by Sarra Cannon
“It’s all the places she’s been,” Hallie explained.
Matthew reached up and examined the keychains where she held them. “She sure has a thing for novelty landmarks, huh?”
Hallie smiled. “She likes to experience places on their own terms. Get the full tourist experience.”
Jana sighed. “She’s had an incredible life, hasn’t she?”
Hallie handed over the keychains to Matthew and pulled something else out of the bag: a half-letter sized manila envelope, thick and stiff and addressed to a name Hallie recognized, a name that made her stomach lurch.
“Robert Medina,” Matthew read, over her shoulder, “Is that…?”
Her hands trembled as she traced the ink. “My father.”
— —
After several minutes of ringing silence, Jana cleared her throat. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I really do have to go.” She tilted her head at one of the empty stalls and smiled. Hallie tore her eyes from the envelope, her throat sticking on a reply. Then Matthew’s hand closed over hers and he smiled back at Jana.
“Thank you for your help,” he said, guiding Hallie out of the bathroom with a hand on the small of her back. In the hallway, she leaned back against the paisley wallpaper and met Matthew’s sympathetic gaze. She shook her head and sighed, staring down at the envelope.
“What the hell was she doing, writing to my father?” A million questions pounded the inside of her skull. How had she found him? And why? And what could she possibly have to say to him now, years since either of them had had any contact with Hallie?
The sick tar of betrayal clogged her lungs, threatening to send her into another fit of panic.
Matthew worried his bottom lip between his teeth. “I don’t know, Hallie.” He touched her waist, a gentle, casual, comforting gesture that reminded her of the thread between her heart and his. “But we’re going to find her. She’s going to give you answers.”
Hallie bit back the bitter retort that lingered on her tongue. It would be wrong, after all, to complain that Louisa might die before they found her, before she could give Hallie the answers she needed. But Matthew seemed to sense what she felt, anyway.
“We’ll catch up to her before that, Hallie. We will.” He paused. “But first you’ve got to read the letter.”
She hesitated. “Will you go start the Westie? I’ll meet you out there in just a minute.”
He nodded, then kissed her sweetly, chastely.
“Whatever’s in the envelope, it’ll be okay.”
The touch of his lips lingered on her own as she watched him walk back down the hall.
It looked so innocent, this manila envelope with her father’s name in Louisa’s pen. Innocent, yet so potentially destructive. With a deep breath, Hallie slipped her finger beneath the fold and tore it open, revealing a stack of photographs and a handwritten note.
Dear Robert, it read:
Thank you for your last letter. I was again disappointed, however, by your response to my request. I realize that you don’t know me, but we both know Hallie, and I would like for her to have a chance to know and remember her mother and her childhood before it’s too late.
On her own, she will never seek you out. Not after the way you treated her, then left her. I don’t know what kind of response I expected from a man who abandoned his young daughter, but I guess this is not surprising. I need only remember finding Hallie that day, starved and sunburnt and dehydrated, still hoping you’d return, to remind myself of the cruelty you are capable of.
Enclosed are the photographs I promised, even though you did not fulfill your half of the bargain. Perhaps seeing her face will remind you of the daughter you once had, and presumably did care for, at one time. Maybe then you will reconsider sending the photos and documents I requested.
I will be in touch with a new return address as soon as I am able.
Regards,
Louisa Fawcett
Hallie’s face and throat burned, prickly heat spreading into her chest and down her arms. Her ears rushed with the force of all those painful nights spent wondering whether either of them ever thought of her anymore, and concluding that they probably didn’t—were probably glad to be rid of her. Instead, Louisa had tracked down Hallie’s father for information on Hallie’s mother… which meant that on some level, maybe out of obligation or nobility or just guilt, she still had an interest in Hallie.
But—how did she plan on sharing what she found? And what could Hallie make of that lecture on abandonment, since Louisa had abandoned them, too?
Hallie recognized the photos that had spilled out of the envelope. Most were from the last year she’d traveled with Louisa and Dani. There were photos of her in the back of the Westy, huddled over a campfire, swimming in a lake. These were photos from their last summer together, when Hallie’s legs had finally gotten longer and she had started to fill out her swimsuit, when her lanky, bony body became soft and curved and she felt nothing but fat and flabby, like she took up too much space. Which, as it had turned out, she had, if Louisa’s readiness to dump her in Abilene was any indication.
Hallie shook her head. She had to stop being so angry, so hurt. This trip wasn’t about revisiting old wounds, but about healing them. About finding answers to the questions that ate at her.
She thought of Matthew, waiting for her in the car, of his relentless compassion. Her heart clogged. There were worse things in the world. Worse pain, bigger losses. She’d just have to suck it up—and pay her father a visit.
Chapter 19
The sun had disappeared behind a thick, rippling layer of rain clouds, and cold fat drops began to fall on Matthew as he approached the Westie. One dropped into his eye and he blinked it away, frowning. Something was wrong with the Westie.
It was tilted, parked strangely lopsided on the pavement. Matthew stopped, scanning it—and then he saw the cause. Each of the Westie’s right tires had been punctured and deflated.
