I keep going, pa
st the stairs, and to the foyer, because the tears have started to form, and I can't have him see me cry. I won't.

  I rush out the front door of the brothel and head into town. I have no idea where I'm going, but the cold air feels good on my face and the smell of the sea is distracting enough to shift my focus. I can breathe now but there's a burning in my chest that hurts when I do.

  My feet keep walking even though I don't have a clue where I'm going. That's okay. I don't need to know. And this town is so small I'm not afraid I'll get lost just as long as I don't take the trail out of town and into the greenery that makes up the island. It would be lovely to explore at some point—I do love hiking and I miss it ever since leaving home—but only if I go with someone familiar with the terrain of the island.

  I'm so consumed in my thoughts that I don't look where I'm going and I bump into someone, knocking both of us down.

  "Hey!" a highly feminine voice calls. "Watch where you're going!"

  I can barely make out what she's saying due to her heavy Cockney accent.

  "I'm so sorry," I say, picking myself up and offering her a hand. When I see her, I recognize her. She's one of Sarah's girls—Stephanie. "I know you."

  The girl looks like she's going to respond when she finally takes a look at me, really looks. I can't blame her for averting her gaze. I was the same way back on Earth. I didn't want people to see me, really see me. I didn't want the unnecessary attention. I didn't want to feel judged by my face or my hair. I didn't want people to read me. I didn't want them to know me. This girl is probably my age, maybe a year younger than I am. She's not wearing anything inappropriate—a nice, worn dress with a high neck and long sleeves. The majority of her body is covered. Her hair is up the way society says it should be, and her eyes are cast on the ground instead of out in front of her. Even though no one would know who she is, even though she's pretty and should be more confident in herself, she doesn't want people to see her. She doesn't want them to know. And to be honest, I get that.

  I blink, realizing something. When did home become back on Earth? I'm on Earth, just in a different time. That doesn't make this place my new home. It doesn't matter that I'm getting more comfortable here, more familiar. It's not home. Not yet, anyway.

  "I know you," she replies, looking me up and down with distrust on her face. I can't blame her. I've been here a few weeks but I'm still a stranger. It's not like I've gone out of my way to get to know the girls here. Maybe I should change that.

  "Are you going back"—I almost say “to the brothel” but I stop myself. "Home. Are you going home?"

  She hesitates before she shakes her head. "I was going…" She doesn't want to tell me—doesn't know if she can trust me—but something inside of her wants to be able to share it with me. This secret she has. It's almost as though she's kept it all to herself. It's almost too big for her.

  "You can trust me," I tell her, and I hope I sound as sincere as I feel.

  "I've met someone," she tells me, and it's like she needed an excuse to tell me her entire life story because she starts talking about everything. I almost feel bad for her because it seems like she doesn't have any friends. Clearly, she doesn't have anyone to talk to. "He's going to take me away from all of this. From this life. I never asked to be a whore. I didn't have a choice! Sarah is good, but I can't…" She lets her voice trail off and shakes her head. "I can't give my body to multiple men. I can't look at myself the same way. I can't look at myself in the mirror. Billy will change all that."

  Billy?

  As in, Sarah's Billy?

  Lots of people are named Billy now, right? Surely, it's just a coincidence… Except I have a nagging in my stomach that says it's not just a coincidence.

  "I can't be there anymore," she continues, shaking her head. "He's not ready to leave but I can't stay…" Her eyes look big and they fill with tears. "Karina was going to tell. So was Briyella. They walked in…" She shakes her head again. "I can't do this anymore. Please, don't say anything. I can't have any more blood on my hands."

  With that, she disappears in the crowd before I can stop her. My head is swimming. My thoughts are muddled. I have more pieces to a puzzle I can finally put together.

  Sarah. I need to speak to Sarah.

  I turn on the heel of my boot and run back to the brothel. I get weird looks because I'm running in a dress. My hair is flying, my boobs probably look amazing, but I run awkwardly—I never know what to do with my arms—so I don't look all that great.

  When I push open the doors, the first person I see is Billy. I'm so startled, I step on the hem of my skirt and faceplant on the floor. I groan and my eyes seize up with water because fuck, that hurt, but Billy is at my side in an instant, and starts to help me up. I flinch because I can't control myself, but thankfully, he doesn't seem to notice.

