by Meli Raine
Duff ignores her and gently takes my arm, leading me to a chair. I sit. My body moves because he guides me, not because my brain tells me what to do. He’s my brain now. He’s the connection between nerves, the impulses traveling along pathways, because he’s the one driving the process.
Not me.
I’m grateful.
This is unexpected, because normally I would feel resentment. Humiliation. Anger. Instead, a deep relief washes over me.
And then, just like that, I freeze again. I remember that he might be bugging me. I remember that no matter how much I want to trust him, he may be working with Romeo in more ways than the obvious.
I freeze because we’re biologically wired to respond to a threat, and freezing is one response.
Freezing is also easiest when your brain is nestled inside a broken eggshell.
“I’m calling Dr. Srinivas,” Duff says, pulling out his phone. That’s our new point of contact at the neuro-trauma practice.
“No,” I finally say, pushing back, thawing. “No.” The word is a single syllable, a melted drop from an ice block, a giving in.
“You don’t look fine,” he grouses. Jessalyn watches us. The barista calls out my name and she jumps up, more as a reflex than a need to flee.
“Never said fine,” I reply, blinking hard, turning my head to watch Jessalyn as she gets my coffee then pauses, giving me a look that says, We really need to catch up.
I look away.
“Lily, what’s going on?” Duff whispers, taking the seat next to me and leaning in. Clear blue eyes, one asymmetrical from his scar, are unrelentingly concerned. “You haven’t frozen like that in a while. You dizzy? Cold?”
“I’m–I’m–” I lean in, inhaling the scent of lemon and cedar I’ve labeled Duff. Somewhere in my mind there’s a candle with a scent called Duff I can light, the image one that makes me literally smell what I’ve stored as memory.
Wires cross in strange ways when you scramble the brain with a bullet.
Finger on the number pad of his phone, Duff waits.
“Overwhelmed. Thought this was a quick coffee. Old friend here.” Damn it. I’m cutting off parts of sentences. Shortening my utterances is a sign of stress. Of neurological stress.
Of damage.
“We can leave.” He starts to stand, all business.
“Need caffeine.”
An understanding smile twitches one corner of his mouth. “Best medication right now?”
“The only one.”
“Here you go, Lily! Your cinnamon latte and the boring bagel.” Jessalyn plunks it down on the table in front of me. She pulls a chair from an adjoining table and shoves it close to me, looking straight at Duff.
Who stares back, saying nothing.
I know I’m supposed to introduce them. I know this, but my mind and mouth are not working together, out of sync by a few tenths of a second, so all I can say is, “Thanks for the picnic, Jessalyn.”
She frowns.
Duff frowns.
And grips his phone harder.
“Coffee!” I gush, louder than I want. “Not picnic. Coffee.”
She looks at Duff. “You her keeper?”
“Something like that.”
“Boyfriend?”
“NO!” I bellow, too loud, too pained. Everyone in the café looks at me.
Duff’s thumb points my way. “What she said.”
“Then who are you, Mr. Buying-Lily-a-Latte?”
“I’m Coffee Man. Caffeine is my superpower,” he deadpans.
“He always this evasive?” she asks me.
“Yes.”
I move in my seat and reach for the latte, not ready to sip because it’s still too hot, but needing to move my body in ways that distract me.
Jessalyn’s watching me. She wants an answer.
I’ll give her the truth.
“He’s my bodyguard.”
Eyebrows shoot to the sky. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You–” She looks around nervously. “You think the person who shot you is still after you?”
Yes, I want to say. I know he is.
But I can’t.
I turn to Duff and give him a hard look. “Ask the professional.”
Jessalyn has no fear. “Is that why you’re assigned to her? Because someone’s still trying to murder Lily?”
Hearing the words murder Lily out of the mouth of one of my best friends is a kick in the gut.
“No comment.”
“It’s pretty obvious,” Jessalyn says to me. “You wouldn’t have a bodyguard otherwise.”
I shrug. Duff sits back and types on his phone.
Bzzzz.
Jessalyn jumps in her seat and looks at me in horror. “OMG! I’m late for a meeting at work! I got caught up in this and–” Grabbing her bag, she rushes off, shouting over her shoulder, “We’ll catch up later!”
And with that, she’s gone.
Duff puts his phone away and looks at me. I look back.
And then I blurt out, “Am I being bugged?”
Chapter 22
The slow lift of his eyebrow makes my heart race. No denial. Just that eyebrow, expressing nothing and everything.
“Why would you ask that?”
“Why wouldn’t I ask that? It just occurred to me. Are you bugging me?”
“Me?”
“You.” I wave my hands around. “All of you. Security.”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“But you could be.”
“Not me.”
“But...”
“Lily. Where’s this coming from?”
“Where is this coming from? Where is this coming from? I can’t believe you’re asking me that.” I touch the scarred underside of my skull.
“You’ve never asked before.”
“I never thought about it until just now.”
“What makes you wonder now?”
I know you know.
