by M. Leighton
As though sensing that I’m about to argue, he reaches out and cups the side of my head, right over my ear, like he’s done for as long as I can remember. “Trust me, right, my Muse?”
I exhale. There’s no use fighting. I’ll never be able to change his mind. I know an unwinnable battle when I see one and anything involving my father when he gets like this gets that unique distinction.
“One of these days maybe you’ll trust me as much as I trust you.”
“I already do, sweetheart. It’s not a matter of trust. It’s a matter of love. I love you too much to risk you.”
“I know, but—”
“No buts. Please, Muse.”
I want to debate the issue. I want to argue until I’m blue in the face. I want to stomp my foot in a fit of temper. But I know there’s no point. My father is a negotiating genius. At least with me he is. He has this way of making me feel like an ungrateful, difficult child for squabbling. I doubt he thinks that for one minute, but he can damn sure make me wonder about it.
I exhale loudly. “Fine, but, Dad, I’m a grown woman. I’ve made a lot of sacrifices because of secrets and I’m getting tired of being kept in the dark about things that somehow end up affecting me anyway. So I’ll go wait for you while you talk in private with someone I evidently don’t even know, but be prepared. I want answers and I don’t want to wait too long for them.”
With that, I pin Jasper with a glare thrown over my shoulder and I set out to find the kitchen, which is conveniently located about as far away from the entry as it’s possible to get in this small place. Not that I’m surprised. Nor am I surprised when I hear the click of a door closing and go to find both Dad and Jasper no longer standing where I left them.
I have no choice except to wait. Not really, anyway. Jasper is about as close-mouthed as they come and my father . . . well, he won’t tell me a thing until he’s good and ready. So I’ll wait, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to wait in the kitchen, like a dog afraid to get up when my master told me to sit. I get up and go make myself comfortable on the worn couch in the living room. Although a tiny act of rebellion (which is admittedly ridiculous at twenty-four years old), I feel better for having moved to anywhere but the kitchen.
I pick up a magazine from the shelf under the coffee table. It’s a medical journal dated three years ago. Weird. As I flip through it, something tickles my brain and I glance down at the couch cushion. The faded plaid pattern is oddly familiar and I think this might be the couch we had in our living room in Treeborn when I was still in middle school. Has my father had this place since way back then? Some secret bat cave for whatever he does that I don’t know about?
That thought bothers me. At times like this, I feel like I don’t even know the man who raised me, just like I don’t feel like I know the man who brought me here.
Jasper.
He was an enigma to begin with, but now? Now he’s . . . I don’t even know what he is. Or who he is. I have only questions, only curiosities. Questions and curiosities and a strange fascination that I worry could consume me.
My father is alive and well. Without that nugget of fear and doubt taking up space in my head, Jasper could take over. But now I have a different kind of unease to take its place, one also focused on Jasper.
Before, I didn’t have to care that I knew so little about him. It didn’t really matter because he was a means to an end. I didn’t need to know. But now he’s got history with my father. Dare I make the same mistake of getting involved with someone my father knows again? It didn’t work out so well with Matt. And Jasper has the potential to hurt me far worse. I never found Matt’s fatal flaw, but I feel sure he has one. All the men in my life do, it seems. But Jasper . . . I can’t even imagine what his fatal flaw might be. I have a feeling that he could end up being mine, though—the thing that destroys me. Compared to Jasper, loving men who don’t love me in return is child’s play. Loving him could be the end of me, the end of the only Muse I’ve ever known.
But it doesn’t look like that’s going to be a problem. Our arrangement has come to an end. Once money changes hands, I won’t ever have to see Jasper again. And if I can’t see him, I can’t love him. Right?
Can’t see him. Won’t ever see him. Never again.
Oh God!
The fact that thinking about that causes me great sadness is even more reason why I should be glad our association is over. I’m better off without Jasper in my life. That much I know.
Lost in thought, I jump when the door flies open and my father bellows, “Muse!”
“I’m right here, Dad,” I respond, my heart pounding in my ears.
“I’m going to need you to go with Jasper.”
And just like that, my plans—and likely my good, self-preserving intentions—go straight to hell.
—
“Don’t you think you should at least tell me why instead of just telling me what I need to do and expecting me to comply like one of your soldiers?”
My father is sitting on the couch, facing me, one hand on my knee as if to keep me calm. Jasper is standing near the corner like a stoic, iron sentinel.
“I promised you I’d tell you everything, but sometimes it’s better that you not know it all right away. It’s safer.”
Safer. Grrrr.
“How is it that I end up in the middle of such colossal messes when I have no freaking clue what’s going on?”
At least Dad has the decency to look ashamed. “I would never want to be a liability to you, sweetheart, but unfortunately being my daughter comes with a risk. If anyone wanted to find a way to hurt me, to get me to do something against my will, all they’d have to do is use you.” He starts to glance back, almost like he’s going to look at Jasper behind him, but then he doesn’t. His stormy eyes find mine again. “I’m sorry for that, Muse. I would never want you to get hurt because of me.”
