by Jamie Magee
I had it easy. Yes, I’d bare my scars for the rest of my life, and when I least expected it they would flare up, but I had it easy. Far easier than Slayton.
I spent less than a year in the life of the cities underworld. I was protected and guided the entire time. Slayton served twenty-one years in that hell. There was no quick fix, no fast way to rewire his distrust and anger.
Every single night he woke with a nightmare. His body covered in sweat, his fists clenched. Sometimes it took me a second to wake him up, and when he did wake and figured out he’d hurt me we weren’t right for days. More than once, he swore he was going to those who had placed us together to tell them to move him or me, one of the two—that he was dangerous.
Everyone wants a bad boy until they realize they aren’t really bad—some unattainable alpha—but just a boy with layers and layers of hell that have to be dealt with. I wasn’t afraid of the layers, what I’d find under them all. But he was. They downright terrified the fuck out of him.
Slayton had told me my first night in Alaska that he took Channing’s invitation to the underworld because he wasn’t built for anything else. I believed him. Alaska was becoming a cold prison to him, an isolation that was making him even cagier.
We were young, and we were alone. Most kids our age were at school, or some dead end job. They had bills, social media, date nights, clubs. Family and friend drama, they were fluttering through what they thought was a hard life.
We didn’t.
Because of the degree of the witness protection program we had landed in, we didn’t have the bills, the family, or the friends. Just each other, and a therapist we were obligated to see. Sometimes by gunpoint. Not me, but Slayton. I was terrified the first time I saw them take him. The second and third were easier, but it still scared me.
I was sure they were making it worse and complained to the liaison who made sure we had what we needed. It was then I figured out those sessions were not always just about Slayton, getting him the help he needed. They were still getting information from him. Getting names, asking for names to go with faces, and about strategies. Each time they did they drug him back to the world we escaped and we went back to square one.
We were only good, perfect, when we were touching, when he was seated deep inside of me covered in sweat, exhausted from the chase and emotions between us. Sex was our own personal therapy. We were more than right then. Those were the moments when we both could convince ourselves not to give up.
The second year wasn’t as bad. We started to pick up the habits of ‘normal’ people. We were both in school. I was horrible at it. I could never focus. He ended up doing half of my work for me, because when it came to the black and white text, he could devour it. His memory was a blessing and a curse.
It was hard for us to have friends. Our fake backstory was unpracticed. Even when we succeeded in getting our story right and stepped out into the real world, before the night was over, we managed to take three steps back in our relationship. Slayton could be a jealous, quick-tempered asshole. He didn’t want any man near me, and I swear he hated every female on the planet but me.
It wasn’t until they put us in sessions together one explosive afternoon, that I understood the most tragic part of his past. The sexual abuse he endured. His pretty face earned him every kind of favor he didn’t want with women three times his age when he was way too young. The attention the men gave only taught him to fight as well as he could and landed him behind bars he should have never been put behind.
His time in Malcolm’s circle didn’t do anything but add gas to the fire of who he was. I was told to perform. He was told to accept. I can’t tell you how much I hurt for him when we finally confessed it all. The anger inside of me was unprecedented. For once I saw the world through his eyes, and I hated it.
Even without the twisted sexual demons in his past, he had the gladiator fights to contend with. Slayton told me once he always knew when his hit was lethal, that he felt a part of him die before they ever fell to the ground. I didn’t know how to help him come back from something like that.
Year three, the nightmares were more random for both of us. We fought less, sometimes we could make it a whole week without me calling him an asshole and him telling me I was an irresponsible child. The sex was still amazing—a church we found each other in every chance we had. There were days when we didn’t even bother to put on clothes. When the isolation of our middle of nowhere cabin and long nights no longer seemed like a prison but a precious reward.
Year four, we learned the names of our closest neighbors and had dinner on the regular with couples from school. Slayton started hunting and fishing. It was a newfound passion for him. Sometimes he would be gone for days, and when he came back I’d swear those few days helped more than years of therapy. I fearlessly teased my street-smart boy about becoming a backwoodsman. At the same time, I yearned to find an escape, a way to heal the way he had.
Over and over Slayton would push my journals closer to me, silently asking me to write, to let that be my escape. I just couldn’t fathom putting it all into words. It would be real then. I wouldn’t be able to go hours, maybe days, pretending it never occurred. I was my own worst enemy, and I was good with it.
I gave up on school, but Slayton didn’t. The badge I found on him was no longer valid. It was the kind of badge they give untrained street warriors, informants that should not be, as far as I was concerned. He still loved the law, though, for the life of me, I had no idea why.
I almost thought it was the thrill of the chase, the ability to see what others couldn’t. Even in states like Alaska. He had a gift that allowed him to see both sides of the law and call every play each party would take as if he willed it into life.
