by Sophia Gray
Then Shawn’s voice came through the door. “I brought popcorn and movies.”
I had cancelled the movie night plans, but it looked like Shawn didn’t care. He was like that sometimes, pushy and butting in even when I just needed a little me time. I loved him to death, but sometimes he was like a little brother who would just not leave me be.
“Um, now’s not really a good time,” I called back, wiping at my face and trying desperately to keep my voice even. If he heard the tears in my tone, he’d never leave. He’d stand there all night until I finally caved and let him in.
“What’s wrong?”
Uh-oh. Apparently, I had not successfully made myself sound normal. “Nothing. I’m…um, still not feeling great.”
“I’ll make you some soup. Let me in, Madeline.”
“That’s really not necessary. I think I’m contagious, you know?”
“It’s fine. I don’t mind being sick. We can stay in together and watch stupid movies and pig out on ice cream. It’ll be great.”
I winced. Sometimes his ideas of great were a little out there. Sure, the hanging out was good and all, but being sick to do it? I’d rather just slither under the covers and die there for a while until the sick passed. “Um, no, don’t do that. You don’t want to be sick!” But even as I said it, I knew he wasn’t going anywhere. Now that I was here and he knew I was sick, that was it. He wouldn’t give up.
“C’mon, just let me in. I’ll take care of you until you feel better.”
Sighing, I relinquished. I’d have to let him in. So, I made sure that my eyes were at least dry and I opened up the door, forcing a smile as best I could. It didn’t work. As soon as he saw my face, he knew something was up.
“Madeline, what’s wrong?” he asked, pushing his way in and putting the popcorn and movies on the counter—right next to the pregnancy tests. He froze.
I closed my eyes, steadying myself, before opening them and looking back at him. “Oh, Shawn, I don’t know what to do!” The tears came full force then and I threw myself into his arms. He tensed for a second, but then his arms wrapped around me, holding me close. For a while, he just made soothing sounds as I sobbed. Eventually, I got ahold of myself and pulled away, still sniffling. “I’m sorry. I…I don’t know. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
He frowned, then asked, “Do you know where the father is?”
I hiccupped, thinking of Nikolai. I hadn’t seen him since that night and I didn’t think I ever would again. Even if I could somehow find him, I knew it was a lost cause. He didn’t want anything more to do with me now that he’d had his fun; he made that perfectly clear So I shook my head and told Shawn, “No. He’s…he’s not in the picture. He doesn’t want to know anyway.” I couldn’t say that for sure, but I was close enough to positive that it didn’t matter. I sat on the floor again, this time Shawn following me. Easing my head onto his shoulder, I muttered, “I don’t know how to do this. Where am I even going to find money for an abortion?”
As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I knew I’d messed up. Shawn’s family was just as fundamental as mine was and he wouldn’t approve of that choice any more than my own father or brother would.
Risking a glance at him, I saw a frown on his face, his brow furrowed, but he didn’t look angry. Upset, maybe, or thoughtful even, but not angry. That was a good sign.
“Is that really what you want?” he asked me seriously. “An abortion?”
I bit my lip. I didn’t think the answer was yes, but I’d already thought of the other options and they weren’t very good. “I don’t know,” I finally admitted tearfully. “But I just can’t be a single mother, Shawn. I can’t. With school and how my family is…I’d lose everything!”
For a long moment, I thought he wouldn’t understand. That he’d condemn me for even thinking of something like that and tell my father, leaving me destitute. But when he spoke, he said something amazing—and sort of strange.
“I’ll marry you.”
I blinked, thinking I’d misheard him. “What?”
“I’ll marry you and we’ll take care of the baby together,” he repeated, thinking it through and starting to nod. “We’ll get married quickly, so no one thinks anything about it. Your dad will be cool with it, since he already knows me—hell, I’m practically family already. By the time the baby’s born, no one will even think twice about it. They’ll just be so proud of you for being a mother.”
Proud of me. I frowned, the words sinking into me. That didn’t really sound like a great idea, though I couldn’t entirely say why. On the one hand, it fixed all of my problems, erasing my emotional and moral dilemmas without hurting anyone. And I’d known Shawn for all my life; of course I could trust him, right?
But… “I… are you sure?” I managed to get out, not sure what else to say.
He offered me a wistful smile and ran the back of his hand across my face in a surprisingly tender caress. “I’m positive. I want things to be okay for you.”
He seemed so earnest—this was Shawn; he was earnest—but somehow, I couldn’t shake the sense that this was all wrong. But what other options did I have? Finally, I said, “I…I need to think about it. This is all too much and…I just need some time. Is that okay?”
I saw a flicker of what might have been annoyance, but it disappeared so quickly that maybe it was just my imagination. A second later he smiled gently at me and nodded his head. “Take your time. I’ll be here when you decide. Do you want me to stay?”
