Just Keep Sweet (The Compound Series)

by Melissa Brown

  Five minutes later, steaming cup of joe in hand, we took a seat in the living room. When Aspen chose to sit next to me on the couch I was shocked, but I went with it. I offered her something to drink, but she politely declined as she always did.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say,” I said after gulping down half the cup. The hot coffee burned the sides of my mouth, my tongue. But I welcomed the distraction. Soon the caffeine would wake me up, help me form the right words for our conversation.

  “I want you to be open with me. I thought we agreed to be honest with each other.”

  “I know, but I freaked. There’s so much riding on this case, and I feel like we’re coming up empty handed over and over again. It’s . . . it’s infuriating.”

  “It is.” She nodded. “But my daughter’s future . . . and the future of so many others depends on us.”

  I polished off the rest of my coffee, feeling my brain rise from the dead. “Exactly. Believe me, Aspen, I want him to fry. I want to put him away for the rest of his fucking life, but Penowsky was locked up tight like a vault. I worked him for two weeks, bought him dozens of beers, and every time I thought he’d give me something, he got smart and didn’t. It’s like he knew what I was doing.”

  “You think he knew you were a detective?”

  “No, not exactly. He’s just really good at covering his tracks, drunk or not. I followed him, though, and he did go to the temple. You were absolutely right.”

  “So, what do we do now?” she asked, her eyebrows tilted toward her nose. She lowered her voice to a faint whisper and placed her hand on my knee. “Don’t give up on me, Jonathan.”

  She feels something too. It’s not all in your head.

  Taken aback, I looked down at her hand, making contact with my bare leg. Less than a second later, she pulled away, placing both hands in her lap.

  “I’m sorry, that . . .” She closed her eyes tight. “That was improper.”

  “No,” I insisted, “it wasn’t.”

  Her eyes remained closed, her cheeks the color of tart cherries. Her embarrassment was palpable, and I wanted her to feel safe, secure, understood.

  “Aspen, look at me.”

  She shook her head, turning her face away. “I can’t. I’m mortified.”

  “Why? Because you touched me?”

  She nodded, and one tear slipped from her closed eyes. She ignored it, but I watched that tear roll down her scarlet cheek. Without thinking it through, I wiped the tear away and she jumped slightly, opening her startled eyes. I took her hand in mine and leaned closer. I expected her to pull away, to hurtle herself from me, to wipe away my touch by smoothing the thick cotton of her dress. She didn’t. And so I leaned in a little closer, until I could see the rise and fall of her chest, until I could hear her breath quickening.

  “You never have to be embarrassed with me. Don’t you know that by now?”

  I waited for defensiveness, but it never showed. She swallowed hard, her voice still a whisper. “Jonathan, please—”

  “I can’t stop thinking about you,” I murmured as I moved in slow motion, giving her an out, not wanting to pressure her in any way. She stayed put and her inaction spurred me forward.

  She feels it too.

  My lips were inches from hers and my hand was lightly grazing the searing hot skin of her cheek. She closed her eyes, her breathing ragged. Just before my lips skimmed hers she covered her mouth and jumped from the couch, putting several feet of distance between us.

  You idiot. You pushed too hard.

  I opened my mouth to apologize, but she beat me to it. “I’m sorry, I-I can’t. I’m married.”

  I stood, crossing the room. “To a man who ignores you, who doesn’t believe in you. I believe in you, Aspen, and I’ll never stop believing in you, supporting you.”

  “This is improper.” She paced the living room. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “But you are,” I said softly. “Why did you come to my apartment?”

  “What?” Her voice raised an octave and she pressed her hand to her forehead. “I told you—you were avoiding me and I needed answers.”

  “You could have waited for me at the station. Why didn’t you?”

  She shrugged, her eyes pained. “I don’t know.”

  I ran my hand down her arm, stopping briefly at her elbow, relieved she didn’t jerk it away from my touch. Slowly, my fingers touched hers and I took her hand in my own. “Yes, you do. Talk to me.”

