by Lena Bourne
The Henchman ignores me as her takes the cup from Sam’s hands and slaps her ass, leaving a bright red mark. She didn’t even make a sound as he hit her, but now her eyes are fixed on mine with nothing but raw, hopeless fear. Rage is gripping my throat so tight I can hardly breathe.
“How about I take you home for a little repeat performance, baby?” he asks her, ignoring me completely. “You were terrific.”
Did he already rape her?
I’m so mad my whole body is one giant tense muscle. I could probably rip his head off his body with my bare hands right now. Sam’s hands are still shaking, her eyes wide, and not just fearful, but haunted. The dark blue pools of water I always see in them so clearly have receded too, showing nothing but black desolate rocks.
“Why are you here?” I ask and it feels like I’m chewing on those rocks. I should be teaching him a fucking lesson for humiliating my girlfriend like this, not trying to have a calm conversation.
He takes a slow sip of the coffee, makes a disgusted face at the taste, and then sets the cup down on the table. The fact that the coffee she spilt bringing him the cup is now a messy ring on the tablecloth pisses me off. She cleaned this whole place top to bottom, and he just ruined that effort. When the time comes, I will make him sorry for it.
“I’ve come to remind you that you work for us,” he says slowly, his eyes finally fixing on me. “That means you answer our phone calls, you do not go on vacations with your girlfriend, and you complete the jobs we send you on.”
He’s speaking very slowly and very calmly, but my blood pressure keeps rising, and my head feels like it’s about to explode. If Sam wasn’t in the room, he’d be dead before he finished that sentence. It’s taking every last ounce of self-control I can muster not to kill him.
“I will give you one final chance,” he says, standing up and giving Sam’s ass another sharp slap that makes her whimper. “Fail again, and I will take her and kill you.”
She shakes at his words, recoils from him, bumps into a chair and almost falls, the panic in her eyes so sharp it’s the only thing I see clearly.
He laughs at her reaction, his eyes glued to her breasts as she clutches the back of a chair to stay upright, her legs now shaking too.
“The house on the hill,” he says, eyeing me pointedly. “Tonight. You know what to do. We will speak again after it’s done.”
He motions for his thugs to precede him out the door. And I almost jump him as soon as they’re no longer facing me, but Sam’s shaking so hard the chair she’s holding is rattling against the floor.
So I go to her instead, wrap my arms around her. Because she’s all that matters. Everything else is just bullshit that needs clearing up. She melts into me, but she’s still shaking so hard I’m growing cold because of it.
SAMANTHA
Someone was shaking me awake gently, whispering for me to wake up. So I opened my eyes. But it wasn’t Brett, it was that horrible Mexican gangster and the moment my eyes locked on his cold, black ones, I was transported right back to my days of captivity, to that dark-walled warehouse full of chains and whips and other instruments of torture. I still have scars from the night I was sold to this guy, and they’re not all visible on my skin.
I don’t remember getting out of bed, hardly remember making him the cup of coffee he asked for. He’s gone now, and I’m leaning against Brett’s chest, his arms wrapped tightly around me, and mine around him even tighter. But a part of my mind is still alone in that dark room with that horrible man and the worst is yet to come.
The rest of my mind is completely filled with the fear, panic, sadness, anger, rage, and the utter cold indifference that followed and haunted my days of captivity, even after I accepted my fate. All that’s boiling inside me, and I feel every one of those ugly emotions so much more acutely now, because they’re so at odds with the love, the belonging, the sheer bliss that’s been the last few days. That is Brett’s strong arms around me right now. He’s my sheltering rock, he can protect me even from this.
I was certain that guy came to take me back to that life. To a fate even worse than all that. And even though he’s gone, I can’t stop shaking. My heart’s beating really fast, but it feels very slow.
“Did he hurt you?” Brett’s voice reaches me through his chest, because he’s still holding me very tight.
I shake my head, clear my throat and croak, “No.”
I sound sick, but actually feel a little better. I lean back so I can look into his eyes…there’s only one more thing I need to know. “You won’t let him come back and take me, will you?”
His face softens, relaxes and he shakes his head, pulling me back into his arms. “Never.”
Only after hearing that do I start to relax and regain my ability to tear my mind away from those bad memories, bring them back to the light that is now. Brett won’t let them hurt me. He won’t let anyone hurt me. Never. He’s not wearing a shirt, and his skin feels so wonderfully warm. I don’t need anything else.
“Come on, let’s get you dressed,” he says, and I do want to protest, but I feel so spent right now, like I haven’t slept in days, that I just let him lead me into the bedroom.
He picks up one of his t-shirts off the pile where I folded them so I could iron them later, unfolds it, and slips it over my head. I reach up my arms, let him dress me. It’s the washed-out grey t-shirt with just a faint white outline of a wolf traced on the front, and I imagine it’s like a shield and armor, a real life proof and promise of how he’ll always protect me.
He sits on the edge of the bed and pats the space next to him. I’d much rather be lying in his arms under the covers, but he doesn’t even reach out to hold me after I sit down next to him. He turns so he’s facing me, and takes my hand.
