Love in Smoke

by Holly Hall

  “For me?”

  He touches his finger to his lips, but when I look over at Lynn, her back is still to us. I mouth a “thank you” and crane my neck to smell them as inconspicuously as possible. They smell sweet, like I’ve discovered most wild things of Tennessee to be.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t think to pick you some.”

  “I’ll be all right,” he says, a multitude of things simmering in his irises. Words he wants to say and can’t, perhaps.

  What I really want to ask is when we can see each other again. But I don’t know how to without everyone finding out what we’re doing. Before I say anything, he speaks up again.

  “I heard Jenson was in town.”

  That statement catches me off guard. There’s no anger or worry, but also no trace of a smile in his expression.

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Trey mentioned something.”

  That’s odd. I glance at Lynn, but she’s taking photos of her latest victim. “I . . . I’m sorry. I would’ve told you, but it just happened.”

  His fingertips graze over my knuckles, and he shrugs. “You don’t owe me an explanation. You were married. I understand there might still be some things to work out.”

  I focus on the fingers tracing circles on my hand, but he recoils, stuffing his hands into his front pockets.

  “Dane Cross, long time no see!” Lynn has returned to reality. I arrange my expression into something more impassive.

  “If you don’t count yesterday at the hardware store.”

  Lynn flaps her hand. “Not counting the domestic shit. I mean like socially. Out having a good time. Letting your hair down.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, but yeah, it has been a while.”

  “Carnival rides and face painting not your thing, Cross?”

  His eyes settle on me for a moment before traveling back to her. “It’s a little crowded for me. I kind of prefer time to myself these days.”

  My cheeks color just as she scoffs. “I guess hell has frozen over. For someone who supposedly enjoys the quiet so much, you sure have been causing a shit-storm for my friend here.” Her words are spiked with poison, but I recognize the playful tilt of her eyebrows. She’s busting his balls.

  “Is that right?” he asks, focusing back on me. “How so?”

  “Ah, the usual shit. Girls’ night was a bloodbath. Of course, Raven defending you was like chumming the water.”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” he says, lower. “I’ve made my bed, now I’ve got to lie in it.”

  “And a hell of a bed it is. Just make sure nobody gets stuck in the sheets, am I right?”

  “Lynn!” I scold when I can finally string a word together. I’m afraid that her animation will attract attention.

  “Oh, I’m kidding. I don’t care who’s in Dane’s sheets. Could be you, could be a dozen other gals, right? None of my business. None.” She mimics zipping her mouth closed and locking it. Dane watches us amusedly, giving me a subtle shake of his head. I just roll my eyes.

  “Anyway, I should get out of here. I only came because it looked like a good place for wildflowers.” He gives me a subtle wink, squeezing my hand behind the cover of the chair-back. Before I can say anything else, he’s turning and striding off, a head taller than most of the crowd.

  “That was weird. I hope he’s not doing whatever his brother is selling.”

  “Me too,” I say, my mind a million miles away from the carnival.

  EIGHTEEN

  I have a lot to preoccupy my mind, but Lynn’s situation weighs heavily on my heart. The news that her and Adam are expecting a baby is worth celebrating, and I hate that she’s too distracted by money problems to enjoy it. On my way home from work one day, I circle back to the only solution I’ve come up with so far. I guess I always knew she could advise us on a strategy, but my hardheadedness wouldn’t allow me to just call up my self-satisfied older sister so easily. My fingers themselves seem to resist me, like my avoidance of her is instinctual, but I force them through the motions and call Serena anyways.

  “How’s ‘graphic design?’ ” I ask when she picks up.

  She sighs forcefully. “Why are you calling me?”

  I smirk. Our years apart have done nothing to diminish my ability to push her buttons. “What, I can’t be concerned about the well-being of my older sister?”

  “I’m not an idiot, Raven. Please get to the point.”

  “Okay, fine. I need design help. For a friend. Her stuff could use some refreshing.”

