“I'm going to kill you,” Trace's voice echoed in my ears, and for a minute, I thought he was talking to me. I rolled my head, blinking to clear my vision. Trace's face was red, his cheeks stained with tears. His wrists were bloody, the metal of the handcuffs cutting into his skin. “I'm going to fucking kill you, you motherfucking son of a bitch!” he screamed, hoarsely.
Elliot walked toward him slowly, hinging at the waist to pick something off the ground. I squinted, trying to see what it was. My breath caught in my throat when I realized it was the knife. I'd dropped it when I tackled him. Forcing myself onto my hands and knees, I began to crawl through the grass.
“Elliot!” I screamed, but it felt like my mouth was full of cotton.
He glanced back at me over his shoulder, and I saw the evil smile on his face right before he stabbed Trace in the chest.
“No!” I heard myself wail, the sound shredding my throat. I struggled to stand, almost tumbling again when my leg almost gave out on me. I began limping toward the two men on the patio, my ankle screaming out in pain. I didn't know then, but I'd broken it when I shoved Elliot into the pool. A hairline fracture, but painful as hell anyway. I couldn't move as fast I wanted to, besides. The scene in front of me was like one of those nightmares where you try to run but you move at a snail's pace. I could see Elliot stabbing Trace over and over again, in slow motion. Trace slumped to the ground like a rag doll, his blood spreading thickly across the stone patio.
Elliot turned to me, slick red covering his hands, and he didn't expect me to grab at the knife. I felt the wooden handle in my palm and I pulled it toward me. His fingers were slippery, losing his grasp. I saw myself stab him in slow motion, the blade disappearing into the black of his shirt. It was a side wound, not square in the chest like I would have preferred, but it was better than nothing. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, like he was too shocked to say anything.
I stepped back, letting the knife clatter to the ground. My new dress was stained pink, all of a sudden. When I held out my hands and they were red with Elliot's blood, I couldn't help it. My mind felt light, almost like I was floating above myself. Nothing seemed serious anymore. Nothing was real.
As I stared down at my hands, I couldn't stop myself.
I laughed.
*****
Fuck.
As I watched the knife slide into me, I almost didn't believe it. But then the white electric pain came, and I believed it.The love of my life stabbed me, then she laughed about it.
Joan tossed her head back, the laughter bursting out of her mouth. It was a beautiful sound. I realized with a jolt I hadn't heard her laugh since that very first night in the bar, all those years ago. It was a beautiful sound, and I imagined hearing it over and over again for the rest of my life. Love for her shot through me and I loved her more than ever, even as my blood oozed down the front of my shirt. Tears were streaming down her face when she finally stopped, and then she looked me dead in the eye.
“Are you going to die?” she said.
“Hell no,” I said, pressing my hand to my side. It was only a flesh wound, I was sure. The knife hadn't gone that deep. I stepped closer to her and she jerked away from me, like I was going to hit her. Instead I pulled up her dress with my free hand, sliding her straps back onto her shoulders. Her hair was wet and starting to curl, mascara smudged down her cheeks, and blood was on her neck, but she looked fucking perfect. She stared up at me, her brown eyes strangely distant, like she couldn't really see me. She was in shock, I realized. “Come on,” I said. “We have to go.”
“No,” she shook her head, furrowing her brow. Impatient, I grabbed her arm, stepping over the carcass of the man who'd dared to touch my woman. I pulled her along, pain radiating down my side. She tripped and fell into me and we banged into the kitchen island. It fucking hurt so bad I almost backhanded her for it, but I didn't. I was going to have to learn to restrain myself if I was going to marry her. Real men didn't hit women, I remember my mother saying to me, a bag of frozen peas against her face after my old man slugged her. I didn't want to be that guy anymore, not for Joan.
She deserved more.
“Elliot,” she said in a small voice.
“What, baby?” I asked between clenched teeth.
“I don't want to go with you,” she said, as I dragged her through the living room, blood dripping all over the rug.