  She squeezed my hand before pulling hers away. “I love my husband, Jonathan. I know that must sound silly to you, that I could love a man I share with thirteen others. A man who will barely even look at me these past few months. But it wasn’t always like that. There was love there . . . he loved me. Maybe even too much. Things are awful between us, but I know that’s not how our story ends. I know we’ll come together again when the time is right. I know, I know . . .” She paused, realizing she’d rambled. Aspen never rambled.

  “I know how silly you must think I am,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Nothing about you is silly to me,” I said with confidence. “Not one thing. You’re the most incredible woman I’ve met. It doesn’t matter to me where you come from or who you’ve been with. None of it matters. I just want you.”

  “I can’t—” she began, but I cut off her resistance.

  “For weeks, I’ve felt something growing between us. That can’t be all in my head. You feel it, too, I know you do. I see it in the way you look at me, feel it in your words, how your tone of voice softens when you speak to me . . . it didn’t used to be like that, remember? When we first met, we were two total strangers who had nothing in common, but now . . . now I know I’m not alone in this. You’re all I think about, you’re all I want.”

  “Jon—”

  “Just be honest, Aspen. Tell me you don’t have feelings for me and I’ll never say another word. Tell me I’m a stupid fool who invented all of this.”

  She shook her head, and her voice cracked when she spoke. “I can’t do that.”

  I took her other hand in mine, attempting to pull her closer to me, but she broke eye contact, looking away.

  “Then, what? Talk to me.”

  “I-I do share some of your feelings, I do. You make me feel safe; you give me hope and confidence that I can save my Ruthie. And I’ll admit that I feel an attraction to you . . . being near you feels . . . good, sometimes wonderful. You make me laugh like nobody else ever has . . . and when you call me Little House, I-I feel special, different, unique. That’s not something you feel often in my community. And I savor that feeling, I do. But it’s not enough. Not enough for me to abandon Paul, my people, or my faith.”

  “Your faith is responsible for the forced rape of dozens of young women. Your faith keeps those same women silent for the rest of their lives. Your faith—”

  “No, that is not true. The prophet is responsible for that, not my faith. One evil man cannot shatter my beliefs, my faith, my truth. That’s in here.” She pressed her hand to her heart. “And he can’t break it . . . not ever. No one can.”

  “Not even someone who can offer you so much more . . . so much more than a life of imprisonment?”

  She pressed her hand to her mouth. “Is that what you think? That I’m a prisoner? That we’re all just . . . what? Property?”

  Stone faced, I said nothing.

  “Answer the question, please. Is that really what you think of me? What you think of my sister wives? Of all the women on the compound?”

  I tilted my chin up. “Yes.”

  Her mouth dropped open and she stared at me, a look of betrayal on her face. “I thought you and I were better than this. I thought you were my friend. I thought you respected me.”

  “I do respect you,” I said, and then wished I had never uttered the next sentence that slipped from my mouth, wrapped in venom. “You just don’t respect yourself.”

  She pressed her lips into a thin line and her nostrils flared in
anger. “I need to go.”

  “Please, Aspen, I didn’t mean—” She walked toward the door and I followed. Just as she opened the door, I reached out to grab her arm. Wanting her, no—needing her to stay.

  “Oh yes, you did,” she sneered, shaking her elbow, attempting to set herself free from my grasp, but when I didn’t let go, she glared, daggers in her eyes. “Let go of me.”

  She walked out the door and I stepped out into the hallway, not even concerned about my disheveled appearance. “Look, I’m sorry, all right? Please come back. Let’s talk about this.”

  She paused at the staircase, looking me in the eye. “There’s nothing to discuss. If I have to save my daughter on my own, then so be it.”

  “Aspen, c’mon, give me a chance.”

  “I already did. Goodbye, Detective Cooke.”

  Her words stung like nothing I’d ever felt in my forty-two years. Even Elizabeth asking for divorce didn’t rip me to shreds the way Aspen reducing me to “Detective” did. Slowly, I backed into my apartment, slamming the door behind me. As I played our fight over and over in my head, my anger, my despair, my helplessness built within my body, coursing through my veins like adrenaline. And before I knew it, I let out the noise of an animal as my fist slammed through the drywall. My hand throbbed, but I didn’t care. Anything in my path was thrown, punched, kicked until my apartment looked like a war zone. It didn’t matter . . . nothing mattered.

