Meant To Be

by Неизвестно

  I snuffed out the thought, concentrating on my plan. My eyes widened at an imagined sight out the window. "There he is!" I said happily. I turned to Jake. "My fiancé, I mean. Would you like to come down and meet him?"

  Jake snorted. "I don’t hear any car," he said, suspicious.

  I stepped back from the window and beckoned him forward. "It’s a Mercedes," I insisted, "Very quiet engine."

  Just take a look, I willed, hiding my angst behind an innocent smile. All he had to do was take three paces forward. If I could move back surreptitiously while he did so, then my shot to the door would be clear.

  He took a step forward, looking at me. His grin became a smirk as he took another. I put one foot behind me, then began to inch ever-so-slightly farther from the window.

  He whirled in an instant, catching me roughly by the upper arms and lifting me from the ground. "Going somewhere?" he roared. My shocked resistance proved futile as he forced me to the opposite wall and held me there, his hands pinning my shoulders, his hot breath, reeking of booze, inches from my face.

  "You think you’re so smart," he chided. "And you’re so damn stupid. Like mother, like daughter. I should have known."

  I did my best to stare back at him. But it was hard. Though I barely knew the man, I despised him with every bone in my body. I had hated him from the beginning—hated him without even knowing why.

  Or maybe I did.

  "Take your hands off me," I said petulantly. His grip was bruising my shoulders. The stench of his breath was sickening.

  "You’re a little spitfire, aren’t you?" he said with a smirk. "Just like your momma. She had a fire in her, Sheila. That’s what turned me on."

  Without warning, his eyes narrowed. "But she disappointed me. She was a lousy wife. Lousy mother, too. She farmed your ass out to anyone who’d take you. Did you know that?"

  He paused a second, but his grip on me did not lessen. "Which reminds me," he drawled. "It’s damned creepy you being out here again. Why the hell’d you pick this place? That meddling friend of Sheila’s bring you here?"

  I forced my breath in and out with intentional, slow movements. So, Jake knew where he was. It was here that he and Sheila had argued—here that she had shot him. But none of that mattered now. All I wanted was to get away. I measured mentally the distance from my knee to his groin. It was possible, but it would have to be a surprise, and it would have to be effective. I would not get a second chance.

  "Yes," I answered, not sweating the details. "I hooked up with Sheila’s friends at her funeral. Would you like to meet them?"

  He laughed out loud. "Yeah," he taunted. "We’ll all have tea."

  "What do you want?" I asked again, daring to squirm.

  He responded by pinning me tighter. "I told you already. I want respect."

  "And what does that mean exactly?" I pressed. As much as I longed to take action, I knew that striking him was risky. He was playing plenty rough, but there was still some chance he didn’t intend further violence. He could just be a blustering drunk who, if I kept my own cool, would chill as he sobered. But if I injured him, then failed to get away, retaliation would be a certainty.

  His dark eyes glinted. "What that means, missy, is that you owe me. Owe me for raising you all that time. Owe me for buying all that formula—all those stinky diapers. Owe me for everything your miserable existence screwed up."

  He spat as he talked, spraying my face. My stomach roiled.

  "Sheila and I had a good thing going," he continued. "I’d say jump; she’d jump. She was fine looking, and she was mine. All mine. I told her she’d never get away from me. I told her I’d kill her if she crossed me, and I could’ve gotten to her, too—anywhere." His lips curled into a sneer. "Anywhere except Muncy. The bitch thought she’d won, then."

  I stiffened. To hell with the benefit of the doubt—Jake Kozen was crazy. The first time he dropped his guard, I had to strike.

  "I had nothing to do with any of that," I protested vacantly. He would not expect me to make a move in the middle of a sentence, would he? "I was only a child, and I never asked—"

  I tried not to give any warning. But the mere act of lifting my foot—of shifting my body weight to muster the necessary force—tipped him off. As I raised my leg upward he swiveled his hips to the side, leaving my knee to crash uselessly against his thigh muscles.

  His repercussion was swift.

