But these weren't my better days. These were the days of betrayal by an entity that barely existed, of being accused of a murder that I, ironically, would have committed had I not been intercepted, but alas, was completely innocent of. The days of being thrown into a correctional facility because by some stroke of cruel luck, this amazing option was made available to you. The days of being deserted by your partner of almost three years. And the days of being rescued by the one man who once drove you almost beyond the bounds of sanity.
After four months of fighting sleeping pills, of keeping an ongoing, I-am-not-crazy monologue streaming through my internal consciousness and of being beaten and stripped of the mere idea of owning anything, especially privacy, I was tired. My eyelids fluttered shut as I let myself melt into his strong, restful arms. I no longer wondered if the stench of my salty, sweaty body repulsed him. I didn't care, just like I knew, deep down under, that he didn't either.
He took a deep breath, then murmured, “Everything you need is in the bathroom. Alorah just started on breakfast—”
My heart skipped at the name of the nursemaid who had practically raised me. “Alorah!?” I breathed.
“Yes. When I knew you were coming, I arranged for her to move in for a while. I thought she might take the edge off of things.”
I closed my eyes and tilted my head back in disbelief. “John—” I began.
“It's nothing. It was nothing, okay? It's the least I can do.”
“Right,” I muttered. So it was just a matter of returning a favor or making up for past wrongs.
“But yeah. I'm sorry to say it might take her a while because she doesn't have her normal help. I'd say you have at least two hours.”
I nodded.
“Well, okay.” He slipped his arms from around my waist and grabbed my shoulders. “I'll leave you to it.” He kissed me quickly on my cheek, then left the room. I allowed myself only a moment to consider what had just happened before I went to work.
I took one last look out of the window before drawing the curtains closed. I flipped the light switch on to illuminate the darkened room, then slipped off my leather slippers. As I unloaded my pockets, took the bullets out of my gun, hid the surveillance footage, and slipped out of my stealth suit, I gazed around the room. I examined the large king-sized bed, canopy and all, the oversized dresser, the glass double doors that, without doubt, led to an equally oversized bathroom, and the wooden double doors that I was sure led to a closet.
I scurried across the room to the bathroom, not at all surprised to find my normal array of makeup, healthcare and beauty products sitting on the large counters. Next to the sink was a toothbrush, toothpaste, a pair of scissors and a package of blonde hair dye. Annoyed at John's choice of color but well aware of the fact that I really didn't have a choice, I set to work.
An hour and a half later, I was looking at a new version of a woman I could scarcely call myself. She stared at me through the mirror. Her brown eyes, framed with dark eyeshadow and eyeliner, seemed almost empty. Her short, blonde curls bounced with even the slightest movement of her head. Her red lips had folded themselves into a smirk. Her chest rose and immediately fell as I sighed and retreated to the closet across the room.
I couldn't decide whether I was surprised or not to find John had filled the oversized walk-in closet with expensive clothing. I only wondered how long it took whoever did this to pick out all of this clothing and how they knew what I would and would not like. I just shrugged and found myself a nice enough pair of shorts and a matching Banana Republic T-shirt. Once dressed, I slipped on a pair of sandals and scurried downstairs.
“Whoa,” John interjected when I met him at the bottom of the staircase.
I groaned. “Must you constantly strive to make me feel uncomfortable?” I demanded as we both began to walk through the house to the dining room.
“What? I was just saying that you looked really good. A real southern goddess,” he murmured in a mock sex voice.
“Really, John?” I scolded. “I knew the blonde was just a joke.”
He raised an eyebrow. “It really wasn't. You had dark red hair, almost black, correct? I was just looking for the strongest contrast.”
I nodded sarcastically. “And making me look like a valley girl was just an unfortunate side-effect.”
We then reached a small swinging door. John went ahead of me, pushed it open, and then stepped aside for me to go inside. “Exactly,” he replied.
I glared at him, then turned to appraise the large dining table, which could seat about twelve people but was only set for two. The place settings consisted of two saucers, two large plates, small coffee mugs, a wine glass for orange juice, two hard boiled eggs displayed in their own stands, an array of fruit, a separate array of meat and still another array of toast and pastries.
“This is all so nice,” I began as I sat in the corner seat. “But I am not really a breakfast person,” I said for no other reason than to spite him.
As he sat down across from me, he scrunched his eyebrows together, feigning confusion. “That's weird. You always loved mornings.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, grabbing a piece of bread as I did so. “Stop pretending that you know me.”
“But I do,” he replied in an even tone.
The scratch of my knife as I spread butter on a sharp piece of toast accompanied my response. “No. You know the girl who ran away from home ten years ago.”
He shrugged. “Fair enough.”
***
Chapter Three
After a strong argument and head-splitting negotiation, I managed to get John to agree to letting me leave his mansion to go exploring for a little while. He gave me an old car his parents once drove when they had just moved to New Orleans almost thirty years ago. He meant it as a joke and really was planning on loaning me his Mercedes, but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction, so I took the old pickup truck and raced off.
