Double Vision

by L. M. Halloran

  This isn’t romance—it’s war. One army fighting itself. Me against me.

  Weeks pass. Our grueling dawn walks evolve into grueling dawn runs. First to the coast, then north along a dusty road with the sea lapping to our left and the sun riding the eastern horizon. One mile. Two. Six.

  When I stop passing out from fatigue after our runs, he procures an ancient, sagging punching bag from a storage shed outside. We return to the house, drink water, and keep training. Hard. Harder.

  Maria watches us sometimes, when she’s not doing house calls for the cartel. She watches with a critical eye as Liam wraps my hands in gauze and tape. She watches in silence as he yells at me, calls me names, curses and spits until I’m angry, so angry, that I punch and kick until my hands feel like they’re going to fall off and my legs quiver.

  We eat an early dinner together, the three of us. Protein and fat only for me. There’s little talk but no awkwardness. We are all soldiers in our own wars. And when I’m strong enough, Liam and I start running in the evenings, too, as the sun sets and light fades from the world.

  I run in the dark, Liam behind me. A near-silent shadow. He taunts me, whispers all the things he’s going to do to me. Crimes against my body. Ones I would have asked for, once upon a time. The agony of the whip. The pressure of confinement.

  I know what he’s doing. I don’t fight it. I embrace it. He’s hacking at my foundation, forcing me to either rebuild or fade away. Forcing me to confront every horror, every degradation, and pushing me deeper. Past the pain. Past the terror. To when I had a choice.

  Sometimes I can ignore his words. Sometimes they trigger flashbacks of the basement so vivid that I stumble and fall to my knees, retching against the shadowed earth. And every once in a while, his erotic nightmares make my blood sing with the old, familiar urge. It doesn’t last, and more often than not our nightly runs end with me launching myself at him in fury.

  Tonight, when he tells me he’ll tie me by my wrists to the ceiling and make me climax as he pours hot wax on my breasts, I use his own momentum to trip him fluidly, use my weight to drive him down, land a swinging knee in his stomach, and punch him so hard his head cracks against the ground.

  He touches his lip, stares at the shadow of blood. Then he looks up and grins. Proud and unrepentant.

  “My little siren.”

  As my anger fades and my hand starts hurting, Liam laughs. Softly at first, but before long he’s howling at the night sky.

  “We’re seriously deranged,” I say, still atop him, glued to his body. His arms stay limp by his sides—we both know if he touches me I’ll bolt.

  Still smiling, his chest heaving, he murmurs, “Ní féidir leat a shocrú cad nach bhfuil briste. You cannot fix what isn’t broken. And you are far from broken.”

  “It doesn’t feel that way.”

  “I know it doesn’t. You’ll just have to believe me. I’ve seen you, Eden. I see you. I know what you’re made of. You will persevere.”

  I rise to my feet. Easy, smooth, strong. I’m barely winded. My lungs fill with the cool air, release warm air. For the first time, I can imagine a life beyond tomorrow. I want it. Fiercely.

  Freedom from the past.

  Liam rises, tall and virile, and brushes dirt from the back of his shorts. Hands on his hips, he stares at the dark water. A titan. A citadel of calm.

  “What happened to you?” I ask, surprising both of us.

  His head turns slowly, eyes finding mine. “I became my father, and then I killed him.”

  I stare at his back as he walks away. Before I’m fully aware of my intent, I race after him, then slow to match his brisk pace.

  “Liam,” I bark.

  “Yes, siren?”

  I don’t comment on the new name. I like it—perhaps more than I should. “Tell me about your throat.”

  “When my father realized I was stronger than him, that more of his men were loyal to me and his power was draining away, he tried to have me killed. Thing is, you should never bring a garrote to a knife fight.”

  “And your eyebrow?”

  “Courtesy of my dear ol’ da.” He glares at me. “Do you want me to tell you about all the men I killed? The children I left without fathers? The women I left without husbands?”

  I suck in a shallow breath. “Do you regret it?”

  “Does it matter?” he retorts.

  Does it?

