The Bronze Garza

by S. Ann Cole

  “He got stuck in an unplanned meeting about...” He trails off and flicks his gaze to me then back to him. “That other thing.”

  What other thing?

  “Ah, all right.”

  As Reuben loads my bags into the jeep, Dad pulls me into an air-flow-restricting hug. “I’ll call you as soon as I land. But if you need anything and can’t get through to me, just ask Torin. He’ll take care of it and I’ll sort it after.”

  “Or,” I drawl, “I could just use my Amex.”

  He sighs. “Well, sure, but just don’t go out on your own to do so, okay?”

  Laughing, I gently extricate myself from his too-tight hug, murmuring under my breath, “And they think I’m the one who’s paranoid.”

  With a light chuckle, he brushes my hair back from my face. “Sue me.”

  “Sweetie, the car is on the way!” Eloise yells from the house.

  “Okay, I have to go finish getting ready,” Dad says, stepping back. “Love you, Lyly.”

  “Love you, too, Daddy.”

  I skip down the steps with my baggy of baby carrots and climb into the jeep.

  Reuben watches me with a small smile as I buckle my seatbelt. He has a buzz-cut now compared to the wavy brown hair he’d had that sold him well as a British William. With this serious buzz-cut, he doesn’t even look like a Reuben. He looks like a badass Ben.

  “What?” I ask him.

  “I dunno. You look...good.” With a shrug, he drops the handbrake and circles around to the driveway. “Really good.”

  Um… “And how did I look before?”

  He makes a noise in his throat. “Never mind. Just meant you look okay, that’s all.”

  “Well, I’m no longer a sex slave, so yeah, you’re damn right I’m okay.”

  “That’s not what I mean...” He trails off and makes another gruff noise in his throat. Is he a reptile or something? “Since I started this line of work, you’re the eighth girl I’ve helped to extract from forced prostitution. Would you like a ‘where are they now’ on the previous eight?”

  “I’m guessing they’re not ‘okay’?”

  A quick, humorless laugh. “One committed suicide three months after. One OD’d on heroin. One couldn’t see herself as anything more, so she went and found herself a pimp, went back to hooking. One still can’t recover from the drugs they’d hooked her on, so she’s on a constant loop of hopping in and out of rehab. One became an alcoholic, drove drunk, wrapped her car around a light-post and ended up in a wheelchair. One hated men so much she became a lesbian and a die-hard feminist, and now volunteers at a shelter for abused women and takes part in anything anti-men. The last managed to find love, got married, and is now pregnant with her first child.” He inhales a breath. “Out of seven, only two came out on the other side with a normal life. So yeah, looking at you and seeing that you’re okay, it just makes me feel damn good, is all.”

  Holy Christ, that’s awful! I can’t even say I know what those women went through to have made recovering so hard for them, because my experience was so tame in comparison to most. I was never drugged up or put to work on a corner.

  “I was privileged,” I say with guilt and sadness. “Even as a captive. I was locked away in a sumptuous penthouse, given beauty treatments, health checks and dietary plans. Drugs weren’t pumped into my veins, and I wasn’t beaten or punished nearly as often as I heard the girls on the lower floors were. So maybe the only reason I’m not where victims one through six on your list are, is because I didn’t have it nearly as bad as they did.”

  Reuben’s fingers tap on the steering wheel. “It’s true that victims’ experiences vary depending on who they’re sold to. But one’s experience being worse than another’s doesn’t make either any less of a victim. All I’m saying is that it’s great to see that you’re in a good place.”

  I fetch a carrot from my baggie. “And you assume I’m in a good place based on what? My smile? The Chanel slippers I’m wearing? My freshly washed hair? The rosiness of my cheeks?”

  “Trust me, I can tell,” he says. “It’s an aura thing.”

  “Well, you’re wrong,” I tell him. “See this bag of carrots?”—I shake the bag in his face—“This is like chocolate to me now, because I can’t keep anything down except fruits, veggies, nuts, and beans—and oh, sometimes if my digestive system is in a good mood, salmon. Up until a couple of weeks ago, I didn’t leave my house. And the first time I did leave, I got run over by a car. So, yeah, that ‘aura thing’ is pure bullshit.”