“Fuck,” he muttered, rushing over to inspect the damage. But he had barely bent over before something hard swung out of nowhere, colliding with the side of his head and sending him to the ground.
Darkness floated at the edge of his vision, and he blinked hard as he rolled over, wincing, exposing his face to his assailant and the quickening rain storm. The man towering above him seized Matthew by the collar, slamming him against the Westie so hard he was sure the back of his skull had left a dent in the sheet metal. His stomach clenched when he got a look at the man’s face.
“Jacob,” Matthew groaned. “Always a pleasure.”
“You know why I’m here,” Jacob growled. “What’s the hold up, Roanoke? I know you weren’t trying to get away from me by leaving town. You’re not that stupid.”
Matthew’s head throbbed in time with his heartbeat as he looked into the face of the man who’d robbed him of so much life and love. Jacob was handsome—when he recruited Matthew, he’d been well-admired by men and women—but as their years had passed, something in his expression had grown increasingly inhuman: his sneer was more menacing, his wicked smile more distorted and unnatural than ever.
“Clearly, you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” Matthew snarled. “I’m done playing your game.”
Jacob’s face remained impassive, but Matthew saw the rage flash in his eyes.
“I see,” he said softly. “Well, I’ve told you this twice before, and I’ll say it again: you don’t get this.” He gestured toward the building. “You don’t get her. That’s the price you paid when you refused to fulfill your obligation and decided you were above the rules—“
“Fuck your rules. I never signed up for this. You tricked me into it, you son of a bitch.”
Jacob’s hands were around his throat in an instant, pressing him against the Westie and squeezing just tight enough to stop air from flowing into his lungs, which instantly began to burn.
“The only reason that girl is still breathing is because she can do what I can’t. Do you really w
ant to tell me that she’s not even good for that? That you’re done ‘playing the game’?”
Matthew choked as Jacob tightened his grip.
“Yeah. You talk big, don’t you? But you’ll never be done with me. You don’t get to run off into the sunset with her. Not as long as I have something to say about it.”
Matthew swung blindly, lightheaded, his eyes watering, vision blurred, and Jacob loosened his grip slightly.
“You know I’d give anything to be able to kill you myself,” he said. “But for now, I can’t. I need a promotion for that. And you, with your antics, have held me back long enough. Do you have any idea how that makes me look? That I haven’t closed a deal with a petulant kid like you?”
“Like the idiot you are,” Matthew choked, and Jacob’s hold tightened again.
“Now, the way I see it is if you don’t follow through, there’s a lot more suffering to be had, here. Your sweetheart in there, do you think she can handle much more? I can guarantee that whatever we decide to throw at her, it’ll be a lot worse than a couple of shitty parents and a freak car accident.”
Icy claws seized Matthew’s heart, clenching so hard he gasped with the pain.
“No. You can’t.”
Jacob chuckled. “You underestimate my creativity, Matthew. So get what you came for from her. Get her to spill your blood… or I’ll spill hers.”
He released Matthew, who doubled over, gasping.
“And then,” Jacob added, “we can wait around another few decades for her next iteration, and do this all over again. You’ll find her, you can’t stay away. And believe me, I have no shortage of creative ways to get rid of her... And the longer I wait, the more creative I get. Who knows? Maybe this time I’ll let you watch.”
A wave of nausea hit Matthew as he lunged for Jacob, who retreated, hands in the air, laughing.
“This isn’t her fault,” Matthew gasped. “She had her punishment as Emma—and again as Isabella. Leave Hallie alone.”
Now Jacob’s lip curled in a hideous sneer. “You don’t get to violate the order the way you two did and just walk away. You knew the rules. You don’t lie down where you’re meant to stand guard.” He took a step forward. “Though I guess when what you’re guarding is a little whore—“
Matthew swung, hard, his knuckles colliding with the Jacob’s fleshy upper lip. He felt teeth cutting his knuckles and the warm gush of blood; he heard Jacob’s growl of pain before Jacob landed another punch to Matthew’s gut—and kicked him hard in the groin as he collapsed. Matthew bit back his shout of pain. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Jacob spat on the ground and laughed again, low and demented, his nose bleeding and his face smeared and streaked with rain and blood. He bent low and took Matthew’s chin hard between his fingers.
“Move things along, Matt. She’s getting attached to you, isn’t she? And now that I’ve caught up with you two…” He tapped his watch. “Clock’s ticking. This is your second warning, after the fire. Don’t make me give you a third. You won’t like it.”
And then he was gone.
— —
Matthew lay on the ground for a moment, waiting for the pain to subside, trying to gather his thoughts. Rain pelted his face and he didn’t bother to wipe it away.
“Matthew? Matthew!”
He groaned and tried to sit up, but before he could move, her face appeared above him, the curtain of her hair shielding him from the rain. “Oh my God.”
She shook off her jacket and wiped his face with it. When she pulled it away, it was smeared with blood. He jerked up—too fast; his head spun, and she cradled the back of his neck. “Easy! Easy. What the hell, Matthew? What happened?”
