by Marata Eros
My hands are slick as they pick up the lid of a fat-blue-chef cookie jar. Photos are stacked inside like hidden recipe cards.
What? I forget my hunger, the dangers that pursue me—everything— and with the photos gripped in my fingers, stride quickly to the small nook table at the end of the kitchen.
I jerk a metal chair away from a 1950s table trimmed in aluminum strip metal and slowly sit down, fanning the photos over the Formica surface.
Men and women stare back with grim expressions. I see Shepard in their faces. His history.
My head jerks up at a noise from the front door. I leave the photos on the kitchen table and race out to the front room.
Shepard fills the doorway.
Relief makes me sag, but in the next moment, my relief turns to concern. His spotless clothes are slightly soiled, his face looks flushed, and … I see his arms filled with groceries, and I walk over to him to help.
“Hey,” I say, searching his face for clues why he looks so flustered. Or something. Flustered really isn't Shepard.
“Non,” he replies quickly, hiking the bags.
Blood covers the bottom of the sacks, and as I watch, a single ruby gem drips on the floor I just cleaned.
My eyes meet his. “What in the fuck is going on?” My voice is low, hoarse with sudden fear.
He lifts the bags higher, moving rapidly toward the kitchen. “You will be happy to know that the pickles have survived the encounter.”
I follow slowly. “What encounter?”
He puts the groceries on top of a drain board that's part of a large, white farmhouse sink.
Shepard turns, and I grip his arms. His shirtsleeves are damp with his sweat.
“What's happened?” My eyes feel kind of bulgy in my head, and my heart is racing. I need to know it's not la famille. They're like the French boogeyman now.
As though reading my mind, he says instantly, “It is not la famille.”
My hands drop. There's a dry click when I swallow. “Then what?”
“Humanity.” His reply is cryptic.
“Quit with the riddles. You come back with our groceries and they look like—they look like you beat someone with them.”
His dark eyes meet mine. “That is true.”
I jerk backward. “What?” My hands move to my chest.
Shepard tells me of the old guys by the entrance to the only grocery store in town. Then the strange checkout with his purchases, though that entire event sounded like normal minimum-wage behavior to me, and ending with the two losers who tried to beat the shit out of him.
“Why would the old guys call two thugs and have them beat you up—”
“—try to ʻbeat me upʼ.” His lips lift at the corners.
I cross my arms. “Whatever. Why?”
“I do not know,” he says, crossing his feet at the ankles and leaning against the sink.
A slow smile begins to spread across my face. “You saved the pickles?”
His grin matches mine. “I did indeed.”
I move into the line of his body, relieved that he survived. Relieved Shepard came back, relatively unhurt. He came back.
He straightens, wrapping his arms around me.
We fit.
“Allow me to wash my hands and get the food put away.” He touches the tip of my nose. “Then I will cook you something that will make your mouth water, Marissa Augustine.”
My mouth is already watering, but not for food.
He quirks a brow. “Really?” Shepard's smile remains, touching his eyes and reaching back to me.
“Did I say that aloud?”
He nods slowly. “You did.”
I laugh self-consciously and look down. My head brushes his chin, and he scoops my jaw, pushing my face up to meet his gaze. Shepard runs his thumb along my bottom lip, and the touch is so light I’d think I imagined it if I wasn't watching him do it.
“Let me clean up and then we will dine”—his dark eyes bore into mine—“and pursue other things.”
Other things.
My lady bits give a hard pulse at that remark, and I step away from his embrace. He clasps my wrist, and I can feel the ready strength in his grip. He gently tugs me to him and presses his lips to the end of my nose.
Shepard turns and begins to empty the plastic sacks.
He pushes the bloodied ones inside one that is clean and sets it aside. The infamous jar of pickles is revealed next, and I giggle behind him.
Shepard whirls back around, holding up the jar like a sword.
I bend over, laughing. When I can finally stand, I'm still covering my mouth. “Oh my God.”
