by S. M. West
Yesterday had been gut-wrenching. My parents’ murder had eviscerated me, not only cutting out my heart but stealing my voice and all sense of security.
Nick’s betrayal was similar. I was cut open; my emotions scattered like garbage in the streets.
I’d known he had plans for me. I mean, how could he not? But at some point, I believed we had moved past captor and captive. I was wrong.
Trading me didn’t fit with the guy I was getting to know. His proposal to the Russians was about survival—I get that—but what happened to the guy who protected me in the woods and cared for my wounds?
How was it possible to be both a protector and a heartless asshole?
He regrets it. I saw the moment his guilt got the better of him. God, it hurts. And why? I’m going insane trying to figure out why I care. He’s a bastard. I’m alive. It’s over, and I’m going home.
But I had to complicate things further with the sex. Damn, we had freaking great sex.
I lost the plot last night. Why did I think fucking his brains out would make things better? Oh yeah, because I’m crazy and unhinged for even caring about that jerk. But it was amazing… passionate, wild, and just what I needed.
I don’t regret having sex with Nick. Regrets are a waste of time and energy.
My fingers run along my dry lips, the memory of his on mine so real. The taste of him flooding my senses. I trace the same path his mouth did last night.
My fingers glide along my neck to my pulse point. Throbbing. He always lingers here. I can feel his warm, callused hand wrapped around my throat roughly.
The thump, thump of my heart triggers fluttering in my stomach, and the sensation of his wet tongue and warm lips sears my skin.
No. I can’t go there. I’m going to see him any minute now.
I force myself to think of John Slaughter; that’s sure to kill any of my desire. I was only ten when we first met, and he made me nervous.
I couldn’t reconcile the man in front of me—John was twenty-six at the time—with the idea of a brother. My brother.
I knew of him, my parents had talked about him, but he was in England. When he came to Canada, he was a career criminal, bringing gifts of murder and mayhem to my life.
With the beep of the hotel keycard, I step into the room at the same time Nick comes from the bathroom. His hair is wet, and he’s wearing only his boxers. Holy hell.
I drink in all six-three of absolute perfection. My eyes trail his hard chest to the black ink curling over his shoulders and carved down his deliciously toned arms.
I can look but no more touching. Last night was a one-time thing.
I swallow hard, and his eyes drop to my neck, up to my mouth before resting on my eyes.
“You’re here?” He’s surprised to see me.
“Where else would I be?”
“I thought you’d left.”
“No, still here.”
“Where’d you go?”
“For a walk.”
He blinks twice as if testing to see if I’m really here. “You all right?”
“Yes, but starving. I need breakfast. If you don’t want to come, may I borrow some money?”
My cheeks heat. I hate having to ask but I really am at his mercy. I don’t have a penny to my name, not even ID.
During the car ride last night, while Nick confessed to his dirty deeds, he mentioned that one of his men would drive my Chevelle back to Toronto. I was grateful, but now I wish I had my own wheels. I need space and I’m long past ready to go home.
“Give me a sec.” He slides on jeans. “Lead the way.”
Nick gestures at the door.
We walk side by side along the cobblestoned streets to the quaint café I passed earlier. At that time, it was still dark, and I had cupped my hands against the glass to get a glimpse at the cute interior. Now it’s bright and bustling.
“Let’s go to this one.” He points to a smaller café across the street. Not nearly as busy.
“But this looks so cozy.” I gaze longingly at the inviting café.
He cocks an eyebrow, questioning my judgment. “That’s not authentic.”
He flicks his hand at my choice and drags me to the smaller one.
Delicious smells of chocolate, cinnamon, and baked bread bombard our senses. We sit at a table, order, and eat in comfortable silence. I’m glad there’s no awkwardness after last night. Well, not until his knuckles graze mine on the table and goosebumps prickle along my skin.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?” He clears his throat. “I mean, last night—”
“Yes. I’m a big girl and…” I trail off, now shy and nothing like the adult I’m claiming to be.
“Go on.” He nudges my hand.
“I wanted it.” I swallow with difficulty, forcing myself to look at him, prepared for a smug expression. Instead, his eyes linger on me—warm and with a healthy dose of lust.
Thankfully, he changes the subject. “Have you ever been to Quebec City?”
“Yes. Winter Carnival with my high school.” My lips slide into an easy smile. I’d loved those trips with my friends.
“I remember those.”
“You came too?”
The annual Quebec City trip was almost a rite of passage for any Ontario high school kid. Just outside the walls, the City would construct a true to size ice castle—Bonhomme’s Ice Palace—with its snowman-like mascot in his signature red hat and scarf.
“Nah, I didn’t. But I came with my family. Mamie was born here. The house is just down the street, and this café was once run by my great-grandparents.”
My eyes widen in surprise. “Wow. Really? Can we see the house?”
“Sure.” He sips the last of his coffee and asks for the check. “Are you ready to tell me what has you spooked? First in the woods and then the docks?”
I shift in the seat at the twinge of soreness between my legs, reminding me of last night. Before I can stop myself, I graze the very spot on my neck his fingers gripped last night, and Nick’s gaze drops to my throat. His eyes heat, remembering too.
