by S. M. West
“Maggie.” My voice sounds strangled. “Maggie, time to get out.”
I pull the gag from her mouth and her dark lashes flutter slightly. Nothing else. She’s deadweight in my arms, her fight gone, and fuck me, I miss it. Did I break her?
Her fragility prods my sleeping monsters, deep within me. There was a time when my creatures were born from a place of necessity. When there was no one to turn to for help and those I loved were either severely broken, vulnerable or dead.
My demons scorched the earth and left chaos in their wake. I’ve long since put them to rest. Finding no comfort in their mayhem, no answers in their wrath. In the end, their fury filleted me. Left me raw and broken.
Crouching outside the car, snow falling around us, I call her name repeatedly. She’s spacey and disoriented.
“You okay?” A beast breathes fire in my soul.
Her dry lips open and close a few times. “Asshole.” Her voice is hoarse, no malice or any feeling at all despite the insult.
“What happened?” My fingers thread my hair to stop from touching her.
“Dark…” Her gaze drifts to her lap.
Beating back the urge to push for answers, I wait.
Nothing.
“I’m—” Teeth sink into my tongue, stopping my apology. The circumstances aren’t normal and I’m not in the wrong no matter how much I hated doing it.
“Look, I’m not down with… you gave me no choice.” Her head snaps up, and she glowers. “If only you’d listen…”
She twists her lips, eyes darkening bitterly as her cheeks turn pink. “It’s my fault? That’s rich.”
My stomach growls, reminding me of the food, and I grab the now-greasy brown paper bag. Her fire fades quickly at the mouth-watering aroma of a burger and fries.
“I’m starving,” she practically moans, her transfixed state a thing of the past.
“Here.” I hand her the bag. “Promise to cooperate?”
I won’t restrain her hands if I don’t have to. Otherwise, I’d have to feed her, and something tells me that wouldn’t go over well.
Big blue eyes—half eager, half wary—swallow me whole. She nods, and I secure her ankles to the bar under the seat without a peep. Her hands free.
When done, I pat the top of her head, realizing how condescending it is—not my intention—when she jerks away. I can’t win for losing with this one.
7
Thursday 10:02 PM
Nick
By the time we reach the outskirts of the idyllic Quebec town where I spent my childhood summers, the snow falls steadily and the sky twinkles with stars. I park in Mr. Gaudet’s portable garage. The man lives in Halifax and won’t be anywhere near here until summer.
My house is about five minutes from here by car, but we’re going to walk. It’s too risky to park in the driveway.
Drago has been steps behind me from the get-go, and I’m not really surprised. I did background checks on him many times throughout the years. He most probably did the same with me.
Once his men scour any of my haunts in Toronto, they will cast a wider net. It’s only a matter of time before they look in this direction.
We will stay for the night and meet Kit tomorrow. His latest text says Caro’s okay, and he’ll head our way soon.
Thank fuck for Kit. We’ve been friends since high school and I brought him into my business from the start. At the time, he was a lowly street dealer, living hand to mouth, and taking all the risks. He’s the only person I trust in this business.
“Nick, you’re not that guy,” she says out of nowhere. “I’m just extra baggage. Nick, I’ll only bring trouble and the cops. Nick, listen to me.”
My name is fingernails on a chalkboard. Is she trying to get on my nerves? She’s already succeeded. Or is she trying to build a connection?
But she’s got it backward. She should be saying her name, talking about herself. As if any of that will make me rethink this and let her go. Not a chance.
“Shut up, Maggie,” I’m deliberately savage with her name—two can play at this game—and she shrinks into her seat. “Grab some shit.”
I dump the contents of the smaller of her two bags in the backseat—we can use it to carry her things—and a tablet tumbles out. Her breath stills, eyeing the device like it’s the answer to her prayers.
“Don’t even think about it.”
She was quiet for the most part in the car, sleeping or pretending to, but guarded even with her eyes closed, and now this psychology-shit. She’s crafty. I admire her tenacity and smarts.