He smiles, turning back around to wash his hands. After drying them on the soft owl-patterned dish towel, he begins to unbutton his shirt. He pulls the material off and lowers it into the bloody sacks. He ties the tops together, and I walk to the groceries that fill the counter. Many items he bought don't make sense.
I mean, they don't make sense to my Top Ramen, mac-and-cheese, Gelato-loving self.
His hand dives into one of the sacks and brings something out, quickly hiding it behind his back. “I have something for you, but I would not suggest consumption.”
I try to grab behind him, and he won't let me have it. “Why not?” I ask suspiciously.
He grins. “I think last February's merchandise has expired, but I liked what it said.”
Shepard brings it around. A lollipop in the shape of a pink heart about the size of my palm is poised between two fingers.
My vision blurs.
Be mine, it reads in red.
The stick is bent from the bags used as weapons, but the heart is whole. I gaze up at Shepard, so much taller than me, so dangerous—so wonderful in bed.
His neck flushes red. “You don't like it?” He begins to put it back, and I pluck it from his fingers.
“No,” I say, swiping at my wet eyes. It's romantic. “I love it,” I finish in a low voice.
“Unexpected, non?” he asks, almost to himself.
I hug him. “Very,” I say against his chest, holding the sucker tight.
“For me as well.”
He holds me for a full minute, and we pull away together. Flustered, awkward. Perfect.
I tuck the sucker into my back pocket and point at some fresh vegetables. “What?”
Shepard clears his throat. “I will sauté those.”
“And this?” I point at an unpronounceable vegetable in a glass bottle.
His brows drop. He whips me around to face the living room. His hand makes a loud sound as he smacks my ass.
I yelp and pivot to face him, my butt on pleasant fire.
Shepard's face is open, tender. “Go clean up. And very nice job, by the way, ma chérie, on our accommodations.” His eyes briefly sweep the clean interior.
I rub my butt. “You hit me.”
Shepard jerks me against him. “It is the least of what I wish to do. Now—go clean up in our meager bathroom, and I will fix you a feast.”
How can I argue with that? I smile as I walk away, and the sounds of food being prepared fill the small cabin. My butt cheek tingles, feeling hot where he gave me a thwack. Shepard's dangerous. He just reminded me of that.
I also loved the way his hand felt. Talk about conflicted.
My feet are light as I make my way to the bathroom. I extract the lollipop and carefully place it on the sink rim and take my time in the shower, using the shampoo and soap Shepard bought, wrinkling my nose at the musty bath towel.
Vague light creases and folds into the shower stall from a highly placed and narrow window of glass block, gradually growing dark.
Steam rises, and I get so clean my fingers begin to prune with all the time I spend inside the shower. I set the razor down on the thick porcelain lip of the cast-iron tub and sweep the curtain aside to step out.
I swipe the hand towel over the mirror. Shocked eyes stare back.
A grumble begins again in my stomach.
Food.
> My grin chases away the frailty at the edges of my expression.
Then sex.
I pick up a pile of casual clothes. Panties, bra, fresh yoga pants, and T-shirt. I hold them to my chest as I knot my towel underneath my armpits.
When I'm dried off and changed, I pad across the living room and into the kitchen. Following my nose, I walk through the pass-through. I’m assaulted by aromas that make me salivate, and I groan with anticipated pleasure.
Crystal wineglasses are set out and filled with a deep garnet liquid.
Filet mignon, dressed with bacon at its perimeter, rests in the center of old chipped plates with a design of giant pink cabbage roses across their middle. Fresh asparagus is coated with butter and lemon.
I open my mouth to tell him it's too much, that—I don't think—he didn't need to. But one look at his eyes tells me that fixing me this wonderful meal is more than just him feeding us.
It's him taking care of me.
I just have to decide that I can trust someone enough to allow it. Especially someone with Shepard's past.