  He body-slammed me against the wall, pinning me with the full force of his weight. Before I even realized what was happening both my wrists were caught in his left hand, suspended above my head. His face was within an inch of mine. My heart beat like a jackhammer; his foul breath generated an almost unbearable wave of nausea. A flash of heat shot through me, and my pent-up fury exploded. "I don’t owe you anything!" I screamed at him. "You abused Sheila, you made her life hell, and she got back at you by cheating on you! You are not my father, and you know it! She didn’t farm me out—she sent me to live with friends because she wanted to keep me safe from you!"

  He grunted viciously, pinning me even harder. Rationally, I knew that yelling at him was dangerous. But for the first time in my life, I seemed to have lost control of my anger. "Just admit it, you asshole!" I raged. "Admit it! I’m not your daughter!"

  His shoulder shifted, and his right arm drew back. I flinched, certain that he would strike. But he didn’t. His arm stopped at his side, and his voice dropped low.

  "So she did tell you," he whispered back, his voice pure venom. "You lied to me."

  My heart pounded fiercely. A tiny blip of elation swelled in my chest, but it was far too weak to dampen my ire. I wanted his repugnant carcass off of me. I didn't care how.

  "Yes, she told me!" I lied. "She told me you knew all along!"

  "That’s a load of crap!" he spouted acidly. "Little saint Sheila wanted you to believe she leveled with me, eh? Well, forget it! I didn’t know she was whoring, and you can take that to the bank, because I sure as hell wouldn’t have raised some bastard kid if I had! You were a pain in the ass from day one! Sick, crying all the time. Nasty yellow thing—jaundiced, they told me." His voice turned snide. "Because Sheila had O blood, and you had B. Just like me."

  With a look of disgust, he shifted his weight, moving off me enough to put some space between us. I thought of bolting, but decided against it. It would take only a second for him to crush me again; his grip on my wrists was still numbing. I had to be patient, wait for the right opportunity.

  "I thought you were mine—I had a little piece of paper that said so," he spat. "But the lying slut couldn’t get away with it forever. You know why? Because a buddy of mine got shot in the belly one day. Nearly bled to death right there on the street. Hospital was looking for type-B blood, so good old Jake steps up to the plate. ‘Take mine,’ I said. ‘I’m type B.’"

  His eyes flashed fire. "But I wasn’t a type B, was I? Turns out I was a stinking, bloody O!"

  Faint noises sounded from beneath us. It was as if the French doors were opening—whining their usual whine, clicking shut…

  "So I did a little checking around," Jake continued to rail. "And you know what I found out? You couldn’t be my brat. No way, no how!"

  He stumbled a little, inadvertently stomping on one of my feet, crushing my toes. I clenched my teeth at the pain. "You ruined everything," he continued caustically. "Sheila had a nice body. She was hot. You made her look like an old damned cow." His voice changed to a nasally falsetto. "Not now, Jake, what about the baby? I have to go out—we need some crap for the baby. Don’t do that—it will upset THE BABY!"

  He body-slammed me to the wall again. "I put up with it because I thought you were mine!" he bellowed. "But I don’t have to put up with you anymore—and I sure as hell don’t have to put up with any woman jerking my chain! I’m the one in charge here, and if I want to, I can finish what I should have finished then. I can finish it right now."

  I jerked involuntarily, a biting horror driving me to escape—no matter the cos
t. But there was nowhere to go. His weight pressed against mine, pinning me to the wall. My struggles seemed only to amuse him. He laughed quietly in my ear. "Your momma’s not here to help you now, missy. It’s just you and me."

  Bile rose in my throat; my pulse throbbed in my ears. But surely, now, I could hear the creaking of hardwood floorboards? I cast a wary glance at my assailant’s eyes. But deep in his drunken reverie, he seemed not to notice the sound. Perhaps, not having heard a car engine, he didn't think it possible we could have company.

  Or perhaps, in my own desperation, I was only hearing what I wanted to hear.

