Sophie can’t begin to understand him in the slightest, and to be honest, doesn’t even want to try. But why didn’t he rape and kill her as he did all the others? What was the point of it all? It’s the greatest of all mysteries. Sophie isn’t grateful. She’s outraged.
“And, what, I’m supposed to thank you for not killing me?”
“You’re supposed to know why.”
“I don’t know why! I don’t know fucking why!”
“Don’t be so dramatic. Don’t put your head down. Think.”
“About what?”
“Think! Get those synapses firing. Use your brain. Every single question has an answer.”
“Bullshit.”
“Think!”
“Jesus. Okay, okay! All right! Back off! Stay the hell away from me. I’ll think on my own pace and time, thank you.”
He only smiles, smiles like she’s given him something. “Oh, Sophie. I gotta tell you, if I were a rapist, I swear to God you’re the first one I’d take.” His breath reaches her cheeks as he speaks.
Her patience comes to an end and from within her spouts a foreseeable anger in the form of a resounding slap to his face.
Bridges moves his jaw around. “I guess I deserved that.”
He guesses? She clears up the guesswork as her hand goes up and smack!
“Come on,” he taunts, resisting the urge to soothe his jaw. “You can do better than that. Go on! Hit me, Sophie. Hit me. Take your best shot. Hit me!”
Half out of her mind, she slaps him again and again in a rush of fuming smacks. And Bridges just takes it, lets her enjoy him as she wants to. Until he grabs her wrist, stopping her. Without a word, he takes her mouth with his and coaxes it open, drawing her to him at the waist. He can’t believe how good she feels. It does something to him. Something unexplainable that enflames all his senses. He wants her. He has to have her.
A desire to kill takes over Sophie. Hatred of the purest form. She presses her teeth into his tongue and pushes her hands against his chest, breaking the kiss.
He pulls back and spits out blood. “I see you like it rough.”
Whack! A right hand cross sends visions of stars across Bridge’s view.
“Someone’s been learning how to fight. My compliments to the teacher.”
Her feet are pissed. She promises never to wear these heels again. All of her is pissed. She won’t even speak. She could fight, punch, and scream. She could spit hornets. She’s done.
“Sophie,” he says, as she furiously bangs on the door to be let out. She listens, but doesn’t turn to him. “If you can take anything from this conversation, let it be this. Watch yourself with her. She absolutely despises you.”
Number One and two guards come barreling in.
F O U R T E E N
* * *
Friend or Foe
OF COURSE, THAT night she can’t sleep. Sophie stares at the ceiling and tries to count sheep in her head, but instead thinks about the kiss with Bridges—that’s when she knows things are bad. Real bad. Her mind lights up with questions, guilt, possibilities, and new sources of danger. There are loads of them. She tries to make sense of the senseless.
She tosses. Watch yourself around her.
She turns. She absolutely despises you.
She feels so…trapped.
Sophie doesn’t know what to believe, whom to trust. And then there’s Oliver, her soft place to land. He’s breathing long and deep next to her. It’s unbearably hard to lay in bed with a man you’re keeping secrets from. It doesn’t take a genius to know that he’d be furious to find out about her clandestine visit, not to mention the kiss, but Sophie would argue that he has his own problems. She doesn’t want to burden him. It’s all her mess. None of it is his. Little does either know that it is as much about one as it is about the other.
Sophie reaches through the darkness to run her fingers along his stubble and touch those soft, firm lips. “I don’t think you know much I love you,” she whispers. “I treasure you. I really do.”
She lifts her head slightly to check if she’s disturbed his sleep. His eyelids register only the tiny movement of deep sleep.
“You’re kind and loving. Like how you put my phone to charge at night when I forget. I love that, sometimes, I catch you looking at me and smiling. And that is so romantic to me, you know? The little things. The forehead kisses, the listening, the way you say my name, the fears, the vulnerability, the courage you give me daily…all the little things. If I don’t tell you enough, you are the world to me.”
It was for him to hear, but not quite. Rather, it was for her to say aloud. It seems to fuel repair within her. She isn’t a train wreck. Like the little engine that could, Sophie realizes she can.