“I’m sorry for what just happened,” he says. “And there’s only one way I know how to prevent it from happening again. You need to go back home, get back under the protection of the bodyguards you have there.”
I gasp, my skin feeling suddenly too tight and too cold for my body. “You can protect me.”
He shakes his head slowly. “Not from this. That guy who just threatened you…he’s a very powerful man. And they won’t hesitate to hurt you to get to me. I can’t protect you on my own. I can only get you into more danger. And I won’t be able to live with myself if something happens to you.”
I’m shivering again. He’s sending me away? Why? He just promised he’d never let anyone hurt me.
“You can come home with me,” I say.
He shakes his head again. “Running away from this won’t work. I need to finish it. Find the boss, and make it clear I ain’t staying by killing him.”
The steel anger in his face softens and melts as he looks at me. “And then I’ll come for you, and nothing and no one will stand between us anymore.”
Sappy words and empty promises. What’s going on here? How can he just send me away? Did he feel nothing of what I felt these last few days? Was it really just sex for him? Was I so blind by all the feelings waking inside me for the first time that I completely didn’t see that?
“Yeah, right, Brett. That was the boss,” I say. “You could’ve finished him at any time before today. It didn’t seem like this was your first encounter with him.”
He was looking down at my hand still clutched in his before, but his eyes snapped to mine when I spoke. They’re wide and dark, and the sharp intake of breath tells me this is news to him. He’s not faking this surprise.
“What are you saying? How do you know?”
I show him the faint outline of one of them on my wrist. He has noticed, I’m sure of it, but he’s said nothing, asked no questions. The look in his eyes is devoid of them right now too. It’s pure murder.
“He’s…. he’s the one who If only I could tell him this without actually having to remember it. But that wish was already crushed when that sick bastard woke me up this morning.
“I know he’s the Sinaloa cartel boss, because I was o
ffered to him as a welcome gift once. And I was warned and threatened to make him very happy or else,” I say, tone draining from my voice with each word, becoming coarse and brittle. Dead. It’s the only way I can say what I’m about to. “He tied me up and whipped me until I bled. And then he did other things until I passed out. And even after that it wasn’t over. I thought I was going to die that night. I still have the scars. Don’t know if you noticed.”
I show him the faint outline of one of them on my wrist. It looks like I tried to cut my wrists, and the laser therapy I had on it still hasn’t erased it completely. He’s noticed it, I’m sure of it, but he said nothing, asked no questions. The look in his eyes is devoid of them right now too. It’s pure murder.
“He’s….he’s the one who threatened to buy me and cut off my arms and legs, use me like an immovable sex doll.” I feel lighter after I tell him that, but that’s probably just because my mind and my body are completely disconnected right now. I’m so stuck in that bad memory, afraid I’ll never forget again, terrified that the guy will come back and make it reality.
He’s just looking at me, shaking his head slowly from side to side though I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it. His face is changing expressions very fast though, going from the initial snarl of anger right after I told him, to a pensive thoughtfulness, like he’s trying to figure something out, to that softness that makes something melt inside me, but could just be a lie, a thing I see because I want to. Guys tell all sorts of lies and most of them are really good at lying. Maybe Brett is one of those. Maybe he just kept telling me what I wanted to hear so I’d stay and sleep with him. I don’t want to believe it. I don’t believe it. But it could be true. Yet I can’t deny the sense in what he’s saying. I should go back home, where I have bodyguards, where this Mexican gangster can’t find me.
He twists my wrist gently to look at the scars again, traces them with his fingers. “You should pack now. And call your bodyguards to meet you at the border. I’ll take you there.”
“Why won’t you just come with me?” I can’t believe how much of this question is me begging. Begging him to stay with me, be with me, to love me. But he might not. And the fear that idea is conjuring up is worse than the fear of being taken by that man.
His face turns hard again, his eyes like two black stones now. “I can’t. But I’ll come for you as soon as I can. Nothing will stop me.”
Just more sweet words and empty promises. But what did I expect? I can’t have love. You can’t have what you can’t give. It’s a simple equation. One I’ve figured out a long time ago.
I bolt off the bed and go to the closet, start tossing out my clothes that I hung and folded in there just a few days ago, back when I thought I’d be staying for a while. Forever maybe. It was such a weird thing for me to think. I never stay.
One of the hangers drops onto the box of his ex’s stuff in the corner. I grab the box, toss it into the room so it’s gaping between us.
“I guess when I’m gone, she can move back in,” I say, kicking the box for good measure. “I’m sure she wasn’t as much trouble as me, right?”
He looks at the box and then at me. “Candy’s gone and she’s not coming back. I won’t take her if she tries.”
“Yeah, sure,” I snap. “That’s why you’re still holding onto her stuff. I’m not an idiot. You got what you needed from me, now you’re sending me away, because I’m too much for you to handle. And all those promises be damned.”
He gets up and comes to me, tries to hold me again, but I jerk away.
“That’s not it, Samantha. You’re wrong. It’s not safe for you here.” He says it quietly, slowly, his eyes begging me to believe him with each syllable his mouth utters. And I do. But it’s too hard. I’ll lose my mind and never get it back if what he’s telling me is just a lie. Better to leave now, make a clean break while I still have some kind of a grasp on my sanity.
