by Nicole Fox
I can see the smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. He obviously thinks he’s got me cornered. Tables are turned, motherfucker, he’s no doubt laughing to himself. There are probably several dozen armed men on the inside, which will leave me indisputably outnumbered. Security cameras, armored doors, weapons hidden in every corner…
Big fucking deal.
The bartender looks at me out of the corner of his eye from the driver’s seat, probably wondering why I look so fucking calm right now.
“You’re going to just walk in there with me?” he asks as he rolls down his window and waits for the guard on duty to step out of his little hut.
I shrug. “This is what I came here for.”
“An audience with Ronan O’Sullivan?”
“That’s right.”
“Even if it costs you your life?”
I shrug again. “My life is not as important to me as you might think,” I reply. “Perhaps that’s a necessary part of being a good fighter. You can’t win if you’re scared of being killed.”
“Is that how you killed three men in a matter of seconds?” he asks.
“That,” I agree, “and I’m very fucking good at killing.”
I can see the grudging respect in his eyes as the uniformed security guard emerges from the outpost and saunters over.
The two men converse quickly. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I’m not really paying attention anyway. I’ll end up inside one way or another.
The bartender turns to me. “He wants your name.”
“Tell him it’s Cillian O’Sullivan.”
The bartender’s eyes bulge, but when I don’t break my stony expression, he sighs and repeats the name to the guard.
I’m just hoping that the cameras won’t catch my image behind the sports car’s tinted windows. Any idiot would be able to tell I’m not who I just claimed to be.
I’ll never know for certain. But a minute later, the gates swing inward. We move inside, park, and get out of the car.
“Stop.”
An armed guard blocks my path, his eyes narrowed on me. He clutches his gun threateningly.
I yawn pointedly and wait.
Then the front doors of the mansion swing inwards on silent hinges. A small group of armed men pour out, but I know they’re just lackeys.
Did he come? I wonder. Did the sound of his son’s name call him out here?
For a second, I think I fucked up. That my plan has failed and I’m about to take a bullet to the skull courtesy of some underpaid stooge with a twitchy trigger finger.
And then he emerges.
A tall, grizzled man. Blond hair faded to snowy white.
But it’s the shock of his bright blue eyes that has me reeling for a second.
If Cillian had lived into his fifties, this is what he would have looked like.
The thought twists in my gut like a serrated knife.
Ronan O’Sullivan’s eyes fall on me. Despite the startling blue, they darken with anger.
He moves his gaze over my shoulder to skewer the idiot who’d let me in.
“Any fool can see that this man is not my son,” he says, his native brogue booming out like rolling thunder.
Then he sighs and waves a dismissive hand.
“Kill him.”
22
Esme
ON A BUS SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF CARLSBAD, CALIFORNIA
Geoffrey leaves us at the bus depot with a warm hug and all the cash in his wallet, even when I insist that I can’t take it.
“You need that, hon,” he says, closing my hand back over the money. “Pay it forward.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m on my own again.
The ride is long, made even longer by the headache of crossing the border. I don’t get much sleep because Phoenix keeps fussing from the second we pulled out of the station.
All the way through San Diego and Encinitas, he fusses. We stop and start and stop and start and passengers come and passengers go. And through it all, Phoenix fusses.
The other riders glare. Some complain, both under their breath and to my face.
But there’s not much I can do to quiet him.
Except of course for feeding him. Then he settles for a few minutes, but I’m aware that my milk isn’t coming in as fast anymore.
Probably because I haven’t had a real meal in more than twenty-four hours.
I’m feeling the effects of the IV drip fading, too. Whatever magic juice was in that stuff is disappearing faster and faster, and without it, I’m left feeling weak. My body aches everywhere too.
What I really need is rest. Food, safety, a warm place to lie down.
I’m not asking for much. But I don’t know where I’ll find even those meager comforts.
I no longer have the luxury of worrying about my own needs, either. Phoenix needs me and I need to get out of town.
I look down at him in my arms. In the last few hours, he’s finally fallen asleep. Nuzzled up against the sunshine yellow blanket that Gabby gave me and drifted off, though he still twitches from time to time.
For a little thing, he requires a lot.
I’ve already used and discarded five diapers. That fact alone is starting to panic me.
If he’s going to go through diapers at this rate, I’m going to run out far sooner than I expected. I have some cash left on me but I need to make this last couple of hundred dollars last at least a month or two.
I’m pretty sure that no one will be willing to hire a new mom.
And even if they would, what can I do with Phoenix?
My life feels like it’s collapsing slowly. Burning to the ground just like Papa’s compound did.
But I have no choice but to kick away the debris and move forward.
At last, the bus driver calls out the name of the town Geoffrey circled on a map for me. It’s nowhere I’ve ever heard of, which is perfect as far as I’m concerned. It’d be best if no one else ever heard of it, either.
The town is about an hour from the ocean. I wish it were closer, but beggars—which I think it’s safe to say I am at this point—can’t be choosers, right?