Courage doesn’t come from within. Courage comes from without. Without comfort, without easy, without the familiar.
The hours trickle by. One converts into two, then into three.
ANNA SUMMERS. THE name springs to Sophie’s memory as a thump jolts her out of sleep. Too many cop shows tell her it sounds like a body hitting the ground. She turns on her side. No Oliver. She jerks back over and glares at the time: 8:08 am. Suddenly more alert than any other morning, she leaps up as quietly as she can and races across the room to the sock drawer, then digs for her Taser. She didn’t expect to be defending her life in jammies, with a Taser.
Stealthily and bare-footed, she runs up the stairs, turns a corner, and bolts into the kitchen.
“Hello, sister.” Sarah is seated at the kitchen island and grinning ear to ear.
Sophie tries to compose herself, hoping no one notices the surprised register on her face, or the Taser behind her back. “Uh, hi.” What is Sarah doing here? What is her deal? She wonders if she’s dreaming and assesses the room, soaking in smells and sounds. Nope, she’s awake, fully awake.
Oliver stands on the opposite side of the island in his jeans and a plaid button down, looking surprised. “Someone’s up early today.”
Sophie tugs unsuccessfully on her racerback tank failing to cover her underwear, then tip-toes forward. Her hair is messed from sleep like a bird’s nest of some sort, not that she cares.
“I heard a noise.”
“We didn’t hear anything.” Sarah wraps her hands around a steaming coffee mug and takes a sip.
Oliver doesn’t tear his gaze away from Sophie’s body, always seeming to consider the real estate he has explored every inch of. “Well,” he stretches out his arm and grabs her by the waist, then pulls her into his clutches, “how kind of you to grace us with your presence.”
“Always happy to cooperate,” Sophie replies with a smile.
“New mantra?”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Usually I have mornings to myself,” he tells Sarah, sitting awkwardly upright—a model’s pose—even though the stool has no back. “It’s always a table for one.”
“And isn’t that wonderful?” Sophie says. “You get to take your coffee with a side of silence. Lucky for you.”
It isn’t until she turns perpendicular to Oliver that he notices the weapon behind her back. His grin falters, then returns wider in reaction to the stun gun.
“Luck,” he gently pries the Taser from her grip one finger at a time, “if such a thing even exists, would be to eat together.” Sure that Sarah isn’t watching, he quickly stashes it in a drawer. “I wasn’t lucky enough to sit at the table with my family regularly.”
“Why?” Sarah prods.
“My parents travelled far and wide for many years.”
“Why?” again Sarah.
“Hoping to find the meaning of life, I suppose.”
Sophie looks into suddenly nostalgic blue eyes.
“Did they find it?” Sarah presses.
“I never asked.”
The sisters look at each other in awkward silence.
“Did you get in a fight?” Oliver suddenly asks Sophie.
“What?”
“What happened to your hand?”
>
The memory of punching the shit out of Bridges almost betrays her secret. “Nothing,” Sophie says quickly.
Oliver narrows his eyes.
She stares down at the bruises. “I don’t know, okay? I punched that store manager just days ago in Canada, remember? It’s no big deal.”
“You punched a store manager?” Sarah probes.
“In my defense, I had an extremely legit reason.”
“Did he deserve it?”
“Yeah, it was self-defense. Hey, what do you say I make some breakfast for all of us, huh?”
Oliver looks at his watch. “It’s eight-fifteen.” Sophie should know I always have breakfast at 7:45.
“What about you, Sarah?”
She blinks, confused. “Oh, I’m all right. I don’t want to trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble at all.” Sophie makes an effort to sound sincere. “I’ll whip up some pancakes.”
Sarah’s ears pop.
“Sophie makes the best pancakes,” Oliver boasts.
“It’s true.”
Sarah smiles. “Well, then, okay.”
“Pancakes coming up.”
Sophie retreats into the pantry and climbs the rolling ladder to reach a jar of flour on the top shelf.
Oliver is glad for an excuse to have a word with Sophie, so he follows her.