  “No.” At his incredulous snort, I roll my eyes. “Oh, am I supposed to be shocked and horrified by the news that bad men died? I can’t go back, Liam. I’m not the innocent girl you once knew.”

  “I know.”

  I grab his arm, halting him. “Do you?” I ask sharply. “Do you really get it? That she’s dead?”

  Instead of backing down like I expect, he steps closer, crowding my personal space. His face is shadowed, his shoulders filling my vision. But I’m not afraid.

  “I mourned that girl six years ago,” he says rigidly, “just as I mourned the man I used to be. But as you said, there’s no going back. We are here. We are now. And there is no fate but that we make for ourselves.”

  My breath comes harshly, his words vibrating in the marrow of my bones. “How did you kill your father?”

  He smiles without humor. “What did you call me once? The Puppet Master. I turned his empire against itself and danced in the ruins, all without lifting a finger.”

  My heart races like a bird in a cage, but I straighten my spine and nod. “Good.”

  His brows jump. “Good?”

  I shrug. “I’m glad he’s dead, that you got your revenge. You’re free now.”

  “And will you be glad when Maddoc’s dead?” he asks stonily. “Will you be free?”

  I look up at the stars. “Honestly, I’m starting to wonder if Maddoc even exists. He’s like the tooth fairy or the boogeyman.”

  The mood broken, Liam chuckles. “Even boogeymen have weaknesses.”

  “What’s his?” I ask curiously.

  “His daughter.”

  I take a breath and let it out slowly, savoring the unexpected gift. The simple acknowledgement that I am not them—not her. They are not my family. Blood has a price, but I don’t.

  “Come on,” he says brusquely. “Let’s get back.”

  We walk side by side on the dusty road, little more than shadows in the night. And in the silence, I feel something I’d thought forever gone.

  Safety.

  60

  Every time I tell Liam I’m ready, he says I’m not. So we wait and keep training. I heal physically. I become fast and strong. Stronger than I’ve ever been in my life.

  Liam eventually stops holding back in our sparring sessions. It’s a rough transition, with more than a few panic attacks and breakdowns. But with each new bruise, I revel in the knowledge that I’ve chosen this path. Icepacks and ibuprofen are prices I’m willing to pay to learn how to defend, attack, and immobilize a man twice my size. And the times I succeed, landing kicks and punches that bloom angrily on Liam’s skin? Icing on the cake.

  I still have nightmares, but I don’t always remember them in the morning. Other times, Maria or Liam have to rouse me in the dead of night because I’m screaming in my sleep.

  On one such night—roughly eight weeks post-basement—Maria wakes me. She sings to me in Spanish until the echoes of my terror fade. After, as she runs a wet cloth over my sweat-soaked face, I ask if she’d be willing to hear what happened to me.

  She doesn’t hesitate. “Of course I will listen, mi hija.”

  So I purge my body of memories by voicing them. Once I start, I don’t stop. I recount every vile moment, every abuse, every time I wished—begged—to die. I talk until I’m hoarse and dawn begins to brighten the room.

  When there’s nothing left, Maria bends forward to kiss my forehead. She hasn’t spoken or moved or let go of my hand once in the last hours.

  Now, she says, “My abuelita told me that the purpose of a storm is to force trees to take deeper roots. Sle
ep easy now, Eden. Your roots are strong and deep.”

  It’s the last time I wake up screaming.

  Finally, ninety-four days after our arrival, Liam takes me into Los Mochis to get a passport photo. Then we take the photos to a dumpy stucco building with sagging doors, and in a locked, air-conditioned room with an abundance of computers, a harried man produces my documents. One with my real name for the bank in Cook Islands, another with an alias I’ll use to disappear.

  I hardly recognize myself.

  The woman in the small photo is unsmiling, her eyes too big in a face with sharp, feline angles. Morning runs have given my skin a light golden tone. Freckles mellowed by age and Seattle’s weather have reappeared, a sprinkling across my nose and cheeks. My hair, long since I was a teenager, is now trimmed to my shoulders. Though Maria had tried to repair it initially, it’d been so badly matted we’d had no choice but to chop it off.

  “I look mean,” I tell Liam as I stare at the image on our drive back to Maria’s.