  He smiles like he knows something I don’t. “Even with all that, I’m confident about you. You’ve got a fire in you and it’s illuminating. My gut tells me you’re gonna turn out even better than girl number seven.”

  “Wrong again,” I murmur before biting off a piece of carrot. “I’m more in the zone of girl number six right now. The man hater. Men have made it to my list of everything that’s wrong with the world.”

  Reuben chuckles. “Ah, man, that hurts. Here I thought you and I were destined to be besties.”

  “Nah, you blew that chance when you refused to give me that second shot of vodka.”

  A laugh rumbles through him. “Not fair. That was William. I was in character. You can’t hold that against me.”

  I crunch down another piece of carrot. “If your gut instincts about me turn out to be any good, then I’ll reconsider.”

  “In that case,” he says with a grin, “I’m just gonna go right ahead and start working on our friendship bracelets.”

  HALF AN hour later, we’re in a quiet neighborhood in Silver Lake.

  Reuben pulls to a stop outside a residence hugged to a hillside just above street-level. The tall, wrought-iron gate is shrouded in greenery. Thick, high shrubs run the length of the iron fencing, blocking any possible outside view of the house.

  “Well, this is…disappointingly normal,” I mumble. “I pictured him living in an underground bunker or something, perpetually dressed in army boots, cargo pants and hunter vests.”

  Reuben snorts and jumps out of the jeep. I do the same as he gets my bags from the trunk.

  In cursive letters, the plate above the house number reads, “LilyRay.” Ha. His house even has a name.

  Reuben opens the gate and carries my bags ahead of me, allowing me to see what was hidden behind all the shrouds of greenery. A modest split-level style home, with a gorgeously landscaped front yard.

  “Nope, definitely not a bunker,” I murmur.

  “You’re gonna be a pain in his ass, aren’t you?” Reuben asks as we climb the steps to the porch.

  “Who me? Never,” I retort, eying the bird’s nest above the jet-black door. “I’m a ray of sunshine.”

  With a loaded sigh, he deposits my bags on the welcome mat that reads, ‘Think twice before you knock’, and mumbles under his breath, “This ought to be interesting.”

  He presses the doorbell, then turns and sprints off as if someone is chasing him.

  “Wha—where are you going?” I call after him.

  Out the gate, he slides the lock back into place with one hand and salutes me with the other. “See ya when I see ya, Henderson.”

  “You’re weird!”

  He’s chuckling even as he jumps back into the jeep and speeds off.

  Now what? Is Torin even here?

  Reuben rang the doorbell and ditched me so he must be home. I reach out and test the door handle but it’s locked.

  I ring the bell again.

  A small, black bird flutters over my head and settles into the nest above the door. It cocks its head at me.

  “What are you looking at?” I snap, dipping into my baggie for another carrot.

  I’ve finished my carrot in three bites and the door still hasn’t opened.

  I ring the bell again then fetch another carrot.

  “Stop looking at me, creep,” I tell the bird.

  It chirps at me, and it sounds so beautiful that I feel condemned for cursing such a wonderful creature.


  “Sorry for being a jerk. I’m in a mood,” I tell it. “Forgive me?”

  More beautiful chirps, and then it flees the nest, fluttering away.

  I’m turning to watch it go when the door finally opens.

  Once again, I’m standing face to face with sheer godly perfection. He’s at-home casual, in a gray tee, faded jeans, and sandals. And while he no longer has that regal, high-polished look like he did back in Russia—which I now know was all a façade—he’s still the most impeccably crafted male specimen I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  I don’t want to be attracted to him, but my mind and body aren’t cooperating with my will.

  “Took you long enough,” I say, crunching carrot between my teeth. “You’re supposed to be protecting me, yet I’ve been standing here unattended for the past fifteen minutes. Day one and you’re already slacking.”

