The Bronze Garza

by S. Ann Cole

  He mocks strangling me.

  “Are you good on cash?” Dad asks him, getting out his wallet.

  “Put your wallet away, pops,” Patrick says with a wave of his hand. “You spoil me enough already.”

  “All right. Well, drive safe, son.”

  Back at the house, I shower and dress in a floral maxi skirt and a wine-red bandeau top that exposes a bit of mid-drift. Showing skin isn’t my usual style, plus my belly isn’t toned or flat, but Torin bought me this top, and I like wearing the clothes he got me not only because they make me feel sexy and confident, but because they make me feel closer to him.

  After I’ve done up my hair and face, I go to toss some dirty cosmetic wipes in my bathroom bin but pause when I notice an entire sub sandwich inside it.

  Why on earth would someone dump a whole sandwich like this in my bathroom—oh. Oh. This must be the sandwich Eloise fixed for Dad today. He must have dumped it in here so she wouldn’t see it.

  So weird. Why doesn’t he want to eat from her anymore?

  Albeit confused as all hell, I roll off a huge amount of toilet paper and lay it around in the bin until the sandwich is no longer visible. Just in case.

  I’ve no idea what’s going on with them, but I will never be team Eloise. I’m still that selfish little girl who dreams of her parents getting back together. So if Dad and Eloise’s relationship is on the rocks, as far as I’m concerned, that’s great news.

  DINING OUT is as it usually is; Eloise gabbing incessantly about her rich housewife friends’ drama, Dad barely paying attention, and me picking at my garden salad as I try not to think of him.

  Him, who I’ve not seen or heard from since he left me in Red Cage’s waiting room. Who doesn’t answer my calls or respond to my texts.

  I’d known our fling would be short-lived, but hadn’t adequately prepared for the end, and that’s on me, not him. A fling is a fling. But what do I know about having a fling? He’s my first, in more ways than one.

  Not only did I not anticipate falling for him, I also didn’t expect this giant, gaping hole left behind from our abrupt ending. It all just feels…incomplete.

  Without Holly to talk to about it, that hole gapes even wider. I feel so lonely. So alone. Losing her friendship sucks. Losing him sucks. Over the past week, I’ve been doing my best to suppress the sadness I feel from losing them both, trying to fill that void with writing or hanging out with Patrick whenever he’s around. But writing, though therapeutic and cathartic, is also very solitary, so relying on it alone is not sustainable.

  There’s been a relentless nudge at my psyche, warning me to take preemptive actions and start seeing my therapist again before I implode. But said therapist would be the first to point out that one of my biggest traits is obstinacy.

  ELOISE YAMMERS and cackles loudly on her phone all the way home.

  “I’m too old for this,” I mumble to myself when I get out of the car.

  Dinner with my father and his fiancée every night? Yeah, it’s getting to me. Eloise can be a little too much when she gets a bit of alcohol in her.

  As soon as I get the all clear that it’s safe for me to move about without an escort, I’ll be getting my own place. Better yet, if she’ll let me, I’ll join Mom on her voyages. Get away for a while. Wandering and writing.

  Away from his eyes.

  Though I never see them, I know his men are around. On our tail every time we leave the house. Watching, protecting, safeguarding.

  We’re over, but he’s not left me. Not yet, at least. And as he liked to remind me, I’m a job. And the job isn’t done.

  As Dad and Eloise head upstairs, I go to the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. Leaned back against the counter, I lurk around in several online writers groups, absorbing useful information that’ll help so much with my writing, until the kettle starts to boil.

  After pouring hot water into a teacup on a saucer, I dunk in a peppermint teabag and head up to my room with it.

  I’ve just set the tea down on my chest-of-drawers and am about to turn for the bathroom when a calloused hand covers my mouth from behind. A hard, broad chest at my back.

  This is the part where I’m supposed to scream, but I don’t.

  People scream when they’re scared or in danger, and I’m neither right now.