“Can we walk, and I’ll explain?”
We put on our coats and he steers me down a narrow roadway. My mind searches for the right way to start this. To explain something that I’ve shared too many times to count, with the police and in numerous therapy sessions, yet it never gets easier. And curious as to why I now feel comfortable telling Nick. Perhaps it’s because of last night.
“My parents, Brigit and Percy Slaughter, were murdered. I saw it happen.”
“Fuck.” Nick runs his hand through his hair.
We stop in front of a plaque on the edge of field called the Plains of Abraham. A historic battle took place in this very spot between the British and French in 1759.
In silence, we stand, surrounded by ghosts of war and bloodshed. A sharp bubble of laughter gets halfway up my throat before I swallow it down.
It isn’t funny. Nothing about the lives lost on this hallowed ground or my past is funny. Here we are, where violence reigned, and I’m about to relive the most horrific moment of my life.
“What happened?” Nick brings me closer to him.
It’s cold with nothing to buffer the frigid wind rolling off the St. Lawrence. Strangely, I don’t feel it.
“We were supposed to have dinner with John. My parents and I, and we went to his office. Things were tense with John, and I later found out the dinner was so my parents could tell him to stay away. Dad loved John but he was and Dad didn’t want that in our lives.” My lips cracks into a bitter smile.
“John wasn’t there when we arrived and while we waited in his office, there was some commotion outside. Dad went to see what was wrong. That was the last time I saw him.”
My voice cracks and I curl my hands into balls, squeezing any emotion out of me. I can still see my father, the good guy that he was, not hesitating to see if someone needed help.
“We heard shots,
and Mom ran to the door but caught herself before opening it. She was thinking about me. She sprang into action, searching for a place to hide me. I’d never seen her like that before.”
There’s a jackhammer inside my chest. It’s as if I’m back in that office with my mother. Scared out of my mind, wishing we’d never gone to see John.
“She put me up in the ceiling. She told me not to cry and that everything would be okay. She left a crack of an opening when she put the tile back. I could see some of the room.”
I was terrified to the point of being mute. One minute I was begging her to not leave and the next, my lips were sealed. I kept my fear bottled inside.
“She promised she’d come back once she called the police and checked on Dad.”
I shiver from the memory, and his warm hand finds mine.
“If you want to stop—”
His expression is warm and caring, and I can’t bring myself to pull away. Instead, I wrap my fingers around his and wonder if he can hear the raging beat of my heart.
“No, I have to. Talking about it lessens its hold over me, and it’ll help with moving past last night.”
I smile while I echo my therapist. I’d spent years in therapy and I’m now at a point where I only see her occasionally.
“It was dark, and I was scared. I could hear my mom talking to the nine-one-one operator when men came into the office. It was the most horrifying experience of my life and I couldn’t scream or do anything. I suppose that saved my life—” My voice breaks, and I cringe at the weakness in my voice. Even now, it feels so real and fresh.
“They shot her, and I thank God I didn’t see it. But when she fell to the floor, I could then see her. Mom’s eyes were open and blank. She had a bullet in her forehead.”
Tears sear a hot trail down my cheeks, and I don’t try to stifle or hide them.
“Maggie.” He cups my face, inching near, and his breath tickles my lips.
I’m not done. I have to get it all out.
“It was dark and cramped. I was up so high and afraid to move. I don’t know how long I was there. I could hear when the police arrived, but I didn’t make a sound. I couldn’t. It took them hours to find me.”
I sink into his warm embrace, and my tears come. At one time, I’d fought my tears, refusing to be weak, refusing to let John and the men who killed my parents rob me of my strength; they’d already stolen so much from me.
Therapy and the encouragement to let it out—endless hours of crying—helped me get back control. My tears were powerful, washing away most of the fear.
“For more than a year after, I didn’t talk.”
“What?” He’s shocked.
“I couldn’t. It wasn’t a conscious choice, I just couldn’t tell anyone what happened. The dark, small spaces, and heights would send me into a tailspin. I’d freak out, no matter where I was. Gramps put me in therapy, got custody of me, and kept John away.”
“Ah, that explains why you’re Maggie Hill, not Slaughter,” he says.
“Yes. I love my father, but after what John did, I couldn’t share his name. My parents were killed because of him. Those men were looking for John. God, I miss my parents so much.” My grief and loss swell within me, breaking free with a strangled sob. “I miss them.”
My stomach sours at the thought of my parents’ senseless deaths, and the most galling of all, none of it stopped John. He became more ruthless.
“Maggie, I—” He strokes my hair, cradling me.
“I’m okay, really.” Stares from strangers passing us force me to step away, wiping my tears. “Can we walk?”
He nods, following me back to the city streets.
“Can you take me to your grandmother’s house?”
“Sure, this way.” He draws me into his side, hooking his arm around my neck.
Being this close to him stirs unwanted memories of yesterday in the supply closet. I was a wreck with my phobias on top of dealing with what Nick had planned to do: trade me to the Russian in exchange for his freedom.