  I bucked violently against the wall, trying to move him far enough away to kick, but nothing I did seemed enough. He had strength, bulk, and a lifetime of experience at restraining people. I had nothing but outrage, and I reacted with the only weapon at my disposal. I stretched my neck toward the arm that held my wrists and sank my teeth into it.

  "Damn you!" he thundered, pulling down the hand and shifting to pin me another way. I had no chance to escape. His hold on my wrists never loosened; he merely brought his forearm up under my chin, hard, to prevent a repeat attack. "You’re going to regret that."

  His right arm fumbled with something out of sight. In the next second, a piece of metal appeared between my eyes, as close as if it had grown from my nose.

  It was a switchblade.

  "I don’t like women who mess with me!" he roared at my face. "Got it?"

  I said nothing. My heart couldn’t beat any more violently than it already was. But as my peripheral vision caught a flash of blue in the hall, it did leap.

  Fletcher!

  It took every ounce of strength within me not to look fully toward the doorway. But I knew that even the slightest flicker of my pupils could tip Jake off, and that would spell disaster. There was no way a man of Fletcher's size could sneak up on him from behind, and if Jake was attacked with knife in hand, there was no telling what he might do.

  Stay where you are! I pleaded silently.

  With an effort, I forced my taught body to relax. Jake seemed to sense defeat in me, and smiled. "That’s better," he said more softly. He retracted the blade, but kept it in his hand. "You just need to admit it, that’s all. I’m in charge of you, just like I was in charge of your cheating, bitch mother. You can’t just call me up and blow me off—it’s not up to you. You understand? From now on, you’ll do as I say."

  Don’t look. Not focusing my eyes to the side was torture. The blue area seemed to be gone now. Had I seen it at all?

  Stall him. "I’m not going to report you to the police, if that’s what you mean," I said, forcing a soothing tone. "I don’t remember you hurting Sheila, or me. I was too little."

  "I never hurt you," he snarled. "Jake Kozen don’t beat up kids. Now, grown women who ought to know better, that's something else." With a cruel jerk, he pulled my wrists suddenly upward, wrenching my shoulders.

  "You did so try to hurt me!" I yelled back at him, my emotions once again overpowering my wits. "That’s why Sheila shot you! I know it is!"

  His eyes held mine. Their black depths glinted. "You’d better be damn glad she did, too. Because you know what?" He leaned in again, his face practically touching mine. "If she hadn’t, I’d have rung your scrawny little neck right then and there."

  "Meara? Are you up here?" Fletcher’s voice floated to our ears. Jake stiffened and pulled back.

  Relief flooded my veins. Fletcher sounded as though he were on the stairs. I could hear the last few steps creaking as he sprang up them. "Meara?" he called again, his voice cheerful.

  When his tone penetrated my dazed brain, my emotions reversed to panic. If Fletcher sounded happy, he must have no idea what he was about to walk in on. Had I only imagined seeing his shirt in the hall?

  Before I could respond, another sound filled me with hope. Fletcher was opening other doors, the two nearest the stairs. He had no reason to do that, no reason to believe I would be hiding in an empty bedroom. He must know where I was, what was going on. He was only stalling, making sure we had ample warning of his approach.

  Jake released my arms and stepped back to an innocent distance. He dropped the hand with the knife back into his pocket. "Keep your mouth shut," he whispered.

  Fletcher appeared in the doorway. To a stranger, I suspected his flushed face and wide smile would indicate nothing more than breathless excitement. But I knew him well enough to know better. The flush was from pure ire; the smile masked a keen alertness. "There you are," he said brightly, stepping just inside the doorway. He cast a polite glance from me to Jake. "Sorry, I didn’t know you had company."

  My head spun. I couldn’t seem to move. I was too terrified for Fletcher—terrified that at any moment, Jake would lose what was left of his self-control.

  But Fletcher stepped forward toward Jake without hesitation, proffering his hand. "Fletcher Black," he said pleasantly. "I own the inn here. Nice to meet you. Any friend of Meara’s is a friend of mine."

  Jake stood motionless for a moment, staring. I