  Serena pauses, as if to emphasize my request for help. “What kind of stuff are we talking about?”

  “My friend Lynn refurbishes furniture and makes things out of reclaimed wood, that sort of stuff, but business is difficult to come by out here. I thought her marketing materials could use a makeover.”

  “Well, you are in the middle of nowhere, what does she expect? Does she have a website?”

  I think back, trying to remember if Lynn’s mentioned one. “Doubtful.”

  “Geez. Is it possible for you to send me some examples of the promos she’s used so far so I can get an idea of her style? Sometimes, especially with markets like that, it’s good to stick with what’s familiar. Don’t want to freak out the natives, if you know what I mean.”

  Something happens to her voice, and I smile. Serena is in her element, and for once, her words aren’t poking holes in me like little vindictive knives. “I’ll get her to send me some photos so I can forward them to you.”

  “Okay. I’ll follow up with you after.”

  We disconnect, and although it wasn’t a typical familial conversation, it’s nice to know that my sister and I have connected on some level. Maybe it wasn’t the most personal of levels, but it’s something.

  In a good mood, I stop off for a smoothie to treat myself for my good deed and use the time out of the car to request the photos from Lynn. She sends them back within minutes, and I forward them to Serena. Not five minutes later, I get a call back.

  “Ick. You’re right. They’re outdated, to say the least. I wouldn’t trust advice from this person in a million years, unless I wanted to design some kind of tribute to the 90s.”

  “You don’t have to be mean,” I chide. “Do you have any ideas?”

  “Only about a million and one that will be better than that. Let me get to work and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Okay. And Serena?”

  She was in the middle of saying “Bye,” but she pauses.

  “Thank you. I really appreciate this.”

  “You’re welcome, Rae. It’s nice of you to help out your friend. Trust me, she needs it.”

  I chuckle at the jab she managed to slide in at the last minute, and we hang up.

  When I arrive at home, I have no goals in mind other than to soak in the tub and prop my feet up. It seems the office staff are determined to stuff as many patients into our schedules as possible. It’s made me value my time outside of work a lot more, where things are not so hurried.

  As I’m about to slide my phone into my purse, I notice the message notification on the screen. I click on it and read:

  Dane: Riverside Park, 10pm. The walnut tree. I can’t wait another minute to see you.

  My fingertips tingle. What could he have planned? I thumb through my closet in my mind, trying to think of something to wear that won’t portray me as overeager, while I pull my keys out and reach for the door handle. But the door swings inward at the barest touch.

  It’s already unlocked.

  I freeze a beat, wondering. I’m almost positive I locked it; I’m over-attentive to those things after living in the city. I enter slowly, considering all the possible explanations. I wonder if Dane decided he couldn’t wait until 10 p.m. and wanted to surprise me early. But then, he doesn’t have a key. I guess it wouldn’t be impossible for him to open the door without it, handyman that he is.

  I drop my purse on the side table and meander into the kitchen. The sun’s fallen b
ehind the trees already, and what light manages to fight through the branches bathes the first floor in a muted yellow glow. I’m reaching for the kitchen light switch when the hairs raise on my arms and a bolt of instinctual panic flickers through me.

  Before I can react, I’m bound; one arm encircling my waist, pinning my own arm against me, while a hand claps over my mouth. My subsequent scream is so stifled it could be a trick of the wind. I smell sweat and something mechanical just beneath my nose, the chest pressed to my back as solid as a wall, caging me in against my pantry door. No, this isn’t Dane. This is someone else.

  When I search the rest of the kitchen out of the corner of my eye, there’s movement just beyond my peripheral vision. Two people? I try to wrench my left arm far enough away to elbow the intruder in the ribs, but I can’t get the leverage I need. The person, whom I’ve judged by his strength to be a man, laughs breathily in my ear. I want nothing more than to get away from him, but no matter how much I fight, I find no area of weakness.