  “Less than two,” he says flatly.

  “What?”

  “You’ve been here less than two minutes.”

  “Potato potato.”

  He crosses the threshold and seizes my wrist, my body jerking when he pulls me along with him, down the steps, outside the gates.

  He points to the house that’s on the right of his. “Over there— Howard, ex-soldier.” He points to the house on his left. “Over there—Pete, a vet and marksman.” He points to the house in the curve of the cul-de-sac. “Down there—Rob, retired Fed.” He turns and points to the mansion across the street from his house, so sprawling it takes up that entire side. “Over there—fast-rising internet billionaire Terry Kid, who’s paranoid enough about his new fame that he’s got twenty-four-hour security, provided by Red Cage.” He then faces me. “Together, we’ve got a solid ‘neighborhood watch’ thing going. No one with malicious intent stands a chance in this nook of the neighborhood.”

  He nudges me back through the gate. “So, Lyra,” he says, adding extra emphasis to my name as he closes the gate. “Even if I left you outside these gates for ten hours, I’d still be doing my job.”

  “That’s not how bodyguards—”

  “I’m not your bodyguard,” he curtails. “Your father wanted you somewhere safe. Here, you are.”

  I admire his posterior as he heads up the porch and picks up my bags. He grumbles something under his breath about what I had inside them. What a grump. Reuben didn’t complain when he carried them.

  Following him into the house, I say, “It’s been almost eight months. Plenty of time to have gotten the ‘rest’ you so desperately needed. Plenty of time to spend with the family you so badly missed. So, what’s your excuse this time?”

  He throws me a glance over his shoulder. “Excuse for what?”

  “For being a miserable butthole.”

  His reply is slow in coming, and I use the opportunity to check out the interior of the house. It doesn’t match the exterior. In here, it’s...woodsy. Like a sauna. Except rugged, and comfy. Warm. Clean and uncluttered.

  Breathable.

  Huh, I like it.

  As we’re climbing a set of stairs, he at last replies, “You’re cutting into my vacation.”

  “Then you should’ve said no.”

  “I tried.” A scoff. “Didn’t expect either of you to actually agree to this.”

  “Yeah, Dad seems to think you’re Jesus.”

  In a bored, indifferent tone, he mutters, “Can’t imagine what I could’ve done to deserve such a thing.”

  “You and me both.”

  “And you?” he asks, leading us down a hall. “Why’d you agree to this?”

  “To make him happy.”

  He snorts. “Emotional manipulation. Your old man’s good at it.”

  I follow him into a room at the left end of the hall.

  Depositing my bags, he murmurs, “Here you are.” He scratches his eyebrow. “You’ve got a television with cable plus several streaming services. Air-conditioning. Pantry is stocked. You should be good. Yeah?”

  “So quick to get rid of me,” I say, brushing my palm over the purple mandala print duvet.

  It looks new. He must have went out and bought it for me. Dad probably told him purple’s my favorite color.

  The room is a decent size, with a queen bed, a dresser, two nightstands with gold-shade lamps, and a lilac armchair in a corner that matches the lilac and gold sheer curtains. There’s also a cozy-looking built-in bench under the wide windows facing the backyard. “You’re not gonna show me around?”

  “It’s a three-bedroom house, princess. Not a mansion. Ain’t much to see.” He gives me a condescending wink. “You won’t get lost, I promise.”

  He’s out the door before I can formulate a retort.

  That man has some serious issues.

  I wander over to the windows and peer out at the backyard. It’s a big yard, edged with tall, fluffy trees. Big enough to fit a pool and a gazebo, and even a basketball court. But there’s nothing but green, all manicured grass and a garden.

  On the far right, however, is a small log cabin with an older man sitting on the porch, reading a book. It looks odd and out of place with everything else, but nothing about this residence has been consistent thus far.

  Backing away from the window, I get out my cellphone and pull up Spotify. Choose my favorite playlist, then prop it onto the dresser to play while I unpack.

