by Stacey Jay
But maybe there’s a third option, something between blame and responsibility. Maybe there really is such a thing as forgiving and forgetting. Or at least moving on.
“What happened with Anton . . . What I thought happened, was confirmation of what I was afraid of. I was too ready to believe and . . .” He swallows and his left eyelid does that twitchy thing it does when he’s really upset. “I would say I’m sorry, but that doesn’t come close to what I am.”
“Me, too.” I scoot closer. “I should have told you the truth.”
“I probably wouldn’t have listened. Not right then.”
“I still should have tried.” I lean my head on his shoulder. “We’re too much alike.”
“You think?” The familiarity in his voice twists things in my chest, makes me want to start crying all over again.
My arms find their way around his neck, threading through that curly hair that was once one of the most familiar, comforting textures in my world. “I don’t want you to hate me anymore.”
“I never hated you,” he says, fingers digging into the small of my back. “Ever.”
“And I don’t want to hate you.” I force myself to look up into his eyes, to ignore how close we are and how badly a part of me wants to be closer. “But even more, I don’t . . .” I swallow, try to force my tongue to form the words. But it’s so hard to sit here and be defenseless in front of this person whose love and loss has defined nearly a decade of my life.
“What?” he whispers.
“I don’t want to love you anymore. I can’t. It hurts too much. But I don’t know how to stop.”
I expect him to pull away, for the sadness in his eyes to turn to pity as he tells me it will simply happen someday, the way it did when he fell in love with Stephanie. But neither of those things happens. Instead his arms tighten until I’m pressed against him and his mouth finds mine and we kiss like we kissed that night I saved him from the fairies.
No. Not like that.
That kiss was as full of pain as it was pleasure. There’s pain now, but it’s different. It’s not sadness or hatred. It’s the desperation of two people trapped in the dark waiting for the bombs to explode. Terrified and almost hopeless, but grabbing hold of the only person who offers comfort. The person who understands, the person who’s as lost as they are, but in whose arms they are found.
His tongue slips inside my mouth and I taste Hitch—hint of garlic and mint and cherry ChapStick and that spicy saltiness that has always been the sexiest taste. My arms twine around his neck and the smell of him spins through my head and I’m twenty years old again.
We’re on our third date and we’re naked in the pond behind his house and every place he touches me is alive in a way it’s never been before and I finally know what all the fuss is about. I know what I’ve been imagining I feel with other boys isn’t even close to how good a man and a woman can really be. This is desire, this is a feeling worth killing for, dying for, burning up in the flames because annihilation by pleasure is the only way to go.
Even after what happened with Gerald, even with his limp body lying a few feet away, even with the memory of that night with Anton so fresh and the smell of the junkyard so very unfresh, it’s so easy to be pulled back. Back to Hitch. Back to the source, the start of the first road, the beginning of the person I thought I could be with him, because of him, back when loving him was the answer to every question.
But I didn’t become that person, and my answers turned out to be lies. Because we lost each other, and we can’t find our way back. And because I think I meant what I said.
I don’t want to be in love with Hitch. Not anymore.
I stop returning the kiss and push at his chest. He lets me go so quickly I almost tumble backward and he has to catch me and let me go all over again. Afterward, we sit staring at each other, lips damp, breath fast, question marks stabbing into the air all around us.
Finally Hitch says. “Anton’s in prison.”
“Yeah?”
“If he weren’t, I’d kill him.”
“No, you wouldn’t. He’s your brother. And he’s not worth it.”
“But you are,” he says, a hint of the old passion-before-reason Hitch in his eyes.
I look at the ground. “You still wouldn’t kill him. That’s not who you are.”
“Maybe it’s who I should be.” He sighs. “But you’re probably right.”
“I know I’m right.” I stand on shaking legs and brush off the dirt, reach down and grab my purse. “And I know that you and—”
Gerald moans and shifts on the ground, preempting some strong words from me about knowing Hitch and Stephanie and the baby are going to live happily ever after.