  Panic begins to course through me, making coherent thoughts impossible to grasp. Okay, okay. Breathe. We’re not getting out of this by freaking the fuck out. Think, I tell myself. My breath shudders through my nose, partially impeded by his grimy hand. There’s a clump of heavy footsteps in the distance—boots. When the man who’s restraining me braces a hand on the wall, I see black beneath his fingernails. That doesn’t help me much. What hardworking man doesn’t have dirty fingernails? He motions, maybe to his companion, and his sleeve rises to bare a slice of forearm. There’s just a flash of black texture—some kind of tattoo. Scales, I think. I don’t know anyone with a tattoo like that, and as he restrains me tighter, my panic soars.

  What could they want? If they were going to rob me, I think they would’ve left my hands free to retrieve whatever they’ve come for. But they haven’t placed any demands on me. Instead, the man behind me, who I’d bet has at least fifty pounds on me, seems intent on showing me just how strong he is and how helpless I am against him.

  My breath comes in hurried gasps, limited to only my nasal passages. I can’t think of anything I could use to my advantage. Nothing he wouldn’t expect. Except . . . he probably doesn’t count on me fighting back. He also doesn’t know about the self-defense course I had to take in college as my kinesiology credit because I hated everything else.

  Taking a deep breath, I stamp down with all my might onto the arch of the man’s foot, then, while I still have the element of surprise, I lift my legs and brace my shoes on the pantry door, using my full force to push against it to try to knock him backwards, off-balance.

  It has all the effectiveness of a gnat trying to stop a MAC truck.

  My momentum is used against me as the man rocks forward and slams me against the unforgiving wood, the collision of my head against the door causing white stars to pop at the edges of my vision. With my head now turned, my cheekbone pulsating against the solidity of the door, I get my first look at my assailant. The only thing I can make out is the hardness of his eyes through the holes of his black ski-mask. Despite the cold expression, they crinkle in the corners, almost like he’s smiling beneath his mask at my struggle.

  “I didn’t think you’d be a fighter,” he says, speaking against the side of my face. Though his voice is hard and nearly emotionless, I sense a hint of excitement beneath his words.

  I want to turn away, sink into the wall, anything to block my face so he doesn’t have the pleasure of witnessing my fear. But this is bad and I know it. I can feel his strength in the harshness of his grip, the unforgiving bar of his forearm across my back. I don’t stand a chance. Even if I were at my fittest, I’m not sure I would. I hear rummaging and try to turn my head so I can find the other person; at least see what he’s doing so I know what to expect. I don’t know if being taken by surprise is better or worse than facing what’s coming next.

  As I shift, the man shoves me harder against the wall, wrenching both my arms behind my back. My shoulders stretch and burn in protest, and when I groan, it seems to spur him on. He takes my wrists in one hand, his vise-like grip as relentless as a pair of shackles, while his other snakes around my waist and crawls beneath my shirt to my waistband.

  I clench my thighs together, twisting my hips in any way possible to avoid his touch, but he forces my legs apart with his knee, leaving me no room to resist. He grunts in response to the restriction of my waistband and goes to pull the drawstring loose. Just as he shoves a hand beneath the elastic, he’s interrupted.

  “This good?” the other man asks.

  The hand leaves my pants, but I don’t dare breathe in relief.

  “Yeah. Let’s get the fuck out of here,” the one behind me says. When the footsteps depart, I feel him focus back on me, his mask moving against my ear when he says, “Sorry we can’t continue our game. I’m not usually one to waste an opportunity.” The hand returns, worming its way beneath my shirt again and running up my ribs, beneath my bra, squeezing my breast roughly. I gasp and try to twist away again, but he pinches me. Hard. “Mmm, honey, you know how to put up a fight, don’t you? How’d you know that’s exactly how I like it?”

  My eyes squeeze shut as if I can pretend the whole thing isn’t happening if I can’t see him. But I feel him all around me, and any strength I might’ve had has been wrung out of my muscles during the struggle.