I shook my head. “No, I need time to think things over. You should head home and get some rest. You’re always taking care of me.”
He shrugged it off like it was nothing, then winked at me. “It’s what I’m good at.”
I smiled at him, then watched him go, wondering if I could really do this.
Chapter 8
Nikolai
The red truck was helpful only because I had connections to the Department of Motor Vehicles. They were very helpful, as well as discreet as far as looking up certain vehicle information for me whenever I needed it. The red truck itself didn’t help a lot. Sure, we were in the city, but there were still plenty of people who liked to have trucks of varying sizes and colors. So, it narrowed it down, but not enough. The fact that it was dented in the hood, however, was helpful. The woman had mentioned that Logan had been complaining about it being new, too, and he couldn’t believe he’d already dented it. Which meant the truck was a recent purchase, but that the accident was recent, too. Which meant he could have called in a claim and possibly exchanged insurance with someone. Since I had his name already, it went a long way towards filtering out all the useless information, but I needed more to go on and was hoping the car might be helpful, since the only working address I had for him thus far was some farm out of the city.
Clearly, he wasn’t staying there.
“Do you have any address listed for the truck?” I asked Cory, my contact at the DMV. He was looking up the truck along with the information connected to Logan’s name.
“Uh, yeah, hang on. Let me bring it up.” He paused a second and all I could hear was the sound of clicking. “Ah, here it is.”
Eagerness bubbled up within me. This could be it, but I tried not to get my hopes up, lest I become disappointed. “Is it here in the city?”
“Yeah. Some art district downtown. I don’t know the area myself, but it’s near the art school, the one off Main? Anyway, do you want the address?”
“Yes. Go ahead and list it off for me. Is there a number attached to it?”
There was a pause and some more typing. A second later, “Yeah. Looks like he’s got a bunch of them, do you want them all or just the most recent?”
“All.”
By the time I hung up with Cory, I had a half a dozen phone numbers and just one address written down on a scrap of paper. I began trying the numbers as I got into my car. I needed to check out the address in the hopes of finding him. If he was staying at a hotel, there was a goo
d chance he wouldn’t go home, if he had one here in the city, but if this address belonged to him, maybe I could find a clue in his home. I’d break in, take a look around, check to make sure he wasn’t there, then see if he left anything that might tell me where he was going. People did stupid things when they were on the run, like leave receipts and ticket stubs and check receipts behind, indicating where they were going, what they were doing, and when they were leaving or coming back.
I had the distinct feeling Logan would be no different.
The first number was a bust, disconnected or something, so I tried the next as I started the car and plugged the address into my GPS. I knew where the art school was, but didn’t know the area well enough to be sure where this address was located. It was some apartment building, I knew that much, but I didn’t think I’d ever been there before.
I tried the second number and got an angry woman who only spoke Spanish—until I told her I was the police, then she informed me in perfect English that she didn’t know any Logan and her son’s name was Jordan. I decided she wasn’t covering for Logan, since she sounded like an older woman and was a mother. My target’s mother was dead, that much I was sure of.
The next number went to a voicemail that belonged to some sort of pop up business that sold strange potato sculptures. I made it through all of the phone numbers and only the last one told me he’d just gotten the number, indicating it might have been Logan, but I doubted it. He seemed calm, collected, and honestly thought I was just some friend searching numbers in his contacts list.
Whatever number he’d given the DMV; it definitely wasn’t his most recent.
I gave up on the numbers and followed the GPS downtown to the art district. I drove through a rundown area that was made semi-beautiful by spray painted murals, strange little New Age shops, and cafés that all served foreign coffees and strange Danishes that could have just as easily come out of a plastic wrapper as from their ovens. This was the land of hippies and activists and starving artists—which was why the apartment I finally arrived at was a wreck. It was just barely above falling apart, the outside half painted with a color that might have supposed to have been white, but was closer to puke green and humidity gray. It wasn’t a good color.
Heading up the steps, which were covered in marker, chalk, and paint, drawings of anything and everything covering the concrete, I worried briefly that I might have trouble getting in. Most apartment complexes had security gates or at least a card reader to make sure only residents could get in.
My worries were unfounded, however, as apparently, this apartment complex was cheap enough that the door was simply open, allowing anyone who chose to enter at will.
Nice place, I thought as I headed inside.
There was someone in the lobby sitting at a desk, but they were reading a paper—or sleeping—and didn’t even notice as I casually headed to the stairs that would lead me to the fourth floor of the building.
The place was as grimy and uninviting on the inside as it was on the outside. The walls were painted white, but had smudges and fingerprints and even a hole through part of it. It looked like no one had been through to clean in a very long time, and the lights flickered. It certainly looked like the kind of place where a low-life like Logan might live. As I reached the fourth floor, I started searching for the number I was looking for. As I did so, I noticed a young woman and a man of similar age came out of one of the doors. Instantly, I recognized the woman.