“Too fucking bad.” I stop, pulling her into my chest and putting my bloody hands on either side of her face. She was everything. Fucking her again had put everything back in perspective. She may have agreed to marry that other fucking asshole, but she was made for me. Her body fit mine perfectly. She was the best sex of my life. The way she held me and kissed me and fought me... I needed it. I craved it. Now that I had her again, there was no way in hell I was giving her up. I would die first.
And if I died, she was coming along for the ride.
The thing between us was until death do we part, whether she realized it or not.
“Fuck you. No,” she said, looking up at me, her eyes harder this time. She was trying to make me hit her, but I wasn't going to take the bait.
“You don't have a choice,” I said. “I came here for you and I'm not leaving here without you.”
She took a step back and I knew she was about to take off. I didn't give her the chance. I looped an arm around her waist and picked her up, although red-hot pain seared through me at the motion. I chose to ignore it as I hauled her out of the house. She kicked and screamed and squirmed, but I locked my muscles and didn't budge. Her screams echoed in the cul-de-sac, but the neighbors lived far enough off of the road that I wasn't too worried. I threw her in the passenger seat of my rented car and then we booked it the hell out of Dallas.
Chapter Eleven
It was after 2:00 a.m. I was slumped low in the seat beside Elliot, all of my fight gone, officially. The shock had faded, but I still felt dead inside. My adrenaline had drained out of me slowly, leaving me limp. My body ached, I was cold, I had water in my ear, and the chlorine and dried blood that coated me was making me itchy. I could tell he didn't feel much better. He held himself rigid in the seat, his hand pressed into his side. He'd told me that the stab wound wasn't bad, but I didn't believe him. I wondered how close to bleeding to death he was. Because it was dark and he was in black clothes, I couldn't tell how much he'd bled. Not that I gave a fuck.
If he died, I would cry no tears.
“Almost there,” he murmured, and we took an anonymous exit off the highway. There was no number marking the exit. There were no gas stations or Wal-Marts or McDonalds as far as the eye could see. We were out in the boonies. We drove along a dark winding road, the Texas horizon stretched out flat all around us. He took a few turns, and I tried to keep track of them, but my mind was mush. My memory was for shit. I had been through too much that night. My thoughts wandered back to Trace. I wondered if he was alive. I wondered if he was dead, and if that meant he was in peace.
His mother was going to devastated.
She was a nice woman, short and plump, always with a smile on her face. Trace, a good Texas boy, loved his momma, and she loved him right back. I drew in a ragged breath. I was too hollow to feel grief for him, but I knew others would mourn him. He hadn't deserved what had happened to him. His only crime was loving me.
My crime was much more sinister.
I'd led a psychopath to my front door, literally. I would never forgive myself for my stupidity, especially if Trace died. When Elliot finally killed me, I would die knowing I deserved it.
After what seemed like forever, we pulled into the pitted parking lot of a shitty motel.It was a shabby one-level building where the doors to the rooms opened directly to the parking lot. Completely sleazy. The neon sign above us lit the car up in yellow light, and I watched Elliot out of the corner of my eye. His face was hard with pain and fatigue and he was clenching the steering wheel as he maneuvered into a parking spot outside of the room labeled 5A.
“We'll never be done fighting,” I said. He turned in the seat to look at me, his face hardened from the pain.
“I think we're fucking even,” he said, holding up his hand, covered in slick dark blood. I didn't answer him, just unbuckled my seatbelt and opened the car door. “Don't even think about running,” he said through gritted teeth.
Run where? I thought, looking around. I slid out of the car and immediately yelped in pain. A sharp, splintering pain shot through my leg when I put pressure on my ankle. I leaned against the car door, lifting my foot off of the ground to study it. Sure enough, it was swollen.
“You hurt?” he asked, opening his own door.