“I–” The words catch in my throat. I wash them down with coffee, then ask, “What made you come up to me when I was in line?”
“You looked like you needed help.”
“What, specifically, made me look like that?”
Nodding, he sighs, thinking it through. I like that about Duff. It’s a characteristic most people don’t have. In this context, though, it’s a stalling technique, and I feel the rage turning up the temperature of my blood.
“It’s an easy answer,” I prod.
“No. It’s not. You looked like someone cut your anchor and tied an anvil to your ankle at the same time.”
That’s more of an answer than I ever expected.
It perfectly describes how I felt.
“My–my brain decided to secede from the rest of me.”
“I thought that’s what the coma was.”
“No–that was different. I wasn’t there.”
“Where were you?”
“I don’t know.” Wrapping my fingers around the hot coffee cup, I let my heart go back to normal. “I don’t think I’ll ever know.”
“Then where were you when you froze in line?”
Worried about you.
“Uh, I was–it’s like my mind becomes one of those wind tunnels. Debris flying everywhere. Except it’s not trash. It’s ideas. Thoughts. Impulses.”
“Got it.” He takes a deep breath and tilts his head, eyelashes dropping as he blinks. The man is interesting to look at. The backs of his hands are scarred slightly, long, thin lines that run at odd angles to each other, the effect like a tree in winter, leafless and cold. Hair grows around the scars. I want to ask what happened, but I don’t.
If I start asking questions, he will, too.
“If you were being bugged, Lily, I’d know. If you were being bugged by our team, I mean.”
“Who else would bug me?”
The hooded eyes go wide with cynicism. “Who do you think?”
Chills run through me. If I’m being bugged by the g
uy who tried to kill me, that means I am being bugged by Duff’s team. And that he doesn’t know it.
The circularity leaves me dizzy.
“He’d have to be pretty close to me to accomplish that,” I say, pulse thumping.
Duff’s eyes narrow. “True.”
“I overheard Mom and Dad speculating that the shooting was an inside job.”
“Bee and Tom were really hurting for a long time, Lily. They said a lot of things that don’t hold up now.” He looks at his phone. “We’re late for the wig fitting.”
“I don’t care. Text them and tell them we need more time.”
He does as asked.
“What if it was an inside job?” I ask, the words so dangerous.
So freeing.
Some piece of bone inside my chest that has been propping up the world moves a millimeter, making it easier to breathe.
“You think that?” His laugh is harsh, cruel, unyielding. “Jesus, Lily, you are paranoid! I know your mam tried to float that,” he adds, suddenly snapping his words like he’s slamming on the brakes of a train.
Mam.
Did he really say mam, like he’s Irish?
“My mam?” I tease.
His jaw tightens.
“Me mam,” I exaggerate, “may have some crazy ideas, but this one isn’t that crazy.”
“Your mother was grasping at straws in her grief. Ask her what she thinks now. Bet the idea that it’s an inside job isn’t holding water. We know who wanted Jane dead. Monica Bosworth ordered a hit on her. Monica’s dead.”
“Then why the constant surveillance on me?”
“Can’t answer that.” One eyebrow goes up. “But the note in your bedroom makes it clear you need full-time security.”
Ah. Finally. We're talking about the note.
“Why didn't you mention it in the meeting? You and Silas knew.”
“How do you know I told Gentian?”
“It was obvious.”
He grabs my hand firmly. “No. It wasn't. How'd you know?”
“I hacked into government files and read everything,” I joke, trying not to think about his touch, how it makes my skin tingle for reasons other than fear.
He drops my hand. I almost want to cry.
“I mean it, Lily. How did you know I told Gentian?”
“The way you two looked at each other. Did anyone else in that room know?”
“Can't say.”
“You treat me like a little kid!”
“Because you are a kid.”
“I am twenty-five years old, Duff. Unless you have an elongated lifetime and are secretly a two-hundred-year-old vampire or werewolf, I’m not a kid.”
His eyes go serious, the pupils dilating, darkening. “Actually,” he says, voice gruff. “There is something I have to tell you.” A rough, drawn-out sigh. “Now that you figured it out.”
I throw the last piece of my bagel at him. He laughs, catching it.
And he eats it.
“How old are you? Really?”
“Thirty-four.”
“Is that the truth?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Gee, Duff, why would I ever start from the position that nothing you tell me is the truth?”
He leans in, eyes still darkened, but this time it’s different. My breath stops in my chest. “Gee, Lily,” he says slowly, imitating me with a constrained fierceness that makes my blood zoom. “I do believe I could ask you the same question.” The eyebrow over his scarred eye goes up, making him rakish.
“How did that happen?” I ask, changing the subject, pointing at the scar.
“Hand-to-hand combat.”
“Where?”
“Can’t tell you.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“Maybe both.”
“Military secrets?”
“Something like that.”
“Does it hurt?”
“What?”
“Does it hurt?” Reflexively, I reach back and touch my wound.
He blinks a few times, swallows hard, and looks down. “Sometimes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“I’m sorry you had to go through whatever you went through to get that scar.”
