by Inda Herwood
Trying to remember myself, I let the angered mask smooth back into place. “Now who’s asking who questions?”
Slowly standing up from his hard body, I pick up the knife, keeping it safely at my side as I stare down at him; my muscles complaining from the exercise I just forced them to perform. I may know who he is, but I don’t know what he’s capable of. It’s always better to have the upper hand, I hear Redman’s voice tell me. No matter the circumstances.
He remains on the ground, looking up at me like I’m a total lunatic. But it wasn’t I who was waiting in a dark house, waiting for a teenage girl to get home. Talk about a creeper.
Looking down at him, I realize what could have happened here, how this could have turned out so much worse if I hadn’t recognized who he was when I did. Hands rubbing my eyes in panic, I say to his shocked face, “Are you insane? I could have killed you!”
And then the lights come on.
Jagger
“What is going on here?” a high, stricken female voice shouts from the front door, the lights coming on with a brightness I wasn’t ready for. I squint against them painfully, losing focus on the girl with the knife.
A knife.
I’m still on the floor as two more bodies join us, the grim face of Lance Montae looking down at me and then his daughter – the one with the horribly large kitchen knife still clutched in her hand – coming to his own conclusions. Mrs. Montae moves to my side, her face worried as she looks over me.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her hands flitting around, looking like she doesn’t know what to do with them.
I nod, slowly sitting up, seeing stars. That girl treated me like I was a weightless doll. I would be impressed if my side didn’t feel like it was caving in from her sucker punch.
“What is wrong with you?” Mr. Montae hisses, eyes glaring at who I am assuming is Cyvil, my fiancée.
I could almost laugh.
My fiancée just assaulted me.
“I open the door to find a strange man sleeping on the couch, and you’re mad at me for defending myself? I didn’t know it was him, okay. The room was dark,” she defends, waving that knife around again. It disturbs me how natural it seems for her to have it.
“If you had come to us first instead of using that blasphemous martial arts you love so much, then maybe your fiancé wouldn’t be sitting on the ground with a cut to his throat,” he answers just as harshly, the comment making me subconsciously touch my neck. Sure enough, when my hand comes away, a small line of blood goes with it. Mrs. Montae looks like she’s about to faint.
Cyvil’s eyes dart to the wound I don’t think she even knew she created, a small amount of remorse entering them for the first time since she said my name. I’m still curious how she knew it, or me, for that matter; why she attacked. Though, if I walked in and a weird guy was sleeping on my couch, I may have had a similar response. Minus the finesse.
She argues back and forth with her parents, and I’m seemingly left forgotten as I stand up, wincing when I feel the pull in my ribs. That is definitely going to leave a mark.
When I got here this afternoon after meeting Mr. and Mrs. Montae at the airport, I was told to wait in the guest house until she got back from her flight, having fallen asleep while I passed the time. I thought it strange she didn’t fly with her parents, but didn’t look too much into it. They wanted me to wait here because they figured this would be her first stop when she got home, though when I asked if she lived in the guest house, they said no. Again, another weird flag. But still, I ignored it. I’ve been around enough rich people in my life to know that the majority have, well, let’s just say eccentricities.
Honestly, I hadn’t wanted to do any of this. I thought it was awkward and unnatural, forcing us together when clearly she had no idea she was going to be meeting me today. But it’s not a surprise that it turned out to be the world’s biggest flop, considering my father and hers set up the whole meeting, my dad having anticipated the group of them would be at the airport together. But instead I was met with only two Montaes, both looking disgruntled that plans had changed where Cyvil was concerned. Nevertheless, I invited them to take my town car back with me, and in return, they gave me vague details about Cyvil and why she hadn’t joined us. I had an idea, though.
Watching the family drama unfold before me, my suspicions are confirmed. Despite what her parents told me and my father, she definitely isn’t on board with this. The evident fury in her eyes, voice, and stance prove it. Somehow, I figured she would be okay with it since it was her parents who proposed the deal to my father in the first place. You would think you’d get the okay from your daughter first before selling her off to someone she didn’t even know. But by the sounds of it, that didn’t exactly happen.