Still, my body itches for the ocean I grew up near. For the peace and calm that comes from being near salt water and ocean breeze.
But I can’t give in to those urges anymore.
Only one thing matters: keeping Phoenix safe. What I want is no longer important.
We descend to a squealing stop. I gather my things and shuffle my way off the bus.
It’s a relief to be off. But as the bus roars away, leaving me alone at the station with nothing but cockroaches for company, the old fears set in.
Am I making a mistake?
Should I just go back to Artem?
“No,” I say out loud firmly. I stamp my foot for emphasis.
A rat picking through a garbage can a few yards away looks up at me in alarm. He eyes me as if to say, What’s wrong with you, woman?
In my arms, Phoenix is still sleeping. Well, thank heavens for small favors, I suppose.
I fish through my pocket and retrieve the little piece of paper with the shelter’s address on it. It’s meant to be a women’s home, but I have no idea what to expect.
Geoffrey was kind to me. So were Gabby and Ruby and Sara.
But I’ve lived on kindness for too long. I need to try and forge a path for myself that doesn’t require pinning all my faith on other people.
I start walking, with Phoenix strapped to my chest. I’ve wound the blanket around my body so that he’s nestled against my breasts without me having to hold him in place.
The duffel bag is heavy on my shoulder, and I keep having to switch sides so that I don’t throw my back out.
My Caesarean stitches have started to throb in the last few hours. I grit my teeth against it, hoping the pain will fade once I’ve gotten some rest.
The sidewalk is filled with trash and dirt. Cars whizz by on the road every now and then, kicking up old burger wrappers and cigare
tte butts.
Eventually, the town proper springs up around me. Though that’s not saying much. It’s mostly fast food joints and strip malls with graffitied windows.
I have to stop a jogger to ask for directions to the shelter. She’s a blonde woman with an amazing physique, and the way she looks at me tells me how different I must look than the Esme Moreno I used to be.
Pure pity in her eyes.
I try not to let it bother me. I’d pity me, too.
“Women’s shelter?” she says, her eyes falling to the sleeping baby slung to my chest. “It’s about a block from here. Keep walking straight, make a sharp right, and you’ll find it. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you so much.”
I watch her jog away. As she goes, I feel a tug of longing, a sense of loss for the life I used to have.
I was nothing more than a trapped bird in a gilded cage in those days, of course. But there were moments now when I actually missed it.
No more gilded cage seems like an improvement. Like progress.
But how can it be, when all I have left now is gilded tears?
Maybe it’s better to be trapped and happy, rather than free and miserable.
The last stretch to the shelter really wears on me. One block that feels like miles.
But when I see its rusting sign and cheap paint job, I feel nothing but pure relief.
At least, until I walk inside. I was willing to put up with a hell of a lot up to this point.
But this… this is bad.
The building looks like it’s falling apart slowly. A decaying carcass rotting slowly in the SoCal sun.
A crumbling staircase hugs one side, its banisters faded and the paintjob chipped in so many places that I can see the dark rotting wood underneath.
The floors look like they’ve been clawed at and the ceiling is heavy with water leakage.
I notice a few women at the far end of the broad corridor that reaches back into the guts of the building. But when they see me looking, they avert their eyes.
No one is working behind the desk up front. I walk over anyway and stand there helplessly.
Minutes tick past. I hear muffled thumps and muted conversation every now and then from way in the back, but no one shows their face.
My ankles are burning from standing. I look around for a chair, but there’s none around except for the lone chair behind the desk I’m standing at.
Desperate to get off my feet, I drag the chair from around the desk and sit down, feeling my feet sigh with relief.
I close my eyes and exhale. Then I look down at Phoenix, sucking on his pacifier, which has turned out to be a godsend.
I pray that leaving hasn’t screwed up his life more than if we’d stayed put.
I know I’ve made mistakes.
I just don’t want them to hurt my son.
“Who are you?”
I look up with a start and see an older woman with round, rimmed glasses staring down at me.
This must be her seat I’m sitting in.
She was wearing brown corduroy pants and a white shirt that almost comes down to her knees. Her hair is curly and piled high on top of her head, and even from behind her glasses, her eyes are dark and piercing.
I try to stand but I can’t push myself off the chair just yet. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so tired.”
She cocks her head to the side and looks at me sympathetically. “You need a place to stay.”
It’s not a question but I nod anyway. “I have nowhere else to go.”
It physically hurts to say those words out loud. I actually wince from the effort of forcing them out. I knew how angry Artem would be if he knew where I have brought his son.
“Your daughter?” she asks.
“Son,” I reply. “His name is Phoenix.”
She nods. “We don’t have any women with children at the moment,” she cautions. “I have to warn you that some of them might not be so… welcoming.”
I frown, wondering just how nervous I should be about that warning. Phoenix has turned into my chest so I can only see the apple of his cheek. He looks so precious, so innocent.
“Okay. Will I be able to stay?” I ask.
“We do have a bed you can have,” she says. “But all areas are common. You won’t get much in the way of privacy.”