I’d be dead right now if he hadn’t changed his mind. And he not only changed his mind, he stayed with me, calmed me, and got me through the nightmare.
Just like the woods. His soothing words quieted my crazed mind. It isn’t like he did or said anything different than what others have tried. God knows Gramps tried so many times.
I can’t explain why or how, but Nick got through to me, kept me grounded, and that scares me to death. Why him? What does that mean?
And now, I just bared my soul to him, Nick of all people, and instead of regretting it, I feel better for it, and now he’s taking care of me. Again. I don’t know how I feel about that.
We’re silent until we reach a set of rowhouses, where he stops in front of a middle home.
“That’s the house.”
The building is old, and each house is small relative to today. But it oozes character. I can almost hear the stories of the loves and losses, wars and celebrations that have taken place between those walls.
“Have you been inside?” I ask.
“Yeah. Once when I was around seven or eight.” We stare some more and then he asks, “You know what’s bothering me?”
“What?”
“When I told John I had you, he sounded genuinely torn up, but you’re estranged.” It isn’t a question but there are many in his eyes, and I try to make him understand.
“John doesn’t care about me.” We walk back to the hotel. “After my parents died, he wanted to be my savior. Be my big brother and keep the bad guys away.”
It still makes me mad to think of all the times Gramps had to threaten him to leave.
“I hated him. Still do. He wanted me to adore him like I did my parents, but not because he really cared about me. So I don’t know why he acted that way when he learned you had me. Maybe if he rescued me from you, I’d be indebted to him?” I shrug, not wanting to waste another moment on figuring John out.
“Yeah. Is it shitty if I think it’s an ego thing?”
I laugh and nod. “That’s exactly it. He doesn’t love me or want to be a brother. He just wants me to worship him.”
I used to feel sorry for John. Sorry that he missed out on having my father in his life. I do believe he desperately wanted our father’s love. And he would have had it, had he not chosen a life of crime.
We enter the elevator and Nick’s phone buzzes. He reads the text, glancing over at me. “It’s safe to go home. Do you want to leave now or tomorrow?”
Suddenly, the urge to leave has vanished. Spending time with Nick, telling him about my parents, has changed things.
But it shouldn’t. It’s nearly noon, and if we leave now, we could be home by ten. My stomach sinks, but it’s time to go home. It’s for the best.
“Now.”
19
Sunday 10:29 PM
Nick
We’re mostly quiet during the long drive home, occasionally sharing stories about Logan and Phoebe, or sometimes, Maggie will talk about the garage.
When we hit the city limits, my agitation grows from niggling to churning in my gut. Maggie will be gone soon.
I’ve enjoyed our day together, but it’s not enough. I want more time with her. These past few days were wild, and now, when the chase is over and we’re putting down our weapons, our time is up.
Still needing more from her, I ask one of the many questions on my mind. “What’s the story with Jesse?”
“You know him, don’t you?”
“Yeah. Did you meet him through your brother? How’d you two wind up together?” I grind my teeth to stop spewing more questions.
“Actually, it’s the other way around. I’ve known Jesse since we were kids. He met John through me. Nothing happened between us until I was nineteen. By then, I was living with Gramps. He never liked Jesse, especially once he started working for John.”
“Why were you with him when he worked for John?” Talking about Jesse makes my blood boil, thinking of him
with her, but I want to know everything. Especially why she’d stay with a guy who stood for everything she’d lost. A guy just like me.
She gazes at me before turning to the window; the city lights are a blur. “The weird thing was, back then, I never saw Jesse as one of John’s guys. I knew him first. I know it’s stupid, but…”
“You wanted to be with Jesse,” I fill in the void with the obvious.
She nods absently, thinking of him, most likely. “We were together for six years. By then, John and the danger were right in my face. It got to be too much.”
Her broken voice and strangled tears awaken my monsters. Breathing fire, they lust for the destruction of all who hurt her. If not the men who killed her parents, then her brother.
I chuckle wryly at my hypocrisy. I’m no fucking better than John Slaughter. Who am I to judge the bastard?
“What’s funny?” Her eyebrows knit.
“Nothing.” I park along the curb, and she gazes quizzically at me. “Shit, how are you going to get in?”
“Fi gave a spare key to her neighbor, she knows me. I’ll get them from her.”
I nod although flattened to hear she has a way into the loft. I want to delay our goodbye.
I try another tact. “You want me to go up with you?”
The mess from the shooting has been cleaned up. Kit took care of it before he left town. “No, I’m good. Thanks.”
We sit for what feels like a lifetime in silence, neither of us wanting to break our bubble. I hungrily drink her in. This is the last time I’ll see her.
Her hair is pulled back, with a few stray strands framing her perfectly symmetrical face. Glowing skin, plump lips, and mesmerizing eyes. Her open jacket reveals her tight curves, and I wish I could wrap my body around hers one more time.
“Bye, Nick.” She smiles weakly before slipping from the car.
I stare through the windshield into the night. If only things could be different—but this is for the best. I already wreaked enough havoc on her life. If I stick around, I’ll only bring more. Finally, I pull my shit together and head to Caro’s.