While they continue to hassle over the issue, her father pointing at me occasionally, my eyes subconsciously go to Cyvil, getting my first real look at her. There’s fire in her eyes, wildness in her movements. She’s like a caged tiger, ready to unleash hell on her captors the moment the chance arises. It’s in stark contrast to what her file portrayed her as, which was some kind of subdued introvert that had a love for nature, animals, and helping people. A tree hugger, essentially. But I can’t say I’ve seen many hippies with MMA training before.
Looking at her now, in the light, completely exposed, her scars don’t appear as menacing as they did when I was on the ground, the moon’s rays highlighting the long, thick scar starting at her scalp and moving down the right side of her face, just missing her eye. When I asked my father why her file didn’t have a picture of her in it, he gave me the vague answer that she didn’t like to be photographed. I asked why. Again, a skittish answer.
“She has…issues.”
I paused over the green folder he had handed me across his desk. “How do you mean?”
He bit his lip, looking uncomfortable. Stalling, he shuffled some more papers that didn’t need to be shuffled. “She was…injured, as a child. It left scars.”
Knowing he wouldn’t answer the questions, “Injured how?” and “How big of scars?”, I let it go, but continued to puzzle over what he meant. And when curiosity got the better of me, I tried to look her up online, but found there was nothing to go on. Not even a social media account. It was like she didn’t exist.
But now I know why.
Along with the deep one on her right side, she also has a few shallower scars on her cheeks and neck, crisscrossing like white X’s. I can’t see all of her hands because from wrist to knuckle she has them covered in sleeves, but what is exposed shows more of the same scars, cutting over her fingers in jagged lines. I swallow my revulsion, my eyes swinging to look at the floor while I process how one does that to themselves. Because how else could she have gotten them?
Before, I had wondered what the Montae’s reason was for trying to marry off their daughter, and at such a young age. But now I’m starting to put the pieces together.
They’re afraid she won’t ever find someone.
Because of the scars.
At once I understand but also feel repulsed. If it’s not something she wanted for herself, then why make her do it?
It is only then that I realize the room has gone silent.
The minute my eyes connect with Cyvil’s, I know she caught me staring. A look between sadness and acceptance passes over her features, her shoulders squaring themselves. I’m sure she has had people look at her like I just did for most of her life.
As I’m about to apologize for my rudeness, she says abruptly, “I’m sorry for hurting you, Mr. Wells. Had I known who you were at first, I –” she cuts herself off, shaking her head. I watch her fingers tighten around the knife’s handle, turning white to match the scars. A small black goat no bigger than a pug whines in the corner, feeling her distress.
Wait, goat?
“I’m afraid, though, that you have been misinformed about the deal my father made with you.” With these words, I’m brought back to the conversation. “I h
ad agreed to no such thing.” And then she says, eyes on the floor, just like mine had been earlier, “I think it best if you leave.”
“Darling,” her mother begins, but Cyvil gives her a look that quickly shuts her up.
“Cyvil,” Mr. Montae’s deep voice booms over the room. “That is no way to treat a guest.”
Looking at her father again, she says, not deterred by his sternness, like I would have been, “And telling a man that your daughter has agreed to marry him when she hasn’t is no way to treat a human being.” With a long pause, the room grows silent. A minute later, since I haven’t made a move to leave, and neither has her parents, Cyvil decides to do it herself.
Her steps quickly take her to the goat in the corner, picking it up with a calming coo before walking out the door and slamming it behind her. We all stare at the spot where she just left, silent.
All I can think as the tension slowly consumes the room is…she owns a goat. One that apparently lives inside.
Great. So she’s a nut job on top of being a ninja.
Letting a hand rub at his eyes, I vaguely hear Mr. Montae say to me, “I’m sorry for this, Jagger. I figured if she met you maybe things would change. It appears they haven’t.”