With the larger bag, tablet, and purse in the trunk, we start our hike through the Laurentian mountainside. It’s well past the dinner hour, and most people are tucked in their homes for the evening.
The odds of running into someone are slim, but even still, we’ll stick to the trails, not the roads. I can’t chance a nosy neighbor spying us.
Our trek through the forest is messy, cold, and uphill, and she is constantly shivering. Her teeth chattering. Her clothes aren’t suitable for the weather. To warm her up, I place my arm around her shoulders.
“Take your hands off me.” She elbows me in the side.
Hands to myself, I strike back, “Freeze your ass then.”
Twenty minutes later, a large yellow house with a thatched roof comes into view. Maggie glances quizzically at me, then the house. Her dark hair is tangled and wild, and her cheeks are rosy, as is her nose. Her lips expel tufts of white air on a tremor.
“Nick, please don’t.” Her expressive eyes watch my every move and I hate how it feels as if she can read my mind.
“What?” I survey the area, making sure we don’t have company. We’re hidden behind the tree line, and all is quiet.
“Don’t involve more people.”
She thinks this is a home invasion? The house is mine. Most of the newer, bigger houses are empty during the week, coming to life on the weekends when their affluent homeowners make the trek from Montreal or Ottawa for a short getaway.
“I’m not. C’mon.”
Clumsily, we run across the yard toward an old shed that’s been here since the original home stood. Inside, it’s dark and dank, and the scent of wet grass and manure assaults our senses. My eyes water, and she stifles a gag.
The old rickety shelving unit is littered with gardening supplies, firewood, and other stuff. I run my hand along the top shelf until the tips of my fingers hit metal. Jackpot. The key is still there. The hiding spot is old school, but it works.
“You’re adding B&E to your list of criminal accomplishments?” Maggie’s dry, sarcastic tone matches her mocking blues that somehow still shine in the dark.
Ignoring her, I head to the back door of the house, effortlessly opening the door. The alarm rings, and I punch in the code, making sure to block her eager eyes. She struggles, determined to make everything difficult, and I yank her against me, our noses practically touching. Her tempting scent tickles my senses.
“Play nice or I’ll tie you to the cabinet.” My chin lifts in the direction of the steel handle of the pantry.
“I’ll scream,” she threatens for the millionth time, and I don’t bother to stifle my eye-roll. This is getting old.
“Scream your heart out, sweetheart. No one’s around for miles.”
It isn’t entirely true. Behind us are smaller, older homes occupied by seniors who have lived here since birth. She fumes, her nostrils flaring and lips forming a blunt line, but she doesn’t fight.
“Whose house is this?” We both glance around the state-of-the-art kitchen. Everything is as I left it nearly eighteen months ago.
“I need the bathroom.” She dances from foot to foot.
“You got bladder problems?”
She wishes me death with another one of her looks, and I shake my head, more exhausted than annoyed.
We walk through the wide halls with the high ceilings, passing rooms decorated in French country. It’s what Maman wanted, and my father never could
say no to her.
When my father demolished the original two-bedroom bungalow, barely a postage stamp compared to the acreage it came with, he wanted huge. He had a lot to prove, considering he believed he was poor white trash.
The funny thing is, the house wasn’t really his. My grandparents purchased the house. Of course, my mother had been behind it all, pushing her parents to “give” it to us.
While her parents were well off, she was raised a simple French girl, yet she dreamed of fortune well beyond her means.
The sharp blade of melancholy slices through my chest at memories of my parents. It was the little things—their hopes and dreams—that would eventually tear them apart. With hindsight, my father’s obsession to please my mother and her desire for wealth and glamor destroyed them, and ultimately, our family.
At the bathroom, I check the cupboards for any potential weapons. The room is small, with hardly enough space for a toilet and sink. We both reach for the doorknob.
“No. The door stays open.”
My hand curls around hers, and electricity shoots up my spine, a thrilling sensation stirring in my belly. Pain flashes in her brilliant blue eyes, and her mouth opens, but she’s soundless. It’s fleeting, and she’s quick to recover with a glare before snapping her lips closed.