“What are you doing?” he whisper-yells.
“I’m making breakfast.”
“Sophie, please. Don’t insult me.” He grasps her waist and helps her climb down. “What are you up to? Tell me.”
She gives him an innocent look and shrugs. “Pancakes.”
“I took a Taser from you. I need an explanation.” His voice is low and hard.
“I told you I heard a noise.”
“And you thought you would taze someone away?”
“My policy is simple. If anyone breaks into our home, I will without a doubt assume the worst and they’re going to need help leaving. Case dismissed.”
“When did you get a Taser? More importantly, how?”
“I bought one. It was on sale on eBay.”
“You do know owning a stun gun is a crime of the fourth degree in New York, right?”
“Why’d you think I bought it off eBay? Trusted seller. No questions asked.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“Oliver, I need something to protect myself with. I’ve had it with this damsel-in-distress, I’m-so-weak, save-me crap. Danger doesn’t take it easy. War doesn’t care. Crime doesn’t discriminate. Why should I? Trouble can strike at any place, any time. When—not if—it does, I’ll be ready. This time, I’ll be ready.”
“I don’t know if I’m surprised or turned on.”
“Do you want to find out?”
“Absolutely,” he blurts out.
“You’re on. After breakfast.”
“Before breakfast.” He roughly pulls her to him and presses her body against his. His strength is overwhelming, as is his mouth on her neck, sending tingles all over her body.
“After, Oliver.” She smiles and puts her hands on his chest. “We have company.”
AT THE DINING table with incredible views of Manhattan and beyond, Sophie and Oliver stare at Sarah as she stuffs her mouth too full. Sarah is eating breakfast the way an addict shoots up a fix.
“How is the food?” asks Oliver. “Do you need anything?”
Showing no signs of embarrassment, she pours maple syrup onto her pancake, rolls it like a tortilla, and crams the half of it into her mouth.
“Yeah, like a fork?” Sophie suggests.
Sarah replies with only a look that says she doesn’t particularly care, holding their gazes until finished chewing and swallowing. “I know. I do a lot of things with my hands that I shouldn’t.
The atmosphere turns tense. Something about her comment doesn’t sound right to Sophie.
Sarah grabs a fork and attacks the diced watermelon as if it’s alive. You can tell a lot about a person who holds their fork like a Neanderthal wielding a dagger.
“This table is too big,” Sarah says. “Who needs eighteen chairs?”
“Eighteen people,” Oliver comebacks.
“Hah! You’re funny.”
Oliver leans back, drinking espresso, and nodding and listening while Sarah describes a pancake as being a sort of an airplane that delivers syrup. While they move on to discuss Pancake Day and the world record for the largest stack of pancakes, Sophie studies her half-sister closely. How she eats, sips, talks...her every move, telling herself that she needs to know as much about her as possible.
She’s like Peter Pan, Sophie recalls Bridge’s observation. Sarah is the most childlike adult she’s ever met. She has a delicate face free of any need for makeup, and her skin has a sunny glow. Her floor length, floral print dress hangs loosely over her slender frame. The turquoise color of her knit cardigan makes her blue eyes appear more brilliant than normal. From her twisted headband to her rocker booties, Sarah’s look is bohemian with a little edge.
She giggles as Oliver complains about a housefly buzzing around his head. He tries to shoo it away, but Sarah pulverizes it in mid-air with her bare hands. “I got the sucker. I’m a master fly assassin,” she says, brushing her hands together to discard the dead fly on the floor.
Sophie clears her throat. “So, Sarah, what are your plans?”
“My plans? Plans for what?”
“Your plans for today, tomorrow, any typical day, really.”
“Hmm, that’s a really good question. I dunno. Oliver says I can stay here as long as I want.”
Sophie has a sudden coughing fit. “Is that right?”
“Hey, you got any more of that maple syrup?”
“I don’t know. Do we, Oliver?” She turns to look at him, shooting fire with her eyes. “Why don’t you go check in the pantry?”
“Sure.” He pushes back his chair and heads for the kitchen.