  "You all right?" he asks. He's looking at me with what may be suspicion, but then again, he's always looked at me that way. I hate when I'm supposed to keep a secret because I am terrible at keeping secrets. Even my face can't keep a secret.

  "Yeah," I say, wiping my hands together. I know I'm going to bruise somewhere but I can't even feel that heavy pain just yet. My intuition is kicking because there's something not right with Billy, and until I figure it out, it's going to leave me unsettled.

  "Do you know where Sarah is?" I ask, and I'm ashamed to say my voice comes out shaky and I think my hands are shaking too so I clutch them together behind my back and hope he doesn't notice how weird I am right now.

  "She's in her room doing the accounting." He furrows his eyebrows and looks me up and down. It's not predatory—at least, I don't feel gross due to how he's looking at me—but he's searching for something in my face. He's trying to figure something out, and I'm not comfortable with it at all because I have no idea how good he is at reading people. In fact, I don't know anything about the guy except he's cheating on Sarah with a whore and probably killed her friends because they found out about his affair.

  Damn, I'm good.

  "Why?" he asks. "Is everything all right?"

  He sounds genuine but I don't buy it. The guy doesn't like Matt in the least so I'm sure I don't rank high on his list by association. It's those eyes. They're dark and I can't make out what color they are so already I don't trust him. Plus, why didn't he offer to help Matt when Matt was planning to rescue Sarah? Maybe the guy doesn't like piracy and being part of something illegal, but Sarah's his wife. You should do anything for your wife.

  "Perfectly fine," I say. I'm screeching for some reason, which is already obnoxious, but I can't control the pitch of my voice if I tried. My head is spinning with excuses, but I can't think of anything except, "My period just came, and I need to figure out what women do here since there aren't any tampons."

  He gives me a puzzled look.

  I inwardly smack myself at my modern lingo and try to remember my Jane Austen movie collection.

  "Monthlies!" I exclaim. "I have them and I need her—"

  "Off you go," Billy says, ushering me away. "In her room. You know the way."

  I snicker to myself as I thank him. Men are the same, no matter what time I'm in; they’re uncomfortable with periods and some are cheating scumbags. But a rare few are murderers. It’s too bad I’m pretty sure Billy is all three.

  Chapter 15

  I don’t consider myself a crime buff. I never watched crime dramas except SVU and I’m not sure if that even counts. Either way, I’ve picked up a few things from the media, from real-life documentaries, and from common sense. Sarah believes that I’m from a different time with better technology. Somehow, she thinks this translates into me being a reincarnation of some kind of Sherlock Holmes. I think she’s crazy and I try to tell her, but she’s just like her brother and refuses to listen.

  “What would normally happen?” she asks me one day, pacing around my room while I sit in bed, biting into a juicy strawberry. A lot of the fruit here is imported from the Americas, making them expensive. It doesn’t even
taste the same since it’s been on a ship for who knows how long, but strawberries are my favorite fruit and I haven’t had any in so long that I won’t complain. “In your time?”

  “In my time,” I say, shifting my weight and pressing into the pillows behind me, “I would have been able to examine the body before it was disposed of.” I take another bite to give me some time to think. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell the cops—or whatever you call policemen here? They’ll be better assets to you than I will, at least in terms of resources.”

  Sarah adamantly shakes her head. “I barely escaped death with my life,” she says. “There’s no way I’m interacting with them so soon. I won’t let that happen. It has to be you. I don’t trust anyone else with it. Not even Matt.”

  This is a big admission. I pause, trying to figure out the best way to handle it. The fact that Sarah trusts me is a miracle by itself. I still don’t think she likes me but admitting that she trusts me is big. However, I think that the fact that she has no choice definitely plays into it, but I digress. I’m not going to split hairs over it. I make note of it and store it away. Something shifts inside of me, something that makes me proud of who I am, something that wants to make sure I don’t let her down.

  Instead, I swallow the remnants of the berry and shoot my eyes over to her. “Why?” I ask. “Why don’t you trust Matt?”

  Sarah shrugs dismissively. “Because he would worry,” she says, like it’s not a big deal. “That’s what Matt does. He worries. It can be endearing, but most of the time, I want to knock some sense into him and remind him that I’ve taken care of the two of us the majority of our lives. I know how to survive.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want you to just survive anymore,” I say before I can stop myself.