Madeline.
What was she doing here?
The coincidence seemed tremendous that she would be here of all places. A quick desire ran through me, not just for her body, but an urge to have her see me, recognize me. I wanted her to know I was there, fate having brought us together once again. But she wasn’t alone, and things had been left…badly before. It was a bad idea, and more to the point, I wasn’t the type interested in any sort of long-term relationship, which seemed exactly the thing this young girl did want.
Keeping out of sight, I waited at the opposite end of the hall for the pair to exit the apartment before I began to search for mine. I watched as they disappeared, ignoring the surge to go to her and take her with me, then I began to check the numbers. With each step I took, I got closer to her apartment. Then, finally, I was standing right in front of it—which just happened to be the number listed for the address of Logan King.
“Something isn’t right. This must be an old address,” I said to no one at all.
But I was wondering if I was right. Was this yet another dead end?
I thought it must be, but my gut was telling me otherwise. Searching for answers, I raced downstairs to check the line of mailboxes that I’d passed in the lobby of the place. When I reached them, I searched the numbers and names until I found what I was looking for. Madeline.
But more specifically, Madeline King.
That was when I remembered he had a sister, though I’d never found a good recent picture of her. I hadn’t wanted to involve an innocent in this, so I’d never pursued whether or not she could be involved in all of this, or know where he was. But I should have. I thought of her long blonde hair, like warm honey or wheat. Her bright blue eyes, her freckles. Features that transferred over perfectly to the pictures I had of Logan.
“Damnit!”
How had I made this complicated?
Chapter 9
Madeline
Today was a workshop day, thankfully. I only had my workshop classes once a week for three hours, and I was allowed to use the art studio freely between the hours of seven and nine in the morning, and six and twelve at night. Otherwise classes occupied the rooms.
Workshop was one of my favorite classes, because it was basically a free for all. Our professor would occasionally walk around and spout existential theories on why art was important or how the colors determined the light of the world, but for the most part this was just about creating viable pieces for our portfolios. And, of course, our gallery piece. There was going to be one at the end of the semester for all graduating seniors. It would be our exhibit, and for some of us—most of us—it would likely be our only exhibit.
The thought made me nauseous—or maybe that was the baby? I wasn’t sure anymore if it was the stress from school, the pressure to complete a masterpiece worth displaying in a gallery, or the strange situation with Shawn. Had he really proposed to me? Of course, he had, and it had been an earnest, completely noble plan to save me from embarrassment and exile.
He was so selfless, but…did I really want to spend my life with him?
Not that I had a lot of options. I hadn’t dated more than a few people in my life and we had only gotten to the kissing stage, nothing beyond. Until Nikolai. He was so different from everything I had ever known, and I thought for sure that was what had swept me away. It was the sense of danger and intrigue he carried with him. It was that sexy Russian accent, just smooth enough to slip beneath his perfect English and make his whole self darker, deeper, and more desirous. It was even that medal he had suspended around his neck, an almost gaudy gold thing that should have made him look cheesy, but only spoke of heritage and belief.
I cursed myself for still thinking of him. For focusing on him. He wasn’t coming back. If he wouldn’t come back just to…to, well, fuck me, then why would he come back once he knew a baby was involved? Simple: he wouldn’t. Few men would, but certainly not a dark, sleek stranger like him. He was the type of man who owned expensive cars and rented expensive apartments, daring to live carelessly, even dangerously, because there was nothing anywhere that tied him down.
The complete opposite of some farm girl and her baby.
No, Nikolai wasn’t an option—which was why the painting that kept appearing before me was so inappropriate. It was an urban scene, dark and foreboding. The background was a mixture of streaked rain, midnight skies, and alleys a charcoal gray color that might be full of shadows and nasty things. The roads were cobblestone and shining wet. There was a moon, but it was almos
t completely covered by the dark clouds that dumped rain on the entire thing. But the part that was so wrong, so inappropriate, was the man standing amidst it all. He had broad shoulders and dark, thick hair that was slicked by the rain, but he was unconcerned as he stared into the alley, ready to face the darkness. His eyes shone in the darkness and there was a tiny golden metal, the only real color besides blue in the entire image.
It had come to me unbidden. I needed to do something, something spectacular for the showcase at the end of the semester, and I kept drawing a blank. Then two months ago I’d had that wonderful night and the heartbreaking morning that followed it with Nikolai. Suddenly, something formed in my mind. I didn’t even really know what it was until I started on him, making his form out slowly in little more than a shadow. Slowly, features came in, his tone paler than it should be, his eyes too bright for the dark scene, but he was there.