Sophie immediately follows, closes the pantry door behind her, and stands hands on hip behind Oliver as he rummages in the pantry.
Sarah takes advantage of their absence and slips a handful of Splenda packets and Smucker’s jelly packs into her tote.
Sophie whisper-yells, “Oliver, what the hell?”
He moves ketchup, mustard, and various other condiment bottles aside. “There’s no maple syrup in here.”
“Forget the maple syrup. It’s in the fridge.” She grabs his hand and stops him. “You invited her to stay with us? Why would you do that? Why didn’t you think to ask me first?”
He was expecting the question. “Calm down.”
“Oh, my God. That’s all you ever say. Calm down. Be cool. Everything’s going to be okay. You never tell a woman to calm down, especially one who’s PMSing!”
This time, Oliver responds gallingly. “Enough, Sophie. I highly suggest you close your stubborn mouth and open up your ears.”
How dare he take that tone? Sophie splutters under her breath. “Whatever, I’m calm. Now what?”
“Are your ears open?”
“Yes!”
“Good,” he says. “Now, about Sarah. You know the saying ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer’? Well, right now, we don’t know if Sarah is friend or foe.”
“I agree. But I don’t like this. Not one bit.”
“You think I do? Of course not. Ask yourself this: is it possible that the only reason she’s here is because of you?” He sounds haughty. “She’s your sister.”
“I know that!”
“Then settle down. It’s not permanent. We’ll figure it out. In the meantime, she’ll feel comfortable here.”
“Why do you think that is? She likes you—”
He heaves a sigh. “Not this again.”
“—and hates me. What if she tries to kill me in my sleep, huh?”
“You can take her.”
“What if she tries to kill us both, fails, and so I kill her in a fit of rage then and there. Manslaughter. W
hat if they catch me? What if I go to jail? I can’t go to jail. I’d get passed around like gravy at the dinner table. Traded for Snickers bars and cigarettes.”
“Sophie.”
“Or what if she, like, sneaks into the bathroom and throws a spider into the shower? Or, or, or what if she plants a spider infestation and thousands of tiny eight-legged creatures set up home in our bedroom and start falling from the ceiling? You know I don’t like spiders—I’m terrified of them! I would die!”
“Sweetheart.”
“What?”
“You’re being paranoid.”
“Am I? You let a stranger into our house. We don’t know who she is, what she came here for…”
“You want me to tell her she can’t stay?”
“Well, no. That would ruin things.”
“I knew it.”
“What?”
“You’re up to something.”
“No, I’m not.”
“For fuck’s sake. Who do you think you’re talking to here?”
“Shh. Lower your voice. She’ll hear us.”
“Will you just tell me the truth?”
“Okay,” she says. “The truth is, she’s not what she seems, and we have to tread carefully. Did you see how she stabbed the watermelon repeatedly?”
He puts his palms up in surrender. “I can’t hear this right now. She’s a kid, Sophie!” he shouts. “Just a girl.”
“Shh! Yeah, but she might be a real bad one. Babe, please, just trust me on this. She’s lying. I know she’s lying.”
“And how do you know?”
“Don’t you think it’s disturbing how she conveniently vanishes one second and pops up the next? I mean, where does she go? Who does she talk to? I don’t buy it.”
“Why are you so sure she’s lying?”
“Why are you so sure she’s not?”
“You know I can’t form an opinion based on speculation.”
“Okay, how’s this for a saying: ‘The Wolf will always be the bad guy if we only ever hear Little Red Riding Hood’s side of the story.’?”
AFTER BREAKFAST, OLIVER retreats to his sculptured garden and walks barefoot in the grass, musing over the water wall and flirting with the possibilities of a new business venture. He received an offer to buy a family-owned water company in New Jersey called Hydrohouse Inc., but it’s in bad shape, so he would have to use money out of his pocket or apply for a federal loan. Either way, being very pragmatic, he has some thinking to do. Not that anyone notices, but Oliver is devastated. Black International is no longer under his reign, and he desperately wants it back. Since he’s been back from Canada, he has not wasted one precious minute being idle.
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