At the end of year four, I was the only one not smiling when a badge landed in his hand again. I was proud of him, but all I wanted to do was find the happily ever after that kept fading every time I clutched it. I didn’t like that he had openly asked to dance with crime for the rest of his life.
Year five had been good. I had a job I liked, a friend I liked. And I only looked over my shoulder half as much as I used to. I both loved and hated the routine of life. One day, I was content to roll with the days. The next, I stared at Slayton like he was going to vanish. That was my biggest fear.
I wasn’t excited about coming home tonight; I knew he was working late which meant dinner for one. The only positive I was pulling out of the deal was it put another notch in my argument box for us to get a dog. Slayton had never had one. I was sure the second he gave in to my yearly plea that I could count on him being settled, content with the life we had. Stupid I know, but the man still had a ‘go bag’ for the pair of us in the front closet. He was always ready to run. Anything that even slightly resembled a settled life rattled him.
The cabin was dark when I pulled up front. I was shifting through the mail when I went up the steps, something Slayton would kick my ass for—he’d taught me for years to not only be aware of my surroundings but how to fight and use a gun.
I was at the door before I realized it was slightly ajar. Panic slammed into me, I was right back in the hell of survival mode. I reached in my bag and pulled the gun Slayton always made sure I was packing. I didn’t want to go in, but turning my back to the house, making it all the way to my car was a risk I wasn’t ready to take.
I was focused as I walked in, but my deepest thoughts were cussing Slayton and me. I was sure we had let our guard down, made one too many friends. That someone somewhere was hunting Odin’s prince, the one who had gotten away.
Flutters of snowflakes, ones so light they looked like dust, followed me. I checked the front room, moved through the kitchen, all of the downstairs. I was aimed to search the upstairs but not until I claimed another gun from our room at the end of the hall. A gust of wind pushed those twinkles of flakes down the hall before me.
I clutched the gun when I thought I heard a board creak. The further I moved down the hall the hott
er it became. I was sweating under my layers of clothes and fearful it would mess up the grip I had on the gun. It wasn’t until I reached the threshold that confusion struck me.
Our room wasn’t massive, but the bed still set inside a few feet. At the foot of the bed on a trunk, there was a tin bucket full of ice that was almost completely melted—in the middle of it there was a smaller box, roses and chocolate were beside it.
I should have scouted the room before I stepped in, but my stare doubted what I was seeing. Just before I reached the trunk, I heard the creak of wood again but never had the chance to turn before I was seized. I lifted my armed hand but a perfectly placed grip not only turned the safety on but also had my weapon dropping from my grip. My other arm was pinned to my side, and I could feel hot breath skirting across my neck.
“So easily distracted...” The taunt in his voice grazed the wrong nerves. Nerves that would have exploded us both into a war of words if I was not still staring at the bucket of ice.
“Slay—” I breathed.
“It’s hot in here,” he said as he pulled my jacket from me. I’m not really sure when or how fast he removed all the other layers from me, but I was in my bra feeling his lips on my neck, feeling the addiction of him take hold before I forced myself to focus.
“What’s—what’s going on?”
With a growl he stopped. “This isn’t going to work the way I planned it.”
I leaned to the side and looked up at him. He was talking to me but his hands were not still, my jeans were unbuttoned, and his hand was dipping inside. He grinned when he felt the lace. “I was going to lay you down,” he began in a husky voice, “slowly glide ice piece by piece, over this body that I can not get enough of,” he said right as his fingers brushed my clit and a bit my lip, savoring the feeling.
My hand rushed to hold him in place, but then his other landed on me. “So eager,” he taunted. “I love it.”
I giggled at the feel of his stubble gliding across my neck. “But I’m telling you a story.”
I glanced back to the box that was soaked from the melting ice around it then down to the cold I felt him gliding over my stomach.
Slayton grinned, his shy grin that I was sure no other soul on the planet had seen. He laced his fingers through mine and brought both our hands up for us to see. A ring was shoved on his forefinger. “My ice started to melt in this sweltering room.” His lips brushed my neck. “And I knew there was no way I’d have the restraint I needed. So I changed my play...”
I didn’t say a word. Shock had taken me by storm, and my mind was whirling. Looking back, I’m sure my pause was one of the cruelest things I could have done to him.
“We can make it, you and me,” he swore. “I know it’s been hard, and I know it’s not over. But I know I can make it with you.” I met his stare, the beautiful gray I loved so much. “You are my grace...I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
My lips were on his, and I was inhaling his touch ready to become slick with sweat and desire before he leaned back and drew in a breath. I fought to get closer, but he raised the ring between us.
“You doubt my answer?” I asked with a lifted brow.
Ever so slowly he leaned down and took my lips like he was tasting a delicacy, something he did often. Then he pulled back as his eyes searched mine. “I taste a yes.”
I giggled as he slid the ring on my finger.