“Gee, Lily. I do believe–yet again–I could say the same to you.” This time, the words are softer.
We smile at each other, the sad, wistful responses of people who’ve known extreme pain and come out the other end alive but scarred.
In more ways than one.
“How did you recover?”
“One day at a time.”
“Platitudes. Nice.”
“Why ask a question you already know the answer to?”
“Because I’m still trying to figure it out for myself.” I take a sip of coffee and look away. “I went missing for fourteen months.”
“No, you didn’t–oh. Got it.”
We sit in silence. It’s more comfortable than you’d think.
“Lily, can I ask–you really don’t remember anything after Jane went to the bathroom that day? It’s a blank slate?”
Oh, no.
He did it, didn’t he? He lulled me into a sense of trust with him. Made himself just vulnerable enough for me to let my guard down. The café changes, turning from a bustling but low-key place to drink good lattes into a cheap set-up to erode all of the pieces of me that keep my integrity intact.
Not my moral integrity.
Me. As a person. As a body and mind, separate from what was done to me. Romeo didn’t just nearly take my life that day he chose to kill Jane and shot me instead.
He took away so many pieces of what that life means, what it adds up to.
And now here’s Duff, giving and taking like I’m a deck of cards you shuffle and disperse for a game.
If that’s the case, I’d better play my hand well.
“Nope!” I go into perky mode. “Not a thing. The doctors say that's really common in coma patients.” Guzzling my drink, I ignore the burning pain running down my throat, but then I welcome it. Distraction is better than the feeling in my chest, like my heart wants to drown itself in my coffee.
He pulls back and nods, once, the ways guys do when they’re being cool. “Got it. You also know the memory can come back.”
“That’s super rare.”
“But not impossible.”
I laugh, the sound bitter. “I’m not that lucky.”
“I wouldn’t call it luck if that happens.”
“What do you mean?” The question’s out before I can censor myself.
“Remembering that kind of trauma is...” He shrugs. “Once it’s in your head, it’s like a rabid animal in a cage, and your skin, bones–hell, your personality–are the bars. It scratches until it finds its way out.”
Our eyes meet. He knows. My eyes jump to his scar near his eye. What has he lived through?
And do we ever get to be normal again?
Second pass. Heartbeats happen. I breathe without thinking.
“And trauma always finds a way out, Lily. Always.”
Chapter 23
His phone buzzes. I stand. “We need to go,” I declare. Getting a wig is the last thing on my mind now, but we do have an appointment.
“Holy shit,” he mutters under his breath as he reads his phone.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing for you to worry about.”
“More infantilizing.”
“No.” His gaze stabs through my anger. “There’s nothing either of us can do about this.” Another man would have used a harsh tone, taken the words and turned them into a weapon to shame me. Duff just lays it out, simple and true.
“Everything okay?”
“I wouldn’t have said holy shit if it were.”
“You don’t normally react to anything,” I note as he holds the door open for me on our way out.
“It’s not my job to react.”
“I thought that’s the
essence of your job.”
“No, Lily. Not react. Respond.”
“Did someone die?” I ask as we get to the car and climb in.
“In my line of work, people die. It’s an occupational hazard.”
“Well, Duff, I didn’t choose this as a job.”
“People don’t die when you arrange flowers for a living.”
“I came damn close.”
His turn to freeze.
“Ouch. I deserve that,” he says, low and wounded.
“Deserve?”
“Come on. Just say it. The passive-aggressive bullshit is beneath you.”
You can’t feel your heart in your chest. It’s detectable only by the pulsing of blood elsewhere in the body. My palms, the soles of my feet, the spot behind my knees, the thready throb under my jaw... this is where I feel the reaction of an organ buried deep inside me, the ripple effect quite literal.
My emotions are waves that pump through me as the space between Duff and me fills with a raw honesty I can’t back down from.
“I wasn’t accusing you.”
“Sounded like it.”
“Then get your ears checked, Duff, because you’re hearing things. I was stating a fact. Not digging in a–” Silver. Sharp. Edge. Cut.
“Knife,” he says with a sigh, moving his hand to his heart like he’s holding the handle of a blade and twisting it in.
“Right. Knife.”
“Why bring up the fact that you nearly died on my watch?”
“I didn’t. You said people don’t die arranging flowers. You’re wrong. Or close to wrong. He nearly killed me.”
He stares straight ahead, both hands on the wheel, the enclosed space the only safe environment I’ve experienced since I woke up.
Which isn’t right.
It can’t be right.
How can this–this!–be grounding?
Frowning, he turns to me with an aching need he doesn’t realize he’s asking me to fill. “You said 'he.'”
“What?”
“You said 'he.' Your almost killer.”
“Yeah? So?”
“Yesterday you were arguing it could be a woman. Change your mind?”
“I was keeping the conversation simple.”
Silence can be used to calm a person down.
It can also be used to crack a person open.
Duff knows how to use it.
And I know how to sit with it, too.