  I’d over-packed on purpose. Dad’s business trips always lasts longer than he says they will, so I know I’ll be here for more than “a few weeks.”

  My life has become so damn weird.

  All I’d wanted was a fun camping trip to bond with my best friend before she flew back to Brown. Instead my entire world got turned on its axis.

  If only we could see the things life has in store for us, we wouldn’t waste so much of our time. We can never truly prepare for reality.

  These days, I don’t plan, and I don’t think too hard. I just roll with the punches.

  I don’t think about how ridiculous it is that I’m here in this man’s house just so my parents can have peace of mind. I don’t think about how pointless and directionless my life has become—a life my dear father is so determined to protect, when really he would’ve been better off if I’d died in that hit-and-run.

  Nothing makes sense anymore and I no longer care to understand. I’m just existing, using whatever life I have left, flitting from minute to minute, hour to hour, day to day.

  Death doesn’t even scare me anymore. And I wonder if this is the point Kristie was at when she made the decision she did. A place of fearlessness and numbness. A place where terror has no bite.

  When the prospect of death no longer scares you, it’s a thrilling fucking feeling.

  A feeling of utter and total freedom.

  What a beautiful bliss.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “A thriller happened?”

  Lyra

  AFTER I’M DONE UNPACKING, I SLIP in my earbuds and wander out of the room. I can’t understand why anyone would want to vacation at home, but what do I know about men.

  Linkin’ Park’s In The End blasts in my ears as I drift through the house, peeking inside rooms and outside windows. The kitchen is very industrial, with exposed brick, copper appliances, and dark-wood cupboards. While it looks amazing on its own, it doesn’t go with the rest of the “woodsy” style of the house. Either the man built this inharmonious place himself, or the designer had a serious case of ADHD.

  The fridge and pantry are stocked with Lyra-friendly foods. Nice. I wash some cherry tomatoes in a small bowl then snack on them while I go in search of Mr. Grumpy.

  I find him in the basement—or, from the looks of it, a woodworking shop. Tools hang on the walls, strange machines propped here and there, shelves stacked with all kinds of wood, unfinished furniture pieces littered about.

  A large, wooden table stands in the middle of the room, and that’s where he is, sanding away on a piece of wood. He glances up under his brows as I meander into the room, brief and dismissive, then returns his
attention to the task at hand.

  “Is this your side-hustle?” I ask as I examine an odd-looking saw.

  He doesn’t answer.

  I pop a cherry-tomato into my mouth. “Do you intend to ignore me the entire time I’m here?”

  “I’ll take you to Barefoot Runaway in a bit.”

  I click my tongue. “I’ve not even been here an hour and you want to get rid of me already.”

  “You agreed to that part of the deal, didn’t you?”

  I turn away from a wall of tools and move to the table. Across from him, I prop against it then bite into another tomato, licking the squirt of juices from my lips.

  His gaze flicks to me, drops to my mouth, then back down to the wood he’s sanding.

  “What are you making?” I ask him.

  “Side table.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can.”

  I hold the bowl of tomatoes out to him.

  He shakes his head. “No, thanks.”

  I shrug and pick up another one, and notice his green gaze flicks up just in time to watch me slip it into my mouth.

  Hmm. Interesting.

  “I thought you were on vacation,” I say.

  “I am.”

  “So this is how you vacation? Building things in your basement?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re strange,” I mumble, pushing away from the table. I amble over to the sliding glass doors that lead out to the backyard. “Who’s that man at the log cabin?”

  “Woman.”

  “What?”

  “Jo’s a woman, not a man.”

  Really? I squint for a close examination of the person reading on the small porch. Buzz-cut hair, thick neck, muscle-bound body encased in jeans, flannel shirt, and Timberland boots. But it’s too far away to catch facial features, so I’ll take his word for it.

  “Oh, my bad. She just looks...”

  “She’s a vet,” he informs me.

  “Does she live there?” The log cabin is nice, but it’s a bit on the small side. I imagine someone as built as her would need more space.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”