  “I’ve gotta go, but I need you do something for me,” he says, and I try to raise my shoulder to block his access to my ear. A sharp pain, alarming enough to make me cry out in agony, erupts right in the delicate place where my neck and shoulder meet. “Tell Dane we’re not fucking around. If he wants to play games, he’ll pay his dues first. And I’m not talking about money.”

  The pressure on my back lessens, but as soon as I think I’m about to be free, I’m pinned again almost as an afterthought. “And before you even think about calling for help, just remember this: we see everything, we hear everything. We have eyes everywhere, and if you think you can run, you can’t. If you think you can ask for help—run to your little cop friends—you can’t. You think that because you’re a pretty little thing, we’ll think twice about breaking your neck? Think again, darlin’. You don’t want to make any more enemies in this town.”

  The man draws me back, away from the door, and I have one second of relief before he slams me against it again. “It’s important that you get this! Nod if you understand.”

  I taste something metallic, and a sob rips from my throat as I nod, willing him to hear me and know that I understand. All I want is to appease him enough so he’ll leave me alone.

  “Good. Now I’m going to let you go, and we’re going to leave.” He releases his grip on my wrists and directs my palms to the wall, placing them flat on either side of my head and pressing them there to prove his point. “Might I remind you that if you try to snitch, things won’t end well for you. If you make a move for those kitchen knives when I let you go, you’re done.” He’s so close to my ear I can feel his mouth moving beneath the fabric of his mask as he speaks. “But, between you and me, I almost want you to slip up, just so I can see you again. There’s a lot we can do before you die.” He pushes himself off the wall, away from me, but I don’t move an inch. I’m frozen by a fear I didn’t know was possible.

  “Leave your hands on the wall and count to a hundred. You move before then, well, you’ll be seeing more of me.” As he draws away, he salutes me. A cocky, mocking little gesture. “Until next time, pretty thing.”

  His boot heels scuff against the floor as he strides away, but I don’t breathe until I hear the soft clunk of my back door closing. One tear escapes, following the tracks of the ones I didn’t know had been falling. Then rivers of them are flowing, and my hands are curling against the wall, against the ambush of emotion. I don’t know how long I stand there, my mind incapable of placing numbers in sequence from one to five, much less all the way to a hundred. I don’t move until my strength is sapped and I crumple to the ground, sobs wracking my
body and awakening every bone and muscle that’s now screaming in pain from what I just experienced.

  Despite the storm raging within me, one question fights its way to the surface of my conscience: what’s going to happen to Dane? And how do they know about us?

  I scramble onto my hands and knees, staggering up to a half squat. They could still be out there. Frantic, I make a round of the lower floor, drawing the curtains and checking the locks on the windows. I find my purse overturned in the entryway, tubes of lipstick and receipts littering the aged linoleum—the rustling I heard while I was being detained. It’s much darker now, but I don’t dare turn on the lights. The last thing I want is for those men to see me, watching with hungry eyes as I fall apart. My hands shake so much that it takes me three attempts to align the front door so the deadbolt slides into place. Then I drop back to my hands and knees and fumble through my purse. They said not to call anybody, but how would they know? If I get a call out quick enough, maybe they can be caught before they do any more damage. I scramble through the items, barely seeing them, but my phone is gone. My keys, too.

  It had occurred to me to get in the car and drive until I ran out of gas. Go to the farthest corner of the middle-of-nowhere and seek out some legal help there. They have programs for situations like these, giving people new identities and such. But now I can’t. I am caged and stranded at the same time.

  When I make it back to the kitchen and try to lock the back door, what little of Marissa’s porch light that’s filtering through my blinds illuminates shards of something on the floor in front of it. I scoop them up and find that they’re splinters of wood. From the doorframe. The door’s been kicked in.

  With any lingering sense of security I might’ve had shrinking away, I drop back down to the floor, crawling my way over to my couch to curl up against it. Even under the attention of paparazzi and journalists and fans, I never felt as exposed as I do now. I am a mere toothpick in the hand of whoever it was that organized this attack, able to be snapped in two at the flick of a finger.