That is definitely not what I want to hear, but I’m aware that I’m not exactly rich with bargaining power here.
“That’s not a problem.”
“We don’t have cribs either,” she informs me.
“That’s okay,” I reply. “I have a bassinet.”
“You do?” the woman asks, raising an eyebrow.
“It’s cloth.”
She nods. “How nice is it?”
I don’t like the sound of that at all. “Um… what?”
“How nice is it?” she repeats. “Is it expensive?”
Again, the question unsettles me. I suddenly wonder if coming here was the right choice. But again, what options do I have left?
“It’s not too expensive,” I say carefully. “But it’s new.”
“Well, let’s hope no one decides they want it.”
“I… what do you mean?” I ask.
The woman looks at me with a pitying expression. “You’re new to this, aren’t you?” she asks bluntly.
I hesitate. Apparently, that’s all the answer she needs, because she just nods and continues.
“You’re lucky that none of the women in there have babies,” she informs me. “So the likelihood of them stealing your son’s items is minimal. But if it’s nice stuff they can sell… Well, just watch out for your things.”
I flinch a little, but nod. “Okay.”
“Come on,” she says. “Follow me. My name is Maisie, by the way.”
I glance at her as we go, thinking that Maisie is not a name that suits her in the slightest. She holds herself confidently, but there’s a no-nonsense vibe about her that is probably very necessary when it comes to running this shelter.
The broad corridor has doors on either side. Some are open and I can see bunk beds stacked high, one on top of the other.
Other rooms are emptier, filled with old sofas and a few board games have certainly seen better days.
We round the corner and Maisie ushers me into a large room with five bunk beds arranged in an awkward formation. There are two windows set at opposite ends of the space but somehow, they don’t bring in much light.
Or maybe that is just a matter of perspective.
There are about six or seven women in the room when we walk in. I’m struck by how worn and tired each one looks.
But when I look close, I see that they’re not that old at all. Most are my age at most, if not younger.
Is that what I’ll look like in a few months?
Maisie leads me to a bunk in the farthest corner of the room. There’s a woman lying on the bottom mattress.
She’s got a shaved head, which highlights the bruises and scrapes that line her scalp. In some places, it actually looks like she’s pulled her hair right out.
Her eyes are beautiful—a deep, chocolate brown—but they’re filled with pure malice as she looks me up and down.
“Who’s she?” she asks. Her question is directed at Maisie, as if I’m not even here.
“Tonya,” Maisie sighs, “this is…”
She turns to me, realizing that she doesn’t actually know my name.
“Oh… uh, Emily,” I offer quickly.
“Emily,” Maisie repeats. She turns back to Tonya. “She’s our newest addition.”
“Fuck,” Tonya scowls, her face twisted with instant dislike. “What a princess this bitch is.”
I flinch as if she’d slapped me.
The last few months have humbled me, pulled me down to earth, and reminded me of how bad most people had it.
I always thought my father’s gilded cage was hell on earth.
But maybe I was just naïve.
Ev
en still, I thought that had been stomped out of me. That I looked ordinary now.
It took Tonya all of three seconds to sniff me out.
She knows who I really am.
“She’s got a baby,” Maisie notes pointedly, ignoring Tonya’s previous comment.
“I can smell the little shitter from here,” Tonya snaps.
Only then do I realize that Phoenix needs another diaper change.
Fuck me. That’s six diapers down.
“Anyway,” Tonya continues, looking up at Maisie again, “what’s that got to do with me?”
Maisie hesitates for a moment before plowing ahead. “I know you like the bottom bunk—”
“Fuck no!”
“Tonya…” Maisie sighs.
“The bottom bunk is mine!”
“She’s got a baby,” Maisie points out. She sounds exhausted. “A young baby, by the looks of it. She’s not going to be able to climb up and down every time she wants to get some rest.”
“That’s not my fucking problem,” the woman snaps with a vicious glare in my direction. “I’m not giving up my bunk.”
“It’s not your bunk,” Maisie says, her tone growing cold. “It’s the property of the state. And since I’ve been tasked with managing this shelter, I get to decide—"
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, stepping in. “It’s fine. I’ll take the top bunk.”
Maisie raises her eyebrows and stares at me. “You will?”
I glance at the top bunk with trepidation, knowing that it will be difficult to maneuver with my wound still fresh from the C-section.
“I… um… sure,” I say lamely. “I don’t want to cause any problems.”
“Then maybe you should find another shelter.” Tonya drawls. “That brat of yours is certainly gonna cause problems and I like to sleep peacefully at night.”
“Enough!” Maisie snaps. “Emily, if you can manage the top bunk, then fine. We serve three meals a day in the dining area. The meal times are taped to the door next to the front desk. That’s all.”
Then she turns on her heel and walks out, leaving me with a group of women who don’t look at all happy to be sharing a room with an infant and—in Tonya’s words—a “princess.”
“You better keep that brat quiet,” one wild-eyed woman yaps at me before turning in her bunk and pulling a blanket over her head.