Seeing the defeat in the slump of his shoulders, the acceptance of failure, a panic slowly starts to rise in my chest, bubbling up my throat. As much as I don’t want to marry someone who sees me as the enemy, the thought of her calling the whole thing off, and my father going out of business, is a much harder reality to swallow.
Which means I have to fix this.
Checking my neck with a finger to see if the bleeding has stopped, I say as lightheartedly as possible, “Hey, don’t give up on her just yet. Maybe…maybe I can still change her mind.”
Mrs. Montae doesn’t bother to hide her surprise. “You-you mean you’re still interested?”
In keeping my father off the streets, and the many family members that work for Wells Investments? Yes. I’m willing to sacrifice finding my possible soulmate for them.
Another easy smile, the one I’ve carefully cultivated over the years to look appealing but not cheesy. Almost immediately it changes her worried air. “Yes, she seems…” I look for a word other than crazy, homicidal, Freddy Krueger-ish, or scary. I land on, “Capable.”
Still, Mr. Montae doesn’t look convinced. “Son, I know why you’re doing this, and it’s admirable. But after what my daughter just pulled, I don’t think this is a good idea anymore. When Cyvil puts her mind to something, it’s nearly impossible to change it. But I had hope.” He shakes his head, looking at his wife. “We both did.”
I’m losing them, I know it. Trying to think of a quick way to change their minds, of some kind of last ditch effort, I start to say before I know what I’m doing, “A month. Give me a month to change her mind. If she still doesn’t agree by then, we call it off.”
Their eyes widen inexplicably, my vehemence to make this work catching them by surprise. What they don’t understand is that I would do anything for my family, my father. And if my mother were here, I know she would hate me doing this. But she would understand why I’m doing it. For me, family comes first. Just as it did for Lucinda Wells.
I can’t fail her.
Not again.
After a minute’s pause of deliberation, the two of them giving each other looks that translate into a silent conversation, they eventually look at me, eyes wary but accepting. “Okay. But I warn you, Jagger. You’re facing an uphill battle here. And if you are truly up for it, then we won’t stand in your way. But after what you experienced tonight, I assume I don’t have to advise you to step lightly where my daughter is concerned.” Lance Montae raises a single, peppered eyebrow at me, testing me to see if I’ll retreat. I don’t flinch, even with the memory of her standing over me with a knife braced against my throat still fresh in my mind.
I’ve been through much worse than simply trying to get a girl to like me. Even one as frightening as Cyvil Montae.
Holding out my hand, Montae’s soon falls into it with a shake. And with it, my fate has officially been sealed.
-4-
Determined
“I’m sorry, you did what to him?” Atillia gawks at me, mouth hung open; eyes disbelieving.
Sitting across from her on the counter, a carton of triple chocolate death ice cream wedged protectively in my lap, I dip my spoon in a little more forcefully than is needed, saying as I do, “I thought he was an intruder.”
And then she’s laughing, bent over that giant belly of hers, not bothering to hide her amusement at my embarrassing assault. “You almost killed your fiancé.” Another round of giggles at my expense.
“I knew I should have gone to the homeless shelter instead of here. And he is not my fiancé,” I grumble, finding the bottom of the carton, my small amount of comfort gone.
My sister rolls her eyes at me, arms crossed as she settles in for a speech. I can feel it. “That was a little extreme, don’t you think? Why didn’t you go get Mom and Dad first before you went all Jackie Chan on him?”
Having no good excuse, I shrug.
She sighs, coming to stand next to me, her hand landing on my shoulder. “Sis, I know this is unfair. Believe me. But…who knows, maybe this guy is a good one.”
“Are you actually telling me I should go through with this?” If she says yes, I’ll have no one else on my side. It will literally be me against my entire family. And I don’t think I can handle that.
Her head shakes from side to side. “No. I would never tell you what to do with your life. I just don’t want to see you sad, which is what this defiance of Mom and Dad has done to you.”
I rest my head on her shoulder, her arm coming around to hug me.
She’s right. I’m depressed.