He holds out his hand, and I take a deep inhale and meet him in the middle of the kitchen. I slip my hand into his.
He pulls me to him and kisses me thoroughly, deep and wet. He's neatly shelved my appetite again, and I softly laugh beneath his punishing lips.
His expression is puzzled as he pulls back. “Quelle?”
“You give my stomach amnesia.”
Shepard's smile is a quiet movement on his face. “Come.”
And I do.
EIGHTEEN
Thorn
“Thorn!” He whirls as Tag jogs over to where Thorn's standing. Excitement is etched on every surface of his face.
“Time's of the essence—but I think I got something.” His voice is strained.
Thorn waits—Tag likes drama.
“There's a couple of rough locals who got their clocks cleaned.”
He lifts a shoulder. So? Thorn points a questioning look at Tag.
Tag grins. “It's the fucking best. The two of them got beat up by groceries.”
Thorn laughs despite his irritation, putting his hands on his hips. “Say what?”
Tag nods excitedly. “No shit. Some foreign dude—”
Thorn freezes.
Tag notices. “Yeah, man, it's gotta be our guy. Anyways, couple of retired geezers give him a hard time, don't take to just any flavor being in the area, if you get me?”
Thorn does.
“Called in the local vigilante gestapo to tap-dance on him—give him the fear of God or whatever bullshittery—and the foreign dude walloped them with, they figure, a jar of pickles. And other assorted sundries.” Tag smirks.
A laugh bursts outta Thorn. He can't help it. Bludgeoning by pickles. Well, fuck me, I've heard it all.
“Cashier”—Tag grins, glancing at his notepad—“Emily”—he taps the paper with his finger—“she has a record of his groceries. He doesn't hold back on spending, has fine tastes.”
Thorn's hands curl into fists, his humor fading.
“Anyways”—Tag gives Thorn a hasty glance—“one of the vics has a jar-shaped bruise on his cheekbone and is currently getting reconstructive surgery on what's left of his nose.”
Thorn hesitates, the wheels of his mind spinning. He lifts his chin. “But no hand work?”
Tag shakes his head. “Nope. Guy was cool as a cucumber from what the witnesses say. Spun around like a hurricane and handed those guys their asses smoothly. Didn't touch them with his body.”
“So no direct connection to the murders of the men on I-90?”
“No,” Tag says with a grunt, his voice going low. “But I know it's this fucking Shepard. It's all too coincidental, too neat. Those guys were bad news too. Criminal motorcycle club. Nobody's going to search too hard.”
“This was sloppy,” Thorn comments, jerking a thumb toward the Good Food store standing at their backs.
“Not really. If ya think about it, this guy's pretty smart. He incapacitated them handily, but he didn't leave any DNA.” Tag shrugs.
“Yeah.” Thorn cups his chin, staring at the ground, getting more pissed off by the second. He jerks his head up. “The guys got maps?”
Tag yanks his jaw back, his lips twisting. “Pope shit in the woods?”
Thorn rolls his eyes. “I say we get a radius within, say, thirty miles and start searching for any structures.”
“On it.” Tag races back to the tight knot of Feds. Crossing state lines and shit. The feebies are on board whether they like it or not. The fedsʼ asses are so tight, they gotta shit diamonds.
He smirks, deciding to walk over there and flesh this fucking swine out of hiding.
He's close, Thorn can feel it.
Shepard's reprieve is nearly over.
*
La Famille
The men surround the small cabin in the woods, speaking in hushed French through their mics.
If Shepard could hear them, he would already be fortifying his defense—protecting the cherry.
Instead, he is intimately coiled around the property of la famille. And that stance, the new roi will not abide. A fresh face now leads la famille, and they had hoped to reacquire Shepard. But he'd been stubborn, leaving France and traveling to America to live amongst the vulgar natives.
It was a bad choice—not to return to their flock.
Thomas makes a circular motion with a finger, and the five other men of la famille begin to move closer, using the thick woods as cover. The day wanes, twilight only an hour away, he'd estimate.