For the best, really. I have no idea if Hitch is going to live happily ever after. If he were that happy with Stephanie, he wouldn’t have kissed me the first time he was here, let alone a second time. If he were that happy with Stephanie, he wouldn’t know how to cry like there’s no chance of a better life.
But Hitch isn’t my problem. I can’t let him become my problem, even if some part of me or of him thinks getting tangled up in each other again is a good idea.
“I have to get home.”
“We need to call the police.” Hitch stands beside me. “We can give a statement and get this guy locked up. At least for a night or two.”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t want to go to the police.”
I don’t want Cane to know what happened. I don’t want him to feel sorry for me, and I don’t want to get too close to the police until I figure out what Eli was talking about. If someone on the Donaldsonville police force is crooked, they could have their finger in all kinds of sketchy business. Maybe the black-market dealings down at the docks. Maybe even whatever’s going down at the cave. “There are some things I have to figure out first.”
“Like what?” he asks, eyes sharper. “Is this about—”
“I’ll tell you everything in the morning.” I need time to pull my shit together even more than I did before. “Six a.m. Piggly Wiggly.”
“Yeah, I got your message,” he says, ignoring another moan and arm flop from Gerald, who I’m no longer sure is getting up tonight after all.
He certainly had his share of whiskey. He might end up sleeping it off in the dirt and wake up tomorrow with no memory of his last hour of consciousness. But even if that’s the case, I can’t pretend this didn’t happen. Gerald’s a menace. He doesn’t need a night in jail; he needs to disappear. He’s a problem best solved by the Invisibles. Hopefully a few threats from a man he can’t see will send him on his way.
If not . . .
Well, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, when I’m sober and this night is a memory and murder doesn’t seem like a reasonable solution.
“I was on my way to your house when I heard you scream,” Hitch says. “We can’t afford to wait. I got nowhere today. I’m no closer than I was before I came to Donaldsonville. I need to know what you found so I can plan our next move.”
“I didn’t find much, and I just want—”
“Please, Annabelle.” Hitch grabs my hand, so fast I can’t avoid contact. “Please help me. I don’t have time for games or—”
“I’m not playing games.”
“Or nerves or . . . strangeness between us, whatever this is.” He brings his other hand into the mix, making my fingers into sandwich filling. I try to pull away, but he holds tight, a squeeze with a tremble that brings home again how serious this situation is. Especially for him. “I’m sorry I kissed you. I’m sorry I don’t know what to say or what I feel and . . . about everything and . . . Honestly, I’m a fucking mess right now. But I don’t have time to be a mess. This is so important and—”
“The man at the docks wasn’t friendly, but I did learn a few things.” I have to give Hitch something or he’ll never leave me alone. But I have to be careful what I share. No matter how much I want to help him, I can’t betray Marcy, not without a lot more proof
. “They’re definitely stealing from their shipments and selling the stuff on the black market. They have a regular customer for the glass needles and some of the other medical supplies. I got the guy I spoke with to show me a video of one of the meetings with her, but it was too blurry to get a positive ID.”
“I can get a buddy of mine to hack into their files,” Hitch says, making my stomach drop. “We can search the tapes and enhance the quality. Maybe that will be—”
“I wouldn’t do that. The guy’s a computer geek,” I say, scrambling. “He’ll know he’s been hacked and I’ll never get him to trust me. Give me some time. He’s talking to his partner tonight. They’re thinking about offering me a delivery job. If that happens, I’ll be able to meet the woman connected to the medical supplies in person.”
Hitch nods. “And I’ll come with you.”
Shit. This is why I needed time to plan! I can’t have Hitch tagging along. I need to speak to Marcy in private.
I shake my head. “The deliveries happen out in the bayou, Hitch. I don’t—”
“I brought my suit. I’ll suit up and hide in the back of the truck. I’ll keep out of sight until you find out everything you can from this woman. Then I’ll come out and help convince her to take us to the cave.”