“What’s wrong?” I tug on her hands, but she pulls away, exhaling a small hiss so subtle that I almost miss it.
My touch triggered her discomfort? The thought leaves me ice-cold and insulted. As I pry open her palms, the proverbial red haze of rage hits me.
Marred by cuts, scrapes, dirt, and blood, her milky skin is a white canvas covered in violent slashes of red paint. The car bomb. Now it makes sense; during the car ride, she clutched or covered her hands protectively.
It isn’t life-threatening, but the broken skin and the tiny embedded shards of glass and stone must hurt.
“Let me clean this.” I inch us toward the sink.
She yanks her hands from my grasp, balling them into fists. “No. I can do it myself. I need to pee but can’t with you standing in the door.”
“Let me help.”
“You’ve done enough to help me.” Her scorn pushes all my buttons, stoking my fire of frustration.
“Fine. The door stays open.” Placing my hands on my hips, I widen my stance, deliberately intimidating. “Fuck modesty. Go.”
“God, why can’t you get out of my life?” Her voice cracks on the last word and the sharp, broken pieces jab my chest.
After going, she tends to her cuts, grimacing as the water and soap do their job. I stand mutely in the doorway, feeling like a useless fool.
Once in the kitchen, I rummage through a junk drawer looking for a better restraint. I know I shoved them in here.
“Do you know who lives here?” She peers over my shoulder, inventorying every item. Her eyes gleam with the potential weaponry amongst the mess. “You’re very familiar with the house.”
“It’s mine.”
“Yours?”
With renewed interest, she surveys the large kitchen with its long, rustic oak table, large granite island, stools, and a nook for reading.
I love this place and have fond memories of my family here before it all went to hell. Before Dad got injured, leaving him to feel like less than a man and causing Maman to get a job. We needed the money; his disability checks didn’t cover the expenses, and up until then, Maman had stayed at home. That was the beginning of the end.
Maman wanted to go back to dancing, her passion and career before she met my father; but she was older, no longer fit to dance, and working in retail or the service industry wasn’t her idea of fulfilling.
“Ah-ha!” I produce a pair of handcuffs, and she gasps.
The last time I was here, I came with a woman I was fucking, and she brought the cuffs. They did nothing for me—my hands work just fine at securing my woman—but she couldn’t get enough, riding me hard in restraints.
Maggie snaps me back to the present. “Please don’t. I promise to be good.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you? You’ve been nothing but a pain in my ass.”
She backs away without argument and I replace the rope with the handcuffs, securing her hands to the leg of the dining table.
Biting her bottom lip, water pools in her troubled eyes and one hot, fat tear spills onto my knuckles. Evidence of her turmoil nearly knocks me off my feet.
“Nick, I’ll be good,” she whispers.
The urgent need for space explodes within me, and I leave under the pretense of searching for food. I’ve never had problems doing a job before, but the more time I spend with Maggie, the harder it is to see her as only an asset and not a strong, intelligent woman. I can’t think of her that way. She’s a means to an end.
And that’s the kicker, isn’t it? I don’t hurt women. I got into this line of work to save a woman. Léa, my older sister.
Money was the solution. To prove to her I could take care of us—our family—and she didn’t have to. My new-found job was supposed to be short-term, but I liked the challenge, and shit, the money.
At sixteen, the bank pouring in was heady and addictive. For once in my life, I had control over something. But the job solved nothing. I didn’t save the girl or fix my family. And that’s the biggest joke of all—I’m a damn good fixer, but I couldn’t fix my own problems.
With a keen focus on scavenging, I block out my past and Maggie, along with the unease, if only for a while. I’m deliberately taking my time and am pulled back by low vicious growling coming from the dining room.
What the? Maggie thrashes like a trapped animal, pulling on her restraints. She wrestles steel bands and the wooden table leg as if she has a superpower I don’t know about. Futile. Her upper lip stretches, baring her teeth, and the muscles in her neck strain.