I pull my suitcase from the back of the closet, then pick up the box with his ex’s stuff. “Here, I’ll put this back for her.”
He rips the box from my hands. “I just forgot about it. I’ll throw it out right now, if it bothers you so much.”
He makes for the door without even looking in the box. But his cut is in there and I’m sure he doesn’t want to throw that out.
“Wait!” I call out and run to catch him. He stops by the front door, looking at me with questions, which only intensify as I start digging through the box in his arms.
“Your jacket,” I say, pulling it out.
The expression in his eyes changes, and I just know he’s remembering the day he got it, since all these bikers are very attached to their cuts. Most of them didn’t even take them off while they raped me. I hated those snakes stitched into the back. But watching Brett looking at it so wistfully, even that hate disappears.
But his face hardens again as he takes it from my hands and tosses it back into the box. “This might as well go too.”
Then he leaves, and I hear him descending the metal stairs, hear the dumpster open and slam shut in the street. But he doesn’t come back right away. And when he does, his face isn’t hard anymore. It’s completely filled with all that innocent, honest softness which made me fall in love with him, made me believe he was in love with me.
He pulls me to him when he finally returns, as gently as a man of his strength can, and stares so deep into my eyes I get swallowed up in his. “I love you, Samantha. I never felt what I feel for you for any other woman. I’ll die before I let anything happen to you. So please just let me take you home now. And please trust me to know it’s the only way. I didn’t make the decision lightly. Sending you away goes against everything I am and I don’t want to do it, but your safety is more important than my pride. I want you to stay with me, but it’s not safe for you to.”
I want to believe him. His words entered my body through my chest, spilled into waterfalls of everlasting warmth. Can a lie have such power? I don’t ever want to find out. It would destroy me if the answer was yes.
“Why won’t you come with me?” I ask again and this time I want an answer.
“Because I’m wanted for…” he says, his voice trailing off.
I’m looking up at him, waiting for him to tell me, and it takes me awhile to realize he won’t be finishing that sentence.
“For what?” I finally ask.
“First degree murder,” he says, visibly steeling himself. “I’m going away for life if I return to the States. Might even be facing death row. I can’t cross the border again.”
My whole body tenses, and there’s a part of my brain urging my arms to let go of him, to back away, because he’s a murderer, a wanted felon, a killer, but I can’t.
“What…what kind of murder?” I hear myself asking, not even sure why. I already knew he was a killer. He already told me. And I already decided that nothing can stand between us. Not even that. I won’t let it.
“I killed a security guard during a robbery,” he says, his grip on my body already loosening like he’s making it easier for him to let him go. “I didn’t mean to, just wanted to wound him, but he moved and the bullet went straight through his head. That doesn’t change anything though.”
He’s wrong. It changes everything. But even if he was a coldblooded murderer, I’d probably still want to stay with him.
I guess he’s not reading that off my face, because he’s let me go completely now and is walking into the kitchen. He takes a bottle of tequila from the cupboard and takes a long swallow. But this isn’t the time to be getting drunk. This is the time to go home.
“You should pack too,” I tell him, his gaze sizing me up as I stand at the arched entryway into the kitchen. “My dad’s connected. He can make this go away for you, and he will when I ask him to.”
His frown looks like it’s carved from stone. “I’ll make this go away. And I will never accept any kind of favor from your father.”
I know what he means, yet it still feels like utter and
complete rejection. Of me, of my past, of my everything. He truly just wants me gone.
“Fine,” I say and turn on my heal. “I’ll go pack. But I don’t need your help getting back home. I’ll manage. I’ll do it on my own, just like you.”
He doesn’t come into the bedroom until I’m done packing and am dressed in my own clothes, his wolf t-shirt lying on the floor by the bed where it belongs. I was an idiot to think anyone would ever want me. Telling him what that sicko Mexican gangster did to me probably cinched this deal. Because he hasn’t stopped throwing me out since. I feel like I’m in the middle of a raging, stormy sea, and I don’t even have a lifebelt to hold onto. None of this makes any sense. Absolutely none of it. I need to get away before I lose what’s left of my mind.
“How do you want to do this?” he asks from the doorway. “I can follow you on my bike to the border.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” I say, zipping up my case.
When I stand up, he’s right behind me, and I hardly have the time to draw a full breath before he twirls me around, kisses me deeply, and with such abandon, I completely forget we’re breaking up. Saying goodbye. Everything, absolutely everything good that I ever felt in my entire life is woken by that kiss.
But we’re breaking up.
We are saying goodbye.
And I can’t do that. But I have no choice.
So I rip myself from his arms, grab my stuff and run out of the apartment, the suitcase banging against the floor more than rolling, and making so much noise people are opening doors to see what’s going on. And I can hear him calling my name, but I don’t stop, I don’t look back. I can’t. I don’t even know what’s real anymore. Is he lying? Is he sincere? Does he love me? The only thing I really know is that I don’t want to be away from him, not even for a second. And that’s the one thing I can’t have.