“Like you give a shit,” I muttered, hobbling around to the side as I shut the door. So much for running. I had absolutely nothing—no money, no ID, no underwear, no shoes. Only a bloodstained dress and a bum leg. I glanced around the parking lot. There was one other car in the lot, an ancient Ford truck, and two motorcycles. The light was on in the little office near the entrance, but I doubted any help would be found there. Deep in the country, folks tended to look the other way to avoid trouble. Besides, I was half-Mexican. I doubted anyone in those parts would be interested in going out of their way to help me.
I hobbled around to the front of the car, keeping one hand on the car. He dropped one foot to the ground, but didn't move any further.
“Joanie,” he growled and I felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. “Get over here.” I made my way slowly over to the driver's side. At that angle, I could see that his seat was stained with wet blood.
“Jesus,” I whispered. “You have to go the hospital.”
“I'll be fine once you patch me up.”
“Me?” I said, my voice going up an octave. He really was crazy if he thought I was going to help him.
“Help me, baby,” he rasped, turning slowly to drop his other leg to the asphalt. He let out a hoarse breath, closing his eyes as a wave of pain went through him.
“My ankle's fucked up,” I said.
“Just help me!” he growled and I relented, letting him slide an arm across my shoulders. I leaned against the car for leverage as I helped him slowly to his feet. He handed me the key and eventually we got inside the dingy hotel room. We must have looked a sight, me hopping on one foot and him leaning on a girl half-a-foot shorter than him. Once inside the room, I ran my hand along the wall for balance and led him to the bathroom. Luckily, the bathroom was right inside the entrance and not across the room. I didn't know how we would have made it otherwise.
I flicked on the light and he dropped like a sack of potatoes on the side of the tub. He almost took me with him, but I managed to grab ahold of the edge of the sink, which kept me from falling.
“Fuck!” he hissed, finally getting a good look at the damage. He tried to pull his shirt over his head, but couldn't. I helped him, leaning my hip against the sink for balance. I dropped his wet black shirt on the floor and finally got a good look at the wound I'd caused. The wound was a dark gash low on his left side. It looked terrible. Coagulated blood was smeared all over his side and arm. He reached over and grabbed one of the threadbare white towels from the rack and pressed it to his side. “Shit, baby. You got me good,” he said, squinting up at me. “Let me look at that ankle.”
I lifted my leg, placing my heel on the toilet seat. In the light, it looked pretty bad, as well. Bruised, angry red, and swollen to twice its normal size.
“Dammit,” I whisper. An injury like that killed all chances of escaping, for at least a few days, if not a week or more.
“Ain't we a pair,” he said with a Texas twang. He lifted a hand and fingered the hem of my once new dress, now stained and dirty. I hopped back, lowering my foot to the floor, away from his grasp. “Help me undress,” he said.
“No fucking way,” I replied, shaking my head.
“I need to clean up,” he said, through gritted teeth.
“No.”
“Stop fighting me!” he growled.
“I'm not your wife, I'm not your girlfriend, and I'm not your slave,” I said. “I'm not doing shit for you.”
He shot off the side of the tub surprisingly fast for a man with a hole in his side. He threw me against the wall of the bathroom, his hand around my throat.
“Do we need to have another conversation about who's in charge?” he growled, but I didn't cower. I stared him straight in the eyes, letting him know I wasn't his to control anymore. He swayed on his feet and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the pain ebb through him, and I acted without thinking, jabbing my finger into his side. He let out a pained howl and I thought I was going to pass out as he clamped his hand hard around my throat, completely cutting off my air. My fingers flew around his wrist, trying to dislodge him. Then, somehow, we ended up on the floor, me sprawled on top of him, and his eyes glazed and unfocused, staring up that the ceiling.
For a minute I thought he was dead.
Then he gasped in a sharp breath and I swallowed my disappointment. I lifted off of him, glancing down at his nasty wound. Fresh blood bubbled up in the gash and, without thinking, I grabbed the towel from the floor and pressed it to his side.
“That fucking hurt, Joanie,” he whispered, his face pale.
“I think you're dying,” I replied.