As I sat at the first light after turning off the small dirt road, I stared at the faded leather that covered the wheel of John's old car. My heart rate increased, as I struggled to force all the memories out of my head. I quickly lost the battle and found myself descending into a nearly uncontrollable reminiscing fest. It was as if everything I had ever suppressed from the first eighteen years of my life came erupting out of the cells I had locked them in.
I was a child, probably no older than ten, sitting in the bed of a red truck John's parents had abandoned. My short black hair bounced up and down as Bill, the old butler, raced down the small dirt path. Wind and small particles of mud rustled through my hair, leaving me soiled by the time we had reached the main road. I squinted my eyes against the relentless afternoon sun, glowering at John. A mischievous smile spread across his face as Billy slowed the car to a stop at a red light. He began to count down from ten and even though I had no idea what he would do when he reached zero, I counted with him.
Ten seconds later, we had climbed over the side of the bed and were flying through the air. A scream that was one part frightened and two parts amused escaped my lips as we landed on the asphalt with a thud and immediately raced off. Sweat pooled around my armpits. The screams and horns that followed us only made us laugh harder and harder.
“Where are we going?” I screamed ahead to John.
“You'll see!” he screamed back.
Sure enough, I began to smell the salt water that was Lake Ponchartrain. We came up the side road next to the large French church where I was baptized, haphazardly crossed the street and ran through the pastry shop my dad took me to for hot chocolate every Sunday. Finally, we reached a dark concrete wall. As I stared at the rushing water, taking in the angry waves and wet sand, I hesitated.
John sensed my hesitation almost immediately. “What's wrong?”
I shook my head, opening my mouth to speak but unable to find the right words.
He just flashed an encouraging smile and reached out a hand. “It's going to be fun. You'll see!” he ex
claimed.
“But what if we get in trouble?” I asked.
His brow furrowed as he wondered why the hell I even cared about getting in trouble. He eventually settled with, “So what?” as a response.
I sighed. “Well, what if we get hurt?”
He winked at me, just like Batman had in the movie we had watched together earlier that day. “You won't.” He then leaned in even closer. “I promise.”
I nodded and followed him down the steps and onto the beach. Once we had properly soiled ourselves with sand and salt water, we began to hear the worried voices of both of our parents. I stopped burying John in the sand and looked ahead, squinting my eyes to make out the figures of two moms and two dads walking toward us.
“John!” I hissed.
He raised a questioning eyebrow.
“They're coming!” I exclaimed.
He busted into laughter, completely unearthing himself from the sandy cocoon I had worked so hard on.
For lack of anything better to do, I laughed with him. “But, what are we going to do?” I demanded.
He just grabbed my arm and continued to laugh. “Lie down with me.”
So I did. I laid down with him on that beach, looking up at the sky, counting the clouds and trying to guess how many there were. I did this every day at recess, count the clouds, I mean. John was popular and he did busy things at recess, like play flag football with his friend Gordon, or tag with Janet, the girl who always hit him because she secretly liked him. I didn't like talking to people and I told myself it was because they never liked talking to me. So I laid there... every day.
It was a Tuesday. I don't know why I know that, but every time I do think of this, the word, “Tuesday” comes to mind, like a watermark behind the image of John running toward me, football in hand.
“Come play with us!” he hollered at me.
I immediately sat bolt upright, an eyebrow raised in surprised. If I was right about what I thought I heard, that would have meant that John was the first of my classmates to talk to me all day. It surprised me to find that he had even acknowledged me at school. It made me feel special because I knew that that meant the most popular kid in our class actually wanted to be friends with me.
He extended a hand to me and helped me off of the grass. Then he ran toward the flag football field, our hands clasped together the whole time. When we reached the crowd of boys, they all produced sounds of disgust, pointing at our joined hands. As if electrocuted by each other, we jumped apart. It never occurred to me that touching John was abnormal. It was just a thing that we did, so we wouldn't lose each other or so that we could get places quicker.
So, I started playing with them and got to experience what it felt like to really have friends, well, only when John was around. If John were ever sick, the boys would exclude me from everything because I was a girl and the girls wouldn't even look my way because I played with the boys and that made me weird.
John didn't even think to defend me until we both got to middle school, which is when we started holding hands whenever we went anywhere together, not just when we were running away from our parents or trying not to get lost. His friends told us that meant that we were boyfriend and girlfriend, and they must have told him that meant I wanted him to kiss me, because that's what he did.
We stood in front of my locker one day after school. The halls were deserted because school had long since let out and the two of us were still on campus only because he had just finished soccer practice and I had just gotten out of Annie the Musical rehearsals.
“Do you know if Billy is picking us up?” he asked as we strolled through the halls, looking for any open classrooms to explore.
I just shrugged. “I know he's coming, so I guess he'll take you too.”