  As the familiar scent of freshly sanded wood, rain, and broodiness wraps around me like a warm hug, I sag against him. “I miss you,” I say into his rough palm, but it comes out as nothing but a stifled muffle.

  Somehow, though, he understands it, because he dips his mouth to my ear, nips at my flesh, and whispers, “Miss you, too.”

  White-hot heat courses through me, and I wriggle, trying to turn around in his arms.

  “Quiet. You’ve gotta be quiet,” he tells me, slowly removing his hand from my mouth. “Henderson will probably shoot me if he finds me here with you.”

  Once freed, I spin in his arms, throw mine around his neck and try to climb him, but my maxi skirt hinders my progress. A grunt of frustration trebles in my throat.

  With a low chuckle, his strong arms tighten around me and lifts me off the ground, carrying me to the bed.

  Clinging tightly to him, I press my face to his neck and inhale deeply. He smells and feels like home.

  So safe. I feel so safe in these arms.

  As he lays me down on the bed, I notice a fading bruise on his cheekbone. I reach up and brush my fingers over it. “What happened?”

  “Henderson.”

  “My father hit you?” Color me shocked. Dad could sometimes get a mean temper when he’s mad, but never, in my entire life, have I ever seen that man raise a hand at another human being.

  “It’s deserved.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “I’ve had worse.” He dips down and claims my mouth. And I kiss him back like the world is about to end. With fire and madness and desperation. Beneath him, I writhe with purpose until my maxi skirt shifts up my legs, giving me room to lock them around him.

  God…God…I missed him, this, so damn much.

  Just as erotic electricity starts to sizzle under my skin, he breaks the kiss and shifts so we’re both on our sides, then cups his hand to the side of my face. “Not why I’m here.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Then why?” Here I thought he came to give me the “one last time” that I’ve been begging him for via text all week.

  “To ask you what you want.”

  “I want this,” I say without hesitation, pressing myself against him. “I want you on me, inside me. I want to get drunk on you, lose myself in you.”

  “And what else?”

  “I-I don’t understand...”

  “What do you want, Lyra?” He sounds almost frustrated. “From me.”

  Oh. “It doesn’t matter, does it? You can’t give it to me.”

  “Tell me.”

  Turning my face to his palm on my cheek, I sink my teeth into his flesh like a woman obsessed. “I want to be with you always,” I tell him. “I want to be yours. I want your love and your heart. I want all of you all the time. I want your hard-earned smiles and your cold care. I want to share your miserable, broody, unconventional life with you. I want to be the one that makes you happy. I want to be the only one you need, ever. I want you to let me love you. I want you to fall—”

  In the next breath, I’m on my back again and his mouth is on mine. He kisses me wildly, deeply, madly. Hands gripping my face, body hard on mine. Fierce meets fervor, and together we writhe and groan until we’re both ablaze.

  With one hand, he tugs up my skirt and my legs part wider for him, my hips rolling. Then his fingers are at the apex, petting me over the cotton material. But petting isn’t what I want right now. I want his big bronze cock inside me, buried deep, thrusting hard. So I reach down between us, fumbling blindly for his belt buckle.

  Two fingers shift my panties aside, before plunging into my soaking wet heat, curving and uncurving
in the most delicious way, making me moan into his mouth.

  By the time I get his pants undone, I’m so close to the edge I’m trembling. But I don’t want to come without him inside. My best orgasms are when he’s deep inside me, with my walls cinching around his shaft like a vice.

  Snaking my hand inside his boxers, I wrap my fingers around his length and his heat permeates. He’s so hard for me, venous, pulsing.

  “Give me this,” I beg into his mouth, squeezing him. “Please.”

  He breaks the kiss and nips along my jawline. “You’ll have to be quiet.”

  “Okay, Okay,” I agree, nodding eagerly. “Please. I’m begging.”

  Withdrawing his fingers, he shoves his pants and boxers down his hips, then brings a hand up to cover my mouth right before he drives into me.

  My scream dies into his palm. And I’m so full. So gratifyingly full. I feel so complete in this moment that I could die happily.