And now I feel ashamed. I know he’s only doing what he thinks is best, what he thinks he needs to do to protect me. Being bitchy about it only makes it harder for both of us and makes him feel bad about being a good dad.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I know you’re doing your best. It’s just . . . I’m just frustrated. That’s all.”
“So you’ll go, then?” he asks tentatively.
I slide my gaze up to Jasper. His expression is fierce yet unreadable. All he needs is a sword and chain mail to be a dark knight on a mission for his king. And if I’m not careful, he could slay my heart in the process.
“Yeah, I’ll go, but how long is this gonna take? I can’t leave Miran indefinitely, not with just Melanie for help. You know how—”
“Miran will be fine. I’ll talk to her.”
I should’ve expected that. Miran and my father obviously have a longstanding—and very trusting—relationship. It makes me wonder if I’m not the first person she’s taken in like she did me. I mean, she owns the apartment that I live in, she deducts the rent from my pay and gives me the rest of the money under the table. She even gave me a burner cell phone the day that I arrived at her door. I more or less just stepped into a ready-made life, where I could be as anonymous as I needed to be. Heck, Miran and my friend Tracey are the only people in San Diego that even knew my last name. Yet Miran never asked one question.
“How will I know when . . . I mean, will you call me? Or . . . ?”
“I’ll contact Jasper. He’ll let me know where you are and then I’ll come for you.”
“You won’t even know where I am?”
This puzzles me. And it obviously doesn’t sit very well with my dad, judging by his expression.
“No, but you’ll be safe with him. He’s the best.” Dad does throw a look back at Jasper this time. I’m still clueless, though. I can’t see my father’s face, and Jasper’s shows nothing. As usual. He just nods at Dad. But I’m assuming that’s enough communication because when my father turns back around, he looks somewhat satisfied. Even if I am not.
“Will I be able to reach you? Just to
know you’re safe?”
“It’s better if there’s no contact until this is all over.”
Suddenly I feel desperate, panicky. I reach for my father’s hand. “Dad, please tell me what’s going on. You’re worrying me.”
His smile is stilted. “Don’t you worry about me. This is about you and keeping you safe. I’ll be fine. I promise.”
Despite the ambiguous circumstances, his reassurance calms me. Colonel Denton Harper doesn’t make promises he can’t keep. And he doesn’t placate. He might keep secrets, but what he does say is true.
“Okay,” I say finally, tacking on no questions or complaints or conditions. The least I can do for this man is go along with what he’s asking, give him peace of mind. That will have to be enough for me, too. I have a feeling that peace of mind will be nonexistent for me in the coming days. Not only will I be waiting for my father to come for me, but I’ll be trapped with a man I already find intriguing and irresistible beyond that with which I’m comfortable. And he gives me the feels. All of them. What will become of me when I can’t escape him, when I can’t slip away into my own troubles?
I’ll succumb.
And we’ll share.
Then he’ll destroy.
I know it. I know it like I know the triangle of freckles that dot my left shoulder. And I know myself well enough to know that this forced seclusion will seal my fate with him. Part of me looks forward to it—to his kiss, to his touch, to having time to delve as far into his life as he’ll let me—but part of me dreads the end. Because it will come. And it will be brutal.
Dad cups my cheeks and leans forward to kiss my forehead. He lingers for a few seconds too long, causing me to wonder if he’s more afraid than he’s letting on. And, if so, what he’s afraid of.
EIGHTEEN
Jasper
I’ve had to do a lot of unsavory things in my life. I was in the military for years, working missions that required some . . . questionable things. I never got into the morality of it. I never trusted my moral compass, not when I grew up the way I did, with a monster for a father. No, I always trusted the judgment of those I work for, those who gave me orders. I trusted that the missions were justified and that they’re what kept people safe in the long run. When I took this job, I had my own reasons for wanting to find the Colonel. I don’t particularly like that there was the collateral damage of a woman—his daughter—but those are details that I can’t afford to get too hung up on. I need answers.
But this . . . this takes it to a whole new level. What kind of person would agree to something like this? What kind of person would use a woman to find her father, knowing what I have to do, and then agree to this? I’m keeping her safe until the Colonel gets me the proof I need, but even then, my orders won’t change.
I know what’s going to happen. We will end up sleeping together. I can practically smell the want on her. Don’t get me wrong, I want it, too. I want it bad. I want her bad. But even when that happens, it will be with the knowledge of what’s to come, of how I’ll betray her. What kind of person could do that?
A monster, that’s who.
And I’m that monster.
I came to terms with it a long time ago. My father was a monster. According to him, my brother was a monster. I guess I always knew I had it in me, too. It’s why I did what I did, so that my mother wouldn’t have to suffer through knowing how I turned out. It’s just never felt quite like this, though. This . . . bitter. This sick. This dirty.
But will that stop me? Will that stop me from sinking into her delicious, willing body?
No.