Because a hot guy wants to marry me.
Rounding the corner, my sister’s husband walks into the kitchen, stopping mid-stride when he sees us having a moment. Instantly his face turns worried, looking at his wife. “Is something wrong? Are you feeling okay?”
Atillia and I slowly begin to laugh.
He looks more confused than ever.
“Sorry, we were just talking about my screwed-up life. Other than that, nothing is wrong,” I reassure him as he comes around the counter, putting his arms around my sister. She beams up at him, smiling like she only does when he’s around.
“What do you mean?” he asks, his glasses sitting askew on his nose. Atillia fixes them.
“We were talking about her wanna-be fiancé,” she explains.
His mouth forms a perfect O. “Right. Does that mean you’ve decided yet?”
“After tonight, I don’t think the decision is even in my hands anymore.” When he still looks flummoxed, I reluctantly tell him about the worst meeting in the history of first meetings. When I’m finished, I can tell he wants to laugh, but he’s too nice to do so in front of my face.
Biting his lip, he says, “Well, you never know. All might not be lost. Maybe he has more character than you think.”
Shaking my head, I look down at my hands, my eyes always gravitating towards the scars when I think about peoples’ reactions to them. Jagger definitely noticed them, and I could tell he had tried not to show his disgust, but failed in the end. The sting felt more painful than I anticipated.
“Let’s see. I hit him in the ribs, tackled him to the ground, accidently cut his neck with a kitchen knife, and then surprise! On top of all of that, I don’t look like Adriana Lima.” I snort, thinking of all the reasons I’ll never see him again. “Yeah, I don’t see Pretty Boy coming back for seconds.” And I’m fine with that.
“Don’t sell yourself short. Not all guys are shallow, caring only about looks. And plus, finding a chick who can kick our ass is kind of a turn on,” Quincy says, smiling when Till slaps his stomach.
“Are you saying I’m not as attractive because I didn’t body slam you when we first met in Calc 101?”
His arms tighten around
her, his blue eyes earnest when he looks down into hers. “Of course not, baby. But maybe had you given me a bloody nose, I would have asked you out sooner.”
I start laughing, marveling at the two of them and the weird pair they make. My sister is all beauty with a rare combination of brains, short as can be. And Quincy is the tall, lovable dork you knew in high school. The one with glasses and a calculator sticking out of his back pocket, smile crooked and hair all a mess. But my sister loved that about him, and the fact that he had substance over style; a heart as big as the moon. The guy would do anything for you, and so would my sister. That’s why they work. Both are unselfish. Unlike myself.
Truthfully, even if I did go through with marrying Jagger Wells, a part of me would always feel guilty. I wouldn’t be with him because of love, it would be because I needed to use him for my own selfish gain. And yes, I’m sure he has his own self-centered reasons for marrying a complete stranger, but for me, I couldn’t live with that. There’s a reason marriage is sacred, and it’s not because of half-assed deals made on your father’s behalf.
When my sister starts making out with her husband, that’s when I call it a night, sneaking out of the kitchen with Grim, who Atillia was kind enough to let stay in her house, and then up the stairs, walking past the open door to the nursery Quincy has been working on for months. Painted a creamy yellow with soft white clouds scattered on the sky-blue ceiling, they’ve been adding furniture, toys, clothes, and every stuffed animal there is, trying to make it special for when my niece or nephew arrives.
Stalling in the doorway, my eyes land on the crib in the corner, the blankets sitting on its edge, a fluffy little bear waiting to be played with. This is how a life with someone should look like. First you meet, fall in love, get married, have babies, and grow old together. Not meet someone, nearly kill them, and then send them packing.
With a pain starting in my lower back, I get a flashback of Jagger’s face when he was on the ground, looking up at me in stark fear. Even then he was beautiful, his skin flawless and the color of fresh honey. I definitely felt a six pack under that jacket, and his eyes looked like liquid smoke. He’s the complete package on the outside, but inside, I wonder if he would look just as perfect. I guess I’ll never know.