He swallowed drily and ran his fingers through his hair, pushing the wet strands from his forehead. “Mugged.”
Hallie was quiet for a moment. Then she stood up and held out her hand. He let her help pull him up, and he leaned against the Westie, relishing the feel of the wet, ice-cool metal against his throbbing temple.
“Tires are flat,” he murmured.
“I can see that. I’m calling a tow truck. Here… get inside.” She slid open the doors and ushered him in. He sprawled on one of the bench seats in the backseat, and she climbed in after him. Then she felt him digging in the pockets of his jacket.
“What’re you doing?”
“Looking for your phone—mine’s not working. I need to look up a tow service and a mechanic that works on classic cars.”
He coughed, his chest tight. “Do you need a specialist just for tires?”
“Yes. And anyway, I’m going to have them give it a full inspection. If your friends were willing to screw with the Westie, I’m guessing the tires weren’t all they tampered with.”
He opened his eyes and looked at her placatingly. “I’m sorry, Hallie.”
"You don’t have to lie to me.”
His stomach churned. “I know.”
He waited while she used his phone to dial a tow truck and locate a mechanic. Then he waited as she rummaged through the cabinets for a first-aid kit. He touched his face and his hand came away stained a wet red. After some frustrated fiddling, he used the phone to inspect his face and was surprised at the size of the rough, bloodied scrape on his cheek, from where he’d skidded on the pavement.
Hallie settled beside him and drew her knee up on the bench seat, facing him. She dabbed alcohol-soaked cotton on his cheek and knuckles. He hissed at the sting, but she didn’t flinch, didn’t pause. From the corner of his eye, he watched her lips purse in concentration as she daubed antiseptic cream over the wound on his face, then fastened a bandage over it. Her fingers were cool and delicate; as she smoothed the adhesive on the bandage, he couldn’t help but lean into her gentle touch. She froze, then resumed rubbing her thumb, back and forth, over the bandage that wasn’t going anywhere.
He caught her wrist, turned his head and kissed her palm, and she sucked in a breath.
“Matthew…” she warned. But he captured her other wrist and pulled her forward to straddle him. His bruised ribs ached as she settled against him. Not that he cared. He needed to feel her… needed to touch and smell and taste her, to remember the way she breathed life into him, and the tangled, vibrant, messy future he was fighting for.
Rain pelted the windows. She pressed her hands to his chest, over his soaked shirt, and his heart pounded, as though it could get closer to her touch if only it beat a little harder, a little faster.
“Are you cold?” she whispered, sliding his jacket off of his shoulders. He shivered, digging his fingers into her hips. God, she was beautiful like this. Soaked to the bone with rainwater, her curls limp, her eyes tired—but bold with her touch and radiant when she smiled, teasing him.
“Freezing. Are you going to warm me up?”
At that, her lips collided with his, sweet and hungry and searching. He kissed her back, drawing a whimper from her throat that sent heat rushing into his cock. He dragged his hands up her sides, peeling her shirt away as he went. It caught on her wrists and he didn’t free them, instead settling her linked arms around his neck. Her eyes widened. She might have had sex before, but he was sure no one had made love to her. Not like this… not like he would.
Not that he was going to go all the way with her here, in the back of the Westie. She deserved better than that… more than that.
He reached around her and drew the little checkered curtains closed. When he turned back to her, she was trembling, her fingers curling and clenching on the seat behind him. Something hot and protective surged in his chest, urging him to warm her, soothe her, until she was sated and relaxed in his arms.
He stroked her outstretched arms slowly, careful to graze the tender skin of her inner elbows and the delicate underside of her arms, and relishing the way her body tensed when he feathered these sensitive spots. Then he drifted his palms over her shoulders and massaged the tension from the base of her neck. Her head drooped forward to give him better access.
>
“Mmm. Feels amazing,” she mumbled.
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and danced his fingers down over her underarms and rib cage, making her giggle and writhe in his lap. He swallowed a groan, keeping his touch light and ticklish as he roamed the rest of her curves, dipping his hands beneath the waistband of her pants to caress the soft, rounded flesh of her backside. She let out a strangled whimper as he massaged the knots from her lower back. He knew how to take his time; once she was limp and pliable in his arms, he teased his way back up her sides, pausing only to unhook her bra and pull it down to her wrists, too.
The nervous, flushed look on her face was enough to make him come in his pants. He palmed her beautifully swollen breasts, teasing his thumbs over her nipples before bringing each to his tongue with quick, open-mouthed kisses. She clenched her fingers in his hair, whimpering louder, fighting the urge to cover herself… or maybe hold him against her.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, unrelenting in his languorous touches. “Sweet and lovely and perfect.”
“Stop saying that,” she whispered back, her voice breaking.
He shook his head, sliding his hand down her torso to the pulsing heat between her legs. He kissed her with a rough growl, pride surging in his chest. He had done that. He had set her body alight with desire, made her slick with passion and hungry for his touch. In that moment he knew, without question, that she needed him as much as he needed her—that though he couldn’t offer much, and though his very existence put her life at risk, he could still give her pleasure… the feeling of love and vulnerability that came from being held and touched like this.