  He snorts. “You are mean.”

  I roll my eyes, closing the little booklet and holding it in my lap. Staring out the window, I watch the passing scenery without really seeing it.

  I’m distracted. Not in the way I should be—with thoughts of leaving tomorrow—but with the man beside me. I blame the dream that woke me in the middle of the night, flushed and panting. I’m used to the nightmares by now, but this wasn’t a nightmare. Far from it. Nor was it anything easily dismissed, like a fantasy of our former selves. That, I could understand.

  In this dream, it wasn’t the old Liam but the new. With arms covered in whorls of what I’d discovered were words. Gaelic script woven into beautiful Celtic designs from shoulder to wrist of both arms.

  Those arms were stretched above his head, wrists bound in red rope to a headboard.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  I blink rapidly and shake my head to clear the disturbing—and arousing—image. Grabbing one of the many disjointed thoughts tumbling through my consciousness, I say, “Elizabeth. It occurred to me that she might be waiting for us.”

  His hands tighten on the steering wheel. I try not to imagine them straining against a rope. I fail.

  “I hope she is—she’s got a lot to answer for.”

  It’s an old argument. I sigh. “We had an understanding. I don’t blame her.”

  “She left you to rot!”

  I don’t say anything. Though I’ve tried, I can’t put into words why I don’t resent Elizabeth for leaving me to my fate. She did what she had to do, just as I did. In that last moment of eye contact, I’d seen her belief that I would live. Not for one moment had she doubted me.

  Be smart. Be brave. I know you’ll figure it out.

  “If I see that woman—” Liam begins threateningly.

  “You’ll do nothing,” I snap.

  He grunts. “I can’t believe you told her about the money.”

  “You weren’t there, Liam! She was. She came for me when you were too busy digging your father’s grave to realize you’d put a target on my head.”

  His knuckles go white and a muscle in his jaw ticks. “I know. Don’t you think I know that?”

  I huff in disgust. “Yeah, it’s no secret you’re doing penance.”

  The car swerves violently off the road and jerks to a stop. Another car honks angrily as it speeds past.

  Liam rips off his seatbelt and swivels toward me. I meet his stare defiantly. Inside me, the ugly wound of betrayal seeps into my blood.

  “Get it all out, Eden,” he growls.

  “You want to know? Fine! That first week, Chris told me when he was going to rape me. He said he was giving you ten days to find me and that when the time was up, he’d take what belonged to you. I knew you would come. I believed. Right up until he stripped me, hosed me down, blindfolded me, and tied me to the fucking wall. Right until he called me dove and told me to pretend it was you. Until he… he…”

  Liam reaches for me, but I jerk back, my shoulder hitting the window. I taste salt on my lips but can’t feel myself crying.

  “Even after, I still waited for you. Through everything, a part of me always thought you’d come. But when it was finally time for me to die, Chris told me you were dead. I thought you were dead!”

  “I’m sorry,” he breathes, tortured eyes tracking my features, the tears that drip from my chin.

  “This is your fault,” I seethe. “You gave the FBI the USB drive. You took the diamonds.”

  “Why didn’t you tell them it was me?” he demands.

  The horrible truth opens like the mouth of a great beast, ready to swallow me whole. My chest convulses on a sob; the jaws of truth snap closed around me.

  “I was protecting you. Not Alexis. You. I was ready to die for you, to keep you safe from them.”

  The confession hurts. More than anything I suffered in that basement. More than his abandonment six years ago. More than the revelations about my sister. More than everything, anywhere, anytime.

  Tears fill Liam’s eyes, turning them a surreal turquoise. He knows what I can’t say—that the worst wound of all is his broken promise.

  “I didn’t protect you, Eden. When you needed me most, I wasn’t there. I know it doesn’t mean anything, not after all you’ve suffered, but those six weeks were the worst weeks of my life. I did what I do best, and I failed. They beat me at my own game. However much you hate me, know that I hate myself more.”

  His words purify my wound, but don’t heal it. I don’t know if it will ever heal. Calm washes over me, numbs me.