“If I'm dying, I'm taking you with me,” he said, closing his eyes and smiling. I glanced at the door, knowing that I could get away. I could take the car and drive it back to civilization, no looking back. Then cool metal clamped around my right wrist. I barely had a chance to register what was happening when he locked the handcuffs, one around my wrist and the other around his.
The son of a bitch.
*****
Some time later, I lay awake in bed next to him, listening to the pattern of his breathing. It was dark in the room and I had no idea what time it is. The heavy curtains were pulled over the windows, completely shielding us from any light from the outside. We were both naked, after taking a shower. The room was hot, an ancient fan spinning hot air around above us.
After I bathed him, I stitched him up with an old small needle and thread kit we found in the drawer of the hotel room. The wound wasn't very long, so it only took about ten stitches. He looked like he was going to belt me in the face a few times when I stabbed the needle through his skin, but, surprisingly, he didn't. When I finished, he collapsed on the bed and passed out, still connected to me via the pair of handcuffs. I tried to pick the lock with the needle, but only succeeded in breaking the brittle metal of the needle. I examined the handcuffs, and they looked hardcore. Definitely police-issued. Impossible to break free from. Then I drew my eyes over his naked body. His wound was a blazing red and his skin was pale. He'd lost a lot of blood, I didn't know how much much, but he was definitely weakened. He would need food soon and water.
I needed food, too. Surprisingly, I was actually hungry, even though I'd eaten dinner that evening. Usually, I had zero appetite and skipped meals without realizing that I had. I pressed a fist into my belly as it rumbled. His chest rose and fell with each breath, his body still as perfect and toned as it had been two years ago. I winced in pain as I adjusted my ankle. I had it propped up on an extra pillow, but the swelling had only gotten worse.
There was a rotary phone on the bedside table beside him, but I hadn't bothered to try to make a call. I didn't want to be saved. I knew if I turned on the TV, the news would probably be blaring the story of a man who was killed in a home invasion, his fiancé abducted. I had made sure that Trace would be discovered—I'd left the front door open when Elliot pulled me out, triggering the home alarm. The police would have been there within the hour. They would have found all the evidence—the blood, the fingerprints, the gun at the bottom of the pool, my panties tossed in the middle of the lawn. They would watch
the footage from the security camera that filmed the front of the house. They would see me being dragged off by a man all in black.
I could never be found.
I could disappear.
Just like that, Joan Vasquez could be no more.
I was going to leave Elliot as soon as I could, but I wasn't going back home. I could never show my face there again, now that they knew everything. They knew I was damaged goods. The farce was over. I wanted to bury my old identity and all the shit she'd been through. I could start a new life, as a new person. A new person who'd never had anything bad happen to her. A new person who was a complete mystery to anyone she ever met. I didn't want to face the looks of pity from my mother and the way my father would avoid my eyes. I didn't want to see the looks on my brother's faces when they heard what had happened to me, the looks of pain and disgust.
I'd spared them from it for a long time.
Now, they would have to deal with it.
Elliot stirred beside me, rolling his head toward mine.
“Joan,” he whispered. “You're here.”
“Of course I'm here, asshole.” I lifted my wrist, the metal that connected us clinking in response.
“I think I like it when you're feisty,” he said. He lifted his hand and the cold metal touched my skin and sent a shiver through me. He ran his finger down the hollow of my stomach. “You're too skinny.” He dipped his fingertip into my bellybutton. “When we get back to Austin, I'm going to make you eat.” I bit my lip as he continued stroking me. I didn't dare move, but I wanted to shove his hand away. I didn't like how my body was reacting to his touch. “Do you like when I feed you?” he whispered, but I ignored him, keeping my eyes to the ceiling even as goosebumps rose on my skin and my nipples pebbled at his touch. He brushed his knuckles over my lower abdomen. “I'm going to marry you.” He paused, letting the words sink in, his fingers continuing their dance across my skin. “Then you're going to have my baby. You'll love our kid and you'll learn to love me, too.” He sucked in a rough breath, rolling over onto his side.
I Know What Love Is Page 11