They will move then.
Shepard has killed his own. He will die for that transgression. Thomas and his associates will strip the house and take the woman.
His intel tells him the likelihood of Marissa Augustine's virginity being intact is less than zero.
Shepard always deflowers.
Always.
But she still has uses.
*
Shepard
I am pleased.
Happy with Marissa—with this place. I lay my fork on the plate, tines down, and smile at Marissa across the table.
My hand finds hers, and our laced fingers lay on top of my old family pictures. “I see you found something interesting.” My eyebrows give an amused lift as I use my free hand to take a final sip of wine.
“Yes. Why is your family”—she laughs—“in a cookie jar?”
I spin the wineglass by the stem, looking down at the ruby stain washing the bottom. “I have only just returned. Before—I would rarely visit America. My duties in France kept me busy.” Bitterness creeps into the words, though I made an effort to keep them at bay.
Our eyes meet.
“What made you that way, Léo?” she asks softly.
I glance down, having known this conversation would come. Hating the necessity of it. “There is nothing I can say that will make me into the hero you hope for.”
Marissa's chin kicks up. “I don't want a hero. But I want honesty. I care about you”—pink spreads across her cheekbones—“and we obviously combust together in the sack.”
I allow myself a moment of pride that I please her, and I cannot deny her words. Marissa appeals to the most basic part of my maleness. I desire her pleasure—to care for her. Worst of all, I feel a near-compulsion to protect her. That last frightens me more than everything else combined.
Yet at the same time, the emotion is invigorating. Vital. Pumping me full of the will to live instead of merely exist.
“I have been raped and beaten since the age of eight and a half.”
Her solemn eyes regard me. I unlatch our fingers, but she grabs at mine. I silently steal the strength that she lends.
Inhaling deeply, I let it out slowly. “When I began to look like a man, they no longer touched me.”
Tears trail her face, but she does not wipe them, clinging to my hands instead. “How old?” she asks.
The room feels thick, squalid. My exhale is a raw brea
th in the middle of the stillness. “Fourteen.”
Marissa sucks in a breath. “That's awful.”
I lift my chin, tilting my head and observing her horror as though what I confess happened to a stranger.
She shakes her head, as though trying to slough off the filth of my confession. “Why—how?”
“There is no why. My parents died, while I survived. My relatives were too distant to be concerned with my care, and I went to a public orphanage. However, it was not a regular orphanage but one in search of a specific type of boy.”
Her shoulders slump. “Let me guess. A boy who is bright, full of promise, good-looking.”
I nod. “Yes, I was all of that.”
“You never had a chance.”
She squeezes my hand—and squeezes the truth out as well.
“Non.”
“How did you survive?”
The same way you did, I imagine.
I look at our hands. My knuckles are white from my grip on the edge of the table, my other hand holding hers.
My eyes begin burning, and my chest feels as though something has crushed it.
“Shepard,” Marissa says, her voice faraway.
My head becomes lighter, and I whisper, “I became someone else when they used me. I left—Léo was not there when they—” I cannot finish. I lift my hand, and it trembles.
Marissa releases my other hand and comes to me.
She lowers herself on my lap, and I spread my legs to accommodate hers between them. “You poor baby.” She brings both of her palms to cradle my face, and she raises it to look into her eyes.
“Get off me, Marissa.”
Fear strangles me. I cannot breathe—suffocating with her nearness, with the revelations of my past.
“No,” she says, gripping my face tighter.
I begin to shove her off, and she wraps her arms around my neck in a stranglehold. She will not let go, and I do not wish to hurt her.
“Let it out, Léo.”
I cannot.
“Do it—they can't hurt you anymore. It's me. And you. I'm here, and I'm not leaving you.”
Not. Leaving. You.
I breathe through the panic that steals my oxygen. After a solid minute, my hands find their way to creeping around her back.