“If she knows the way.”
“She’ll know the way,” he says, a determined smile on his lips. “You did great.”
“I don’t have the job yet,” I remind him. “Lance is going to call me tomorrow and let me know. That’s why I thought this talk could wait. I’m not going to know anything else until tomorrow so . . .” I take a step back, sensing this is my chance to escape before I say anything else to trap myself.
“I’m glad we talked. It’s good to know we’re getting somewhere.” He takes a mirror step toward me. “Really. Thank you so—”
“Don’t worry about it.” I lift a hand and turn to go. “See you tomorrow.”
“Let me walk you,” he says, falling into step beside me.
I cross my arms and clutch my purse strap, disliking the feeling of him next to me. I need some space, some time, and I certainly don’t want to work my way through a “good night” at my screen door. There’s something about Hitch right now. He doesn’t want to be alone. I can tell. But I can’t be with him. Not as friends, and certainly not as anything else. “I’d kind of rather . . . go alone.”
“No. It’s not safe.”
“It’s fine.” I gesture toward the sidewalk that’s already in sight. “I can see my house from here.”
“No. I could taste the whiskey on your breath, I don’t—”
“I’m not drunk.” I’m not. Not anymore. And the reminder that Hitch tasted me is enough to make me even more uncomfortable. I stop dead, making him stumble. “Let me go, Hitch.”
“I will. I just want—”
“Please, Hitch,” I whisper. “Let me go.”
“I . . . I . . .” He swallows. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want you to be alone tonight,” he says, in that honeyed drawl that makes my bones melt. “Let me sleep on your couch. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”
“If you sleep on my couch, neither of us will be safe.” Even the thought of Hitch shirtless in my living room is too dangerous to touch. “And if you hurt Stephanie you’ll regret it. Forever.” I don’t know how I have the guts to say it, but I do, and the look in Hitch’s eyes leaves no doubt that I’m right. “Good-bye.”
His hands fist and his eye twitches, but when I take another step back and then another, he doesn’t say a word. He lets me go. Finally, I turn and walk away, wondering if this is it, if this is really the end of a certain breed of possibility between me and the first man I ever loved. I wonder if I truly want it to be.
Then I can’t stand any more wondering and break into a run, sprinting for my front door with everything in me.
Fernando is pissed. The note on my front door confirms it:
You are half an hour late. You are not answering your phone. You are also a selfish bitch, and I hate you. I am taking my steaks and going home, where I will eat them both and get fat and it will be all your fault!
Sincerely, Fernando, former best friend.
Crap. Dinner with Fern. I completely forgot. I pull out my phone. Three missed calls. One from him, two from Hitch. I turned off my ringer while I was in the junkyard and didn’t realize anyone had called. I could tell Fern that, and explain that I was busy being attacked around seven o’clock tonight, but I don’t want to talk about that anymore. Or think about it.
I’ll call Fern tomorrow and apologize profusely. Hopefully it will be enough. If it isn’t . . . well . . . who gives a shit? He can mope and pout and give me the silent treatment for a few weeks. At least then I’ll get a break from the constant criticism.
I snatch the note off the door and crumple it into a ball, planning to throw it into the trash can by the door. But when I open the door, the trash can is across the room by the two potted plants I’ve managed not to kill. The two potted plants that are now unpotted all over the floor.
Gimpy is also pissed. Or he was pissed at some point in the day.
Even in the dim light streaming from the kitchen, I can see that my antique chintz sofa cushions have been ripped to shreds. Clouds of tacky brown stuffing litter the room. Trash and potting soil make a mess in the corner and the curtain I nailed up to offer some protection from Bernadette is sporting a few claw marks, but the sofa definitely took the worst of the abuse.
“You little bastard!” I stomp through my mercifully intact bedroom and throw my keys, purse, phone, and the smashed tea bags from my back pocket on the kitchen table before squatting down by Gimpy’s bed. “What did you do?”