  He rocks into me, smoothly, rhythmically, hotly.

  Even with his hand over my mouth, I’m apparently still too loud, because he dips his head to whisper against my cheek, “Shh.”

  But I can’t control how I’m feeling or the muffled words that are leaving me. It’s impossible. When this man touches me, I become someone else. Like a shapeshifter. Shifting from human to a rabid lioness. Uninhibited and uncontrollable.

  As my body hums and rattles like a kettle right before it explodes into a steaming whistle, I dig my nails into his skin and brace for the impact. In seconds, my orgasm whips and whirls through me like a tornado. With nowhere to send my screams, I sink my teeth into his palm and let the intense sensations flood me.

  Torin fucks me without pause. With deep, relentless thrusts. And it’s not long before he’s dropping his head and sinking his teeth into my shoulder as he stiffens and spasms above me.

  AFTER, I lay half-draped across his chest with a contented smile. The anxiety that’d been thrumming under my skin all week has fled, leaving me calm and relaxed.

  “How much longer?” I ask after a while. “Before I’m safe again, that is.”

  “Soon,” he assures me.

  “Did you tell Dad to spare me the details?”

  “Yeah.”

  Figured. I’ve been straddling the line of wanting to know what’s going on and not wanting to know.

  Ever since Russia, I’d made the decision to guard my mental headspace at all costs. Determined not to lose my sanity or give in to the need to numb myself with drugs. One method of doing so was to stick my head in the sand. It’s the reason I don’t fear or ask the serious questions. The reason I ignored the suspicions of Holly letting go of my hand the night I got ran over.

  Thoughts, if not trained and controlled, can be deadlier than a bullet to the head. They can ruin you. Destroy you. Imprison you. Turn you into a villain, a psycho, a martyr. They feed on vulnerability like parasite, and once they take control of you, it’s borderline impossible to fully reclaim yourself.

  So I took preemptive actions and locked myself into a cocoon of immaturity and sweet oblivion on purpose. Because it keeps me sane.

  Sure, I could’ve pushed Dad to tell me what Red Cage found out and he would’ve told me. It’s my life that’s at stake, after all. But I chose to remain straddling the line, and trust that Torin will take care of it all, like he said he would.

  Anyone else in my position would be curious, hungry for information, desperate to know who the villain is. Fearing, fretting, guarding. But the wires for those negative emotions have been snipped. Disabled. And I’ve no regrets.

  Now, all my brain craves are good waves and vibrations, pulling me toward the things that makes me feel amazing. That makes me come alive.

  Ignorance is bliss.

  But mostly, I trust this man and his capabilities. Implicitly, I believe he’ll take care of it, and that I’ll come out on the other side smelling like daisies.

  He delivered me unscathed from the jaws of Russia, didn’t he?

  “Daddy’s been giving me the silent treatment,” I murmur. “You shouldn’t have told him about us.”

  “You’re his world. He’ll get over it.”

  The last time Mitch Henderson was this mad at me, was back in eighth grade when I’d snuck Holly’s boyfriend into my room so they could make out. He’d caught us when we were sneaking him back out, and I took the blame for Holly because, compared to Dad, Mr Wilson was a cold and harsh man.

  Dad was livid, but he’d merely grounded me for a couple of weeks. I suppose now that he can’t ground me, the next best thing is the cold shoulder.

  “Igor’s dead.”

  “What?” I push up from his chest to look at him. “When? How?”

  “Never told you this, but the people I did jobs for in Russia, who facilitated my plan to get you out, they’d also been working an angle,” he says. “Remember Dimitri?”

  “Yeah?”

  “He was a plant.”

  “No way.”

  “Along with two others who worked the lower floors. They’d been after him for something entirely different not related to the trafficking. Got word that the operation was a success,” he informs me. “Took down Igor and a couple bigger heads in the circle. He got killed in an exchange of fire.”

  “You mean he was murdered,” I state rather than ask. “Because prison wouldn’t have held him for long. He had too much power. He would’ve gotten out.”