He nodded as if in relief. “Good, because my parents went to New York and took Joey with them.”
I scrunched my nose. “Why?”
He gave me a questioning look as we stopped walking. “Well, because they need him to keep them organized. I don't know. He just manages their schedules and stuff. Don't your parents take Billy with them when they go on business trips?”
I ducked my head in disbelief. “No. How hard can it be to manage your own schedule?”
He sighed. “Well, when you're as busy as my parents....”
I chuckled. “God, John, why are you so conceited?”
He leaned in closer to me. I sensed the proximity and didn't know what to do, except press my back against the lockers. “What does that even mean?”
I shrugged. “It means you're full of yourself,” I whispered, losing concentration. I could almost feel his breath against my face, or maybe I imagined that. Maybe I wanted to feel his breath against my face. I wanted him to kiss me. I didn't know why, I just knew I needed it to happen.
And then it did, and I felt warm in places I didn't even know could get warm.
John continued to make me feel warm throughout middle school. And then in high school, it was more than just kisses. And three years later, I found myself sitting amongst six hundred other underclassmen, watching him ascend the stairs to the stage where he would make his campaign speech for the class presidency.
He came to school that day tenser than I'd ever seen him. I could almost feel the cogs turning just beyond his empty eyes, could hear the lie in his voice when I asked if he was upset because he was nervous about his speech. As he took center stage, he looked less like the John I had grown up with and more like an emotionless statue.
Then when he opened his mouth and what came out had nothing to do with “vote for me for your senior class president”...
The loud, obnoxious sound of a horn being angrily pounded traveled through my open windows from the car behind me. I winced, awakened by the sound, and squinted my eyes in order to read whatever was written on the street sign across the intersection.
I had driven thirty miles outside of New Orleans.
With a sigh, I launched the car into a U-turn and raced back to John's house.
***
Chapter Four
“So where did you go?” John asked as he vigorously cut through a steak. The two of us sat in the same places we had this morning. The only differences were the plates of steak and asparagus that were in front of us.
I shrugged, somehow not prepared for that question at all. “Oh you know.... places.”
He gazed at me in such a way that suggested he had x-ray vision, then returned back to his steak. “Okay,” he snapped.
I dropped my fork. “Is there a reason why you have to know where I went?”
He waited until he had completely chewed and swallowed his piece of steak before responding. “No. I was just trying to make conversation.”
I narrowed my eyes, leaning in to him. “I know what this is all about. But you should know that no matter what you do, you are not getting what you want from me.”
He raised both of his eyebrows. “Really, Jeanine, and what is that?”
I flinched, almost taken aback by the fact that he didn't use a pet name. “I don't know exactly. Why did you come to me that day when I was in prison? And why do you keep helping me?”
“Does there have to be a reason?” he demanded.
“You and I both know that there is always a reason.”
“It must be really painful for you to live like that,” he replied.
“Oh don't be so condescending.”
His eyes widened in exasperation. “Look who's talking.”
“Answer my question, John,” I ordered.
It was only then that he stopped eating. “Because I had been looking for you for ten years, Jeanine, and it seemed to be a bit of sick irony that the first time I see your face is on the front cover of a newspaper, next to some headline about a murder.”
“But why did you want to help me?” I pressed.
“I helped you because I wanted to help you,” he cried.
I sat back in my chair, trying not to think about what that
actually meant.
“I needed to find some way to pay you back for what I did to you. I couldn't bear the thought of you being harmed. I knew if I could help somehow I had to. You know you say that I have to want something from you, but that isn't true. I'd break you out of a government-owned insane asylum twenty times for nothing in return. Because really, all I want is for you to be happy and to be okay, even if it isn't with me. So after this blows over, you can leave for all I care. I don't need anything from you.”
There was a lump in my throat I couldn't quite swallow down. “So this is about moral high ground.”
John let out a sharp breath and looked away. “I see you're just as impossible as you always were.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I demanded.
“Nothing, Jeanine.” He picked up his fork and knife again and began cutting through his steak.
“John?” I started, not able to take the silence anymore.
“What?” he snapped without looking at me.
“Why did you do it?” I murmured, fighting the tears that threatened to break free.
“You really aren't going to let this go, are you?” he demanded.
I sighed. “No... I mean ten years ago... why?”
“It's complicated,” he responded with a sigh.
“Well, you've had ten years to work through it all,” I replied, crossing my arms.
“It had to do with Bridget.”
“What about Bridget?” I demanded, wondering where my aunt's daughter fit into any of this.
“You know her mother had been married to a drug lord,” he started.
“Which would explain why she was an addict.”
“And also why it was so difficult for her to get clean.”
“So was her death related to that? The cartel, I mean?”
He nodded. “Yet it wasn’t until after she died that my parents started investigating the cartel in more depth.”
Memoirs of a Retired Assassin (Trilogy Bundle) (Romantic Suspense) Page 5