“What the hell?” I grab her arms, stopping her from further hurting herself. “Are you crazy?”
“Take these damn things off me,” she cries. “My arms are numb and hurt like hell.”
“Chill.”
I unlock one cuff, and she immediately draws the freed arm to her chest, clutching it like a baby. Rubbing tenderly along the crimson ribbons of blood streaking her wrist, she hisses with each stroke but doesn’t stop.
Something sharp and heavy twists in my gut at her broken skin. Red and raw. Angry at myself for caring and at her for making this more complicated. When I go to cuff her again, she shrieks, yanking her limb from me.
“God, no. Please don’t, Nick.” Hearing my name on her lips, both heartfelt and wounded does something to me.
“I have to,” I grit out, annoyed at my wavering.
“It hurts. I promise to be good. To listen.” She stops fighting.
“No.” I secure the metal band around her wrist in front of her.
“Fuck you.” The warrior. I’m used to this woman. Her, I can deal with.
Shaking out her arms, awkwardly thanks to the cuffs, her head dips and her tangled hair shields her face. I slide my finger under her chin and lift until her glassy eyes, filled with unshed tears, meet mine. Her vulnerability slices through my chest.
Survival, I remind myself. That’s all this is. At the end of the day, it’s only a few bruises. She’s breathing.
“Here.” Gingerly, I begin to knead the tight muscles in her forearms, from wrists to elbows, through the wool of her sweater.
At first, she’s stiff, her gaze hesitant, but while I continue working her flesh tenderly, her body loosens, almost to the point of complete surrender. Her jaw slackens and shoulders sag, her chest arching in my direction as I venture beyond the elbows toward her shoulders.
She inches closer, enabling me to get a better grip on her sore muscles. It’s almost like she’s forgotten that she hates me.
Her plump lips part and her eyes close on a pleasurable moan. She’s no sooner surrendered, and she jerks from my hold, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. It’s like she’s just remembered I’m the enemy.
<
br /> “Better?” My voice is low.
“Yes, a bit.” She averts her gaze. “It still tingles, but better.”
Leaving her cuffed, we head upstairs to sleep, and she doesn’t hide her nosiness, craning her neck to peek into every room we pass. There’s nothing to see, only four bedrooms and a bathroom.
The house is too big for me, and Caro wants nothing to do with it. Even still, it’s part of who we are with its well-worn wooden floors, feminine décor with fading buttercream walls and antique fixtures, but it’s overrun with ghosts.
At one time, it was brimming with people. Summers. Christmases. One year, we even stayed for Thanksgiving. My sisters, Léa and Caro, and I had our own rooms, something we never had in Toronto no matter how many times we moved.
We’d wanted to live in the house year-round, but my father wouldn’t leave Toronto and his job. He could only take being in Quebec or around Maman’s family and friends in small doses. He felt less than around them.
What once was a welcoming home is now a sad, oppressive reminder of what we lost. Sometimes, I wonder if I should convert this place into a facility to help others in situations like Léa and their families. She did always love it here—it could be a tribute to my sister.
What a fucking stupid pipe dream. I don’t know the first thing about running a place like that. Caro could help, but she’d never come here. In some ways, she has a harder time with our past than I do even though she was younger. Yeah, fucking crazy-ass daydream.
“I’m not showering with you.” Her cold, flat words drag me from my ludicrous thoughts.
“What?” My hand wraps around her forearm, and she digs her heels into the floor, her bare feet squeaking on the wood.
“You aren’t showering with me.” Rancor coats her words.
I chuckle despite her bitterness. “Darlin’, been there, done that. Remember it vividly.” My eyes roam her body, slow and deliberate, ending on a sly wink. “And in case you forgot, it didn’t end well for either of us.”
“Shut up.”
Her breath hitches, panic swimming in her eyes. Panic I put there. My gut tightens with thoughts of Léa so close to the surface, mixing with Maggie’s reaction.