  “Do you care?”

  “No,” I say without a moment’s thought, then fold my arms on his chest and rest my chin atop them. “Did all the girls get out safely?”

  “Yeah. But you probably won’t find any of the ‘diamond girls’ on the news.”

  Just like no one will ever see me in the news, know where I’ve been or what I’ve suffered. But I’m glad I took the advice to heal in private. Going public would’ve done me more harm than good. I know that now.

  To help in other ways, I’ve been donating generously to organizations with the mission to help put an end to human trafficking.

  “I’m glad he’s dead,” I whisper after a long while. Rape. Slaps. Verbal abuse. Debasement. Starvation. Isolation. Degradation. All things I’ve suffered over and over by that man. He’s lived inside the crevices of my mind and haunted my dreams. Made me yearn for death. “I’m so, so glad he’s dead.”

  To know those girls are free and that no one will ever suffer at his vile hands again makes me feel a different kind of peace.

  A phone vibrates somewhere on the bed and Torin feels around until he finds it, answering, “Yeah?”... “When?”...”‘kay, be there in a few.”

  He hangs up and trails the tip of one finger down the side of my face. “I’ve gotta go.”

  With a reluctant nod, I roll off him and onto my back.

  As he gets up and zips his pants, I ask, “Am I going to see you again?”

  “You want to?” he asks, doing up his belt.

  “Always,” I say pathetically. “Until you get tired of me.”

  “Want you to do something for me.”

  I stretch my arms above my head. “Have your babies?”

  He gives me one of his serious looks, though there’s a teeny tiny smile flirting at the corners of his lips. “Create a new vision board. Then let me see it.”

  “Why? Are you going to make my dreams come true?”

  “Maybe.” He picks up his phone and stuffs it into his pocket. “Just do it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  One knee pressed to the mattress, he leans over and kisses me. Soft, lavishing, promising.

  “Thank you for coming tonight,” I whisper when our mouths part.

  With a low sound in his throat, he runs his fingers through my messy hair, plants a kiss to my forehead, then draws back from the bed and heads for the door.

  “How will you leave that way without being see—wait, how did you even get in?”

  He glances over his shoulder at me, and, with a small smirk, replies, “You’re cute.” />
  Then, as quiet as silence, he’s gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “Are you expecting someone?”

  Lyra

  “SO, WHAT DO YOU THINK?”

  Patrick’s laugh trickles down the line. “Be patient. I am barely halfway through. I have only been able to read in between breaks.”

  I stop pacing and plop down on my bed. “Sorry for being a nag. I’m just anxious.”

  “For what it is worth, I love what I have read so far and I almost cannot believe you wrote it,” he says. “Who knew you had it in you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, of course. This is some great stuff you have here. I am being paged now so we will talk more about it when I get home.”

  “Okay, can’t wait!”

  Hanging up, I exhale a relieved sigh. Deep down I believed the story was a steaming pile of hot shit, but we’re always our worst critic, aren’t we?

  A few days ago, I’d left a manila envelope outside the gates. Torin never answers my calls or messages, but I’m positive his men are on me, so I knew if I went out in the open and left a suspicious package, they would intercept it.

  In it were two USB flash drives of my manuscript, along with a note explaining who they were for—Jo and Torin—and instructions to read it and send me honest feedback.

  Though I hardly expect Torin to comply, I’m most anxious about getting feedback from Jo. That woman cannot be outread. She inhales words more than she does air, so her feedback will be the most valuable.

  But Patrick’s opinion has always meant a lot to me, and since his thumbs-up is all I have to go on for now, I stand and cross the room to my vision board on the wall. From the table below it, I pick up the cutout of a stack of plain books with “Ly Henderson” written on the spines and paste it onto my board.

  There. Finished.

  Now, I’ll just have to wait for him to come to me again.

  ~

  A CACOPHONOUS COMBINATION of loud banging on the house doors and the relentless din of the doorbell startles me from my sleep.