“It is hot,” I breathed pushing out of my snow covered boots, and jeans. I was reaching for the ice when he pulled me back to him. “Next bout,” he hissed, like a man barely in control of his lust—just the way I liked him—as he slammed my back to his front.
All he had on were basketball shorts, the second they dropped to the floor, and I felt the heat of him against me, as one hand rushed over my chest and the other milked my clit to a fever pitch I felt myself heal, really heal. I don’t think a ring or our familiar, ever addicting bouts of love making triggered such a sensation. I was almost sure I had been healed for a while, that he had healed me, but I just never let myself notice. All I knew was I had never felt more free or alive as I did right then.
I wanted to turn and hold him, glide my hands over every ridged muscle of his chest, rake my nails down his back—kiss every inch of him he’d allow me to, but he was in control as his knee parted my legs and I felt the edge of his cock taunt my entrance.
He leaned me forward on the bed, and I braced myself to take him deep, to feel him all around me. The sound he made every time he pushed inside me was empowering. It was humbling that I made him feel that way. I couldn’t fix everything, but I could fix how he saw this part of life.
He’d crawled onto the bed with me as his strokes became more powerful. We’d landed on our sides with our hips at an angle. I loved him this way, how deep he would go, how his arms felt as they encircled me. The way his lips tasted when I leaned back and stole them.
I bellowed his name as I felt the rush take me over. More times than not he was stubborn and waited until I could not move anymore before he surrendered, but this time we fell into oblivion together.
As I came down from the rush, my stare landed on our intertwined hands and the ring he had put there. I had just about sorted all the questions I wanted to ask, the words I wanted to say when I heard a whimper.
I tensed as his hand gripped mine and I heard him chuckle. I moved to my stomach searching the dim room, and that is when I saw her—a husky puppy, trying to reach the bucket of ice and chocolates on the trunk.
His lips landed just behind my ear, “She was my backup plan if you said no.” I rushed to pick her up. “It was her eyes, I couldn’t turn them down,” he said staring at mine, and not the bright blue eyes of the puppy.
This wasn’t our happy ending. It was a happy beginning. I didn’t know where life was taking us, but I was excited to learn.
It was the next morning, when I pulled the journal from our precious puppy’s mouth that I finally decided to do what Slayton had told me to do the very first year.
I wrote...
The devil is as mouthwatering as sin, drenched in charm and unthinkable charisma. Those were the famous words my grandmother spoke every time a pretty boy with all the right words and charm would knock on my door.
She wanted me to keep my guard in place. To always see the good and evil in people. “Look under the mask we all put out for the world to see...”
Acknowledgements
Over the past four years, I have published twenty novels and each of the acknowledgments are moved from one novel to the next. That wasn’t done to take short cuts, but because on this journey I have been blessed enough to keep the same souls at my side. I wanted to take the time with this acknowledgment to state how precious they are to me.
My Creator, for I know this gift and passion for words comes from a divine force that I humbly adore and owe everything to.
My husband, no doubt, deserves some kind of medal! The man is there from the first instant the idea is thought to life, through the long days of writing where I slip into another world. He manages the blessed life we have built, taking care of our little ones, making sure that there is some kind of substantial meal on the table for each of us. He’s a saint when it comes to telling me what day of the week it is, and letting me know that dawn is approaching, and it might be a good idea to get some sleep. He understands that music drives me and is just fine with the same song playing on repeat for days until I have the scene trapped in words. He’s used to having a conversation with me and in mid-sentence, I stop and rush to write a line down. There is no doubt that he didn’t sign up to share his wife with the fictional family that always dances in my mind, but he rocks it all the same. I can’t tell you how amazing it is to have someone want your dreams as much as you do, someone that never lets doubt creep into your mindset.
My children, they make me smile every day. They are now to the point where they’re all for naming characters, dancing to that same song that plays over and over.
They love to joke about ‘mom’s bubble’—they know that mom dreams wide awake and tease me when they have to pop that bubble to tell me something.
Special thanks to Amy Donnelly, Steffini Walker, Alysia Kurtz, and Heather Falls for reading through these pages with me!
I have the best street team ever! Thank you girls for sharing my daydreams with me! dpgroup
Readers. I swear to you, to this day it blows my mind that there are people on this earth that I will never have the chance to meet that have shared these stories with me, people who get it, who leave reality and step into my daydreams with me if only for a moment. You humble me. I can’t stress that enough. Thank you so much for taking a chance, giving up your time to read my work.
As you can clearly see, people often think that writers have solitary lives, and in some real fashion we do, but more so than not, the story you are reading was impacted by not only those that walked the publishing line with the writer, but the world at large. Inspiration is everywhere, in every dark and positive moment, in every song, drive, commercial. Everything is inspiration. Life is beautiful, even the dark stressful moments. You just have to find that beauty, and thankfully I have outstanding people in my life that ensure that I notice it each and every day.