  I flung myself on my bed, where I remained for the rest of the day. I despised myself for what I’d said, and what I’d done to Aspen. When she needed me most, I deserted her, ignored her. And then, when I had the chance to make things right, to refocus and set the course to bust the prophet and his cronies, I selfishly put her on the spot. I tried to force her to choose between her faith and family and an uncertain future with me. What kind of an entitled asshole was I?

  The kind who has to make things right again.

  Chapter 10

  Ruthie’s favorite part of being at the prophet’s home was the smell. Oh wow, the smell. About four of her future sister wives were baking yummy cakes, pies, cookies, and even brownies (her favorite!) since she’d arrived more than an hour ago. The house smelled incredible, and when Ruthie asked them if they were planning for an event, they seemed confused.

  “We do this every day,” Merilee said. “Clarence loves his sweets.”

  Every day? Ruthie marveled at that. The only time her house ever smelled that good was on special occasions, like Jordan’s wedding. And she didn’t even get to enjoy that day of sweets and treats because she was so heartbroken that her stomach wouldn’t let her enjoy it.

  But now, well, now she was glad that silly Jordan didn’t become her husband. Heavenly Father had much bigger plans for her, yes indeed. Ruthie was set to marry the most important man on Earth—the prophet. And she couldn’t wait.

  One month. Four days. Fifteen hours.

  Or is it fourteen? I lost count.

  She’d never been so great at math. Mama quizzed her constantly over measurements in the kitchen and laundry, making sure she was ready to serve her future husband, but since the announcement she stopped. Altogether. Ruthie knew her mother wasn’t happy for her, but she wouldn’t explain why. She rolled her eyes a lot and mumbled under her breath and all that did was annoy Ruthie.

  I can’t wait to be out of her house.

  Once Ruthie married the prophet, Mama wouldn’t be able to punish her or give her chores or make her watch her little sisters. No.

  I’ll be the prophet’s wife, and she’ll look up to me.

  “You shouldn’t talk about Mama like that,” Ruthie’s sister Susan said yesterday. She had angry lines across her forehead and a snarl on her face. “She loves us.”

  “She has a strange way of showing it.” Ruthie shrugged and left the room. The last person she needed to listen to was silly little Susan. She was just a little baby. She knew nothing about their way of life, their community, or the prophet. But Ruthie would, and she would become one of the most important women on the compound.

  “Hold still, dear.” Janine tugged the fabric of the dress and woke Ruthie from her daydream. She was standing on a circular platform that felt like a mini-stage with white cotton covering every inch of her tummy, legs, and arms.

  My wedding dress.

  “We need to get this just . . . right,” Janine said with a pin sticking out of her mouth. Her teeth were clenched as she spoke.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Ruthie stood up, proud and tall and looked at Charlene and Loretta, the two youngest wives of the prophet, who were assigned to help her learn about the home.

  “You look just beautiful, Ruthie,” Loretta said, her eyes wide as she bounced up and down. Ruthie wanted to bounce with her but she knew Janine would scold her, and she didn’t want to get pricked accidentally with a pin. Janine was leaning over the hem of the dress and placing pins across the bottom. “The prophet will be pleased, that’s for sure.”

  Ruthie breathed in deeply, imagining herself at the front of the temple for all to see, promising to love and honor and serve her husband. It would be her first kiss. Her very first kiss.

  Wayne Steed tried to kiss her once. His mother had brought him and his sisters and brothers over to Ruthie’s house to play a few weeks after the prophet announced she was to be his bride. Mother Sarah was supposed to be watching the children, but she snuck inside to gossip with the other mothers. And while the little ones played tag, Wayne called Ruthie behind the shed in the corner of the yard.

  “Over here, Ruthie,” he said, waving her over with his hands. Wayne was a chubby boy with lots of freckles and bright red hair. He wasn’t handsome like Jordan . . . no, he was . . . What was that word Mama used to describe him? Awkward. Yes, Wayne Steed was definitely awkward. His shirts were always wrinkled and he smelled gross. Mama said he needed deodorant. Ruthie didn’t need deodorant yet, but Wayne definitely did. He stank.