  “It’s my fault,” I say, staring over his shoulder at the brown terrain. “I made you the sun. The center of my universe. But you’re a man, not a god. Men aren’t meant to be worshipped.”

  “No, we’re not,” he agrees mutedly, “but I still failed you. I don’t expect you to ever forgive me. And yes, I’m doing penance. But not for the reason you think. I’m here because I belong to you. Because I love you. I have always loved you.”

  I shift my gaze to his face. See the truth in his eyes. But all I feel is emptiness where the sun used to be.

  I shake my head. “I’m broken, Liam.”

  “No, little siren. You’re breaking free.”

  Then he refastens his seatbelt and puts the car in gear.

  Another silent drive.

  61

  When we arrive at the small, dusty airport, three men are waiting outside the sleek private jet. One look at them and it’s obvious they’re cartel members. Liam had hoped to avoid a meet-and-greet, but we’d nevertheless prepared for one.

  Two of the men are Hispanic, one older and gray-haired and the other middle-aged. They wear crisp linen suits, and Panama hats shade their faces. The third man is white and definitely their bodyguard. Beneath a tight, black t-shirt, his bare arms ripple with overdeveloped muscles, and he’s wearing clichéd, wraparound sunglasses. His neck is also the same width as his head. As if those details aren’t enough to warn people away, the belt at his waist holds a gun on one side and a wicked-looking knife on the other.

  Liam parks the car next to a gleaming silver sedan. He cuts the engine. “Let me do the talking.”

  “I heard you the first ten times.”

  He doesn’t smile. “I might have to touch you unexpectedly.”

  I nod. “I’m not deaf, Liam. We already covered this.”

  He pauses, eyeing me, then nods and exits the car. I follow, discreetly tugging down the hem of the blue bodycon dress Maria picked up for the occasion. The smell of hairspray assaults my nose as a breeze lifts curls from my shoulders. There’s so much mascara on my eyelashes that blinking is a delayed affair, and the torture devices on my feet pinch already-abused skin. Despite an hour’s worth of practice this morning, I’m still unsteady as I walk carefully toward the back of the car.

  “Six inches,” I grumble as Liam rounds the trunk with our two duffel bags. “What woman in her right mind—”

  “Smile, siren,
” he hisses through his own fake grin.

  I peel my lips back from my teeth and take his outstretched hand. “Better?”

  His grin becomes genuine. With a gentle squeeze of my fingers, he guides me toward the welcoming committee. As we approach, the bodyguard lumbers forward and takes our bags. He drops them to the ground and squats to unzip and rummage through the contents.

  None of us move or speak until the behemoth rises and nods to his boss. The elder man steps forward. His deep-set brown eyes linger a little too long on my legs before veering to Liam’s face.

  “Mr. Rourke, a pleasure to see you again.” His voice is crisp, his English perfect.

  “And you, Don Solórzano. I appreciate the timely response to my request.”

  Solórzano chuckles, though his eyes stay weirdly flat. “I don’t recall you giving me much of a choice.”

  Liam laughs as well. If I didn’t know him, I’d actually think it was authentic. “A favor done is a favor earned. Now we’re square.”

  Solórzano glances at the younger man. Now that we’re close, I can see the family resemblance.

  “Did you hear that, Mario? When you do business with the Irish, they always call in their favors. Even a decade later.”

  Mario nods, then looks our way. “What if the Irishman you do business with loses his name and family? Do we return past favors then?”

  My heart picks up nervous speed. I glance at the bodyguard. He hasn’t moved, but with the dark sunglasses I can’t tell if he’s looking at me or Liam. In case it’s me, I focus on maintaining my bimbo-blank expression while wondering how far I can run before he shoots me in the back.

  Everything’s fine, I tell myself. Just a pissing contest.

  Liam doesn’t respond to Mario’s veiled threat. He doesn’t even look at him, keeping his attention on the elder Solórzano.

  Mario doesn’t like that but thankfully for us, his father thinks it’s hysterical. Solórzano claps his son on the back, still chortling as he walks toward us with his hand outstretched. Liam shakes his hand firmly, the lazy smile on his face not easing my nerves in the least.