“Rrrreow.” The Gimp greets me with a lazy purr-growl and a smile. I swear, the wee terrorist smiles at me, pleased as shit that he’s gotten the desired reaction.
“Bad!” I point to the front room. “No treats for you tonight.”
He yawns, stretches, and pops his claws, as if to emphasize how little he cares for my stupid treats. He’s already had his fill of couch stuffing, thank you very much, and is completely stuffed. Ha, ha, ha.
“You’re lucky I hated that couch.” I plop down on the floor cross-legged beside him, and pull his bed close enough to reach the sweet spot behind his ears without working too hard. “I still shouldn’t pet you.” I start to scratch and Gimpy’s purr-growl becomes a rumble of pleasure. “You don’t deserve my sweet love.”
My sweet love. The smell of Hitch lingers on my shirt, but there’s only one face that keeps floating through my mind. Cane. I keep seeing the way he was smiling at Theresa, and remembering all the times he smiled the same way at me. I’m still not jealous or angry, I just . . .
“I want to see him,” I mutter as I pull Gimpy onto my lap. He stiffens for a moment—not being the snuggly sort—but eventually gives in to the double-ear and jowl scratch. “I miss him.”
I saw him yesterday, but it seems like so much longer. I may have talked to him, held his hand, and kissed his lips, but we didn’t connect the way we used to. Our time-out is becoming a chill-out. The spark between us is cooling. Not only the sexual spark, but the way we used to talk and laugh and be ourselves without any threats lurking in the dark future.
We used to have a sunny future. Or at least partly cloudy, small chance of rain.
But then Hitch showed up and changed everything and now things are . . . complicated. Even if we live through this investigation and Hitch heads back to New Orleans and I get the situation with the Invisibles and the fairies under control, I’m not sure that things will be less complicated. Not after tonight. Despite the fiancée and the baby, Hitch might come back. For me. To me.
“And I might want him to,” I whisper. “But it would only go bad again, wouldn’t it? If it were meant to be, it would have been the first time around. Right?”
Gimpy gives me a slitty-eyed look that expresses what he th
inks of “meant to be.”
Right. Nothing is meant to be. Meant to be is crap, the philosophy of fools and smug, happy people trying to justify why they’re getting an easy ride while everyone else fights and hurts and bleeds and struggles to get up after being slapped down again and again. There is no benevolent hand of fate guiding my life.
Shit happens. The only thing I have power over is how I deal with the shit.
I can change the way I do business. I can be better. Or at least different. And maybe different will be better.
“Or I could pack a bag, steal Bernadette’s car, and drive out of here and never look back. That would make the fairies happy.” Gimpy growls and digs his claws into my jean-clad leg. “Don’t worry. You can come, too. At least as far as St. Louis.”
Gimpy growls again and narrows his eyes at the front of the house. I turn to look, a shivery dread working down my spine. No one comes by my house this late anymore. Not even Tucker. He’s a morning person. And a back-door kind of guy.
Which means the heavy footfalls climbing my porch steps belong to someone else. Maybe Hitch, determined to protect me. Maybe one of the Kings, determined to show me I need protection. Maybe the Big Man come to tell me he’s seen me chatting it up with the fairies or the dock workers or the Kings or the FBI agent and has decided it’s best I die after all.
“Two out of three,” I whisper. I sit Gimpy back on his bed and crawl toward my bedroom, grateful, once again, that I live in a shotgun shack not much bigger than a shoe box. I’m out of the kitchen and sliding my safe from under my bed in less than a minute. I haven’t had my gun out to play since the mess in August, but a two-thirds chance of danger is good enough for me. I spin the combo and pull out the small silver handgun as the knock comes at the door.
It’s soft. Too soft. More of a test than a summons.
Whoever’s out there is hoping I’m not home. Or asleep. And I get the strong feeling that—should I refuse to answer the door—the knocker is going to come on in. They won’t even have to break in in order to enter. Thanks to Gimpy’s acts of senseless destruction, I forgot to lock the door behind me.