  Ruthie knew what he wanted, what all boys wanted.

  Snakes, all of them.

  Her mother had taught her never to be alone with a boy . . . not until they were set to marry. And she already knew who her husband would be. Ruthie didn’t have time for boys like Wayne. She was going to marry the prophet.

  “Ruthie,” he called again. She walked to him, her hands on her hips, rolling her blue eyes the way Mama did when Ruthie didn’t do her chores or talked back.

  “What do you want, Wayne?”

  “To show you something, c’mon. It’s over here . . . in the dirt.” He was crouched near the fence, and she hesitated before bending down to see what on earth that boy was looking at. When she did, he lunged toward her with his hideous swollen lips, grabbing her arms with his grubby hands, smearing dirt on her favorite pink dress.

  “Don’t touch me!” she’d yelled, pulling away from his grip and falling to the ground. Her knee burned, and she could feel her cheeks get hot . . . really hot. Ruthie was so angry, she wanted to hit that awful Wayne. But she knew Mama would yell at her and that she’d most likely get a spanking.

  “Sorry.” He shrugged and kicked a rock. “I didn’t mean any—I mean, I . . .”

  He stopped talking and looked at the ground. He put both of his hands in his pockets and looked up at Ruthie. He must have noticed all the dirt on her dress because his forehead softened and he said, “Sorry about your dress.”

  “Don’t ever touch me again. Do you understand me?” Ruthie snapped. “I’m marrying the prophet, don’t you know that? You stupid boy.”

  In a huff, she’d left him standing by the shed and stomped inside to tell her mother. Ruthie knew her mother would tell Wayne’s mother, and he would be in big, big trouble. And she wanted that. He deserved it. Besides, if she didn’t tell Mama what really happened, then she’d be in trouble for getting her dress dirty and there was no way she was going to get in trouble because of stupid, awkward Wayne Steed.

  As Ruthie stood on that platform, she was proud of herself for avoiding Wayne�
��s silly little kiss. She wanted to be pure, perfect for the prophet. And that’s exactly how she would be.

  “Turn towards the mirror, dear,” Janine said, and Ruthie did as she was told, turning to face the mirror and gasping at the beauty of her dress. Janine smiled. “You like it?”

  “Oh yes, very much.”

  Ruthie’s fingers grazed the delicate scalloped collar that rested just below her neck. The embroidered flowers were her favorite part, centered on each side of the collar. The sleeves were a little poofier than the standard dresses Mama made, but Ruthie liked that. She liked that it was extra fancy, extra special. She would treasure this dress forever.

  “Well, good, it’s a tradition. Every wife of Clarence has worn this dress.”

  “The same one?” she asked, horrified. She didn’t want to wear someone else’s dress on her wedding day!

  Gross!

  Ruthie realized just how many women had worn the dress before her. Thirty-seven other women had that dress hanging from their shoulders. Thirty-seven of them stood hand in hand with the prophet as they took their vows. Her mouth felt dry as she held back tears.

  But I’m the youngest . . . by far the youngest, so that makes me special. I am special, I am special, I am special.

  “No, not the exact same. Don’t be silly. The same pattern, the same detail; it’s what Clarence prefers.”

  “Oh,” Ruthie said, releasing the breath she didn’t even know she was holding. She swallowed hard and wiped the moisture from her right eye, hoping Janine wouldn’t notice. Luckily, Janine was focused on the hem of the dress again and didn’t see. But Loretta did.

  “Are you okay?” Loretta asked with a strange giggle.

  “Uh-huh.” Ruthie nodded with a large fake smile, using the mirror to make eye contact with Loretta. “Just thinking about my wedding day. It’ll be the best day ever.”

  Both girls looked at each other and then back at the mirror, back at Ruthie. They nodded, but their smiles weren’t as broad as Ruthie’s. Were they jealous? Sad? She couldn’t tell. She wasn’t about to waste any time worrying about them. She was the one getting married. It would be her day . . . and Loretta and Charlene and even Mama would have to deal with it.