Because I’m the monster.
—
Muse hasn’t said a single word since we left. I could understand her reticence on the trip here, but now . . . I assumed she’d pommel me with questions. Yet she hasn’t opened her mouth. She’s just stared out the window, into the night.
“My mother used to do that when she was worrying about something,” I tell Muse when I see her playing with the charm of a necklace I’ve noticed she keeps hidden under her shirt.
Muse glances down at the small, silver disk she’s been rubbing against her lip for the last hour.
“This was my mother’s. I found it under the edge of her bed after she left.”
“What is it?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Some sort of charm. The back side is missing, so I can’t really tell what it’s supposed to be.”
“I’m surprised you kept it.”
At this she turns to look questioningly at me. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“You said you wouldn’t look for her because she didn’t want you and your dad. I just assumed . . .”
“What? That I didn’t love her? That I haven’t missed her every day for the last twenty years?”
“I guess.”
She turns away. From the corner of my eye, I see her chest rise and fall with her sigh. “Unfortunately, that’s not how love works. No matter what she did, she was my mother. Nothing will change that.”
“How do you think love is supposed to work? How does it work for you?”
“It holds you captive, whether you want it to or not. It never lets you go, no matter how much you want to be set free.”
“Yet you were upset because Matt didn’t love you like you wanted to be loved. Is that what you’d want for him?”
Glassy emerald eyes slide onto mine and stop. “Yes. But I want love to be wanted. I want to be wanted.”
“I feel sure that wasn’t the problem between you two.”
“And why is that?”
“I can’t imagine a man not wanting you.”
At this, she turns in her seat to face me. She looks all too eager to talk now. Maybe I shouldn’t have tried to pull her out of her shell. Damn guilt.
“Do you want me?”
“I haven’t tried to hide that I do.”
“Exactly what do you want from me?”
I glance in her direction. Even in the flash of oncoming headlights, I see the intensity of her expression. She’s got some anger to get out and she’s looking for a fight.
Anger I can deal with. It’s the other things she makes me feel that concern me.
“I think you know.”
“Maybe, but tell me anyway.”
There’s tension in everything from her voice to the stiff set of her shoulders. Angry tension. And sexual tension. “What do I want from you?” I ask softly, glancing over her face, her shining eyes and pouty lips. “I want your moans in my mouth. I want your fingernails on my skin. I want your naked body against mine.”
Her lips part and I see the tip of her tongue wet them. For a few seconds the sexual wins out over the angry. It breaks through the haze like a plea and it pulls me in so much that I don’t want to look away. God, just to think of the moment when she gives in, when she lets go and throws herself into feeling, like she wants so desperately to do.
But then, as though she makes a conscious determination to hold on to the anger, she pulls away from me and crosses her arms over her chest. “How very gallant! Just what every girl wants to hear.”
I turn my attention back to the road. “It should be because it’s honest.”
“Still, you could’ve said something else.”
“Would you rather I lie? Would you rather me say that you make me feel things I don’t want to feel? Would you rather I have said that I can picture myself spending nights inside you and mornings watching you sleep? Would you rather that I mislead you to get what we both want, just so you can feel better about wanting it?”
As I watch her, I’m pissed by how true those words felt. The worst thing I could do is fall for this woman.
Anger battles with hurt. Or maybe disappointment. It’s there on her face. I just can’t be sure which. Her mouth works itself open and closed a few times before she replies with a soft, “No.”
“Then why don’t we just stick with what we know? I want you. You want me. We have some time to burn. Why not spend it as
pleasantly as possible?”
“Maybe I’m not like that. Maybe I’m not that kind of a girl.”
“Maybe you’re not. But maybe you could be. Just for a little while.”
“You could really be happy with that?”
“Yes. Very. And so could you if you’d give it a chance.” To this, she says nothing, just stares at my profile so hard I can feel her eyes like a touch. “What if I promise not to tell that you’re ‘that kind of girl’?”
“Is that what you’d promise me?”
“I could. Why? What kind of promise do you need?”
“A promise not to hurt me, but I bet you’d never give me that one,” she says quietly, her eyes cast down at hands that now move restlessly in her lap.
More guilt.
Guilt. Damn it.
But why? Why now? Why her?
“I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters.” When I say nothing else, she prompts, “So, which is it? Can’t or won’t?”
I look over at her one more time and I tell her the truth. “Honestly, I don’t know.”
I don’t have to tell her to stop asking me questions this time. She falls quiet all on her own.
NINETEEN
Muse
Jasper steers the car competently, carefully, quietly. I can’t really be mad at him for being honest. It’s not his fault that I didn’t like his answers. I guess no man has ever been quite so honest with me, not even my own father. I guess I should be thankful that someone will tell me the truth. Now if I could just get Jasper to tell me the truth about other things.
By this point, however, I know him well enough to know that asking him outright won’t do me any good. He’s shown me that time and time again. But I do wonder, though, if he’ll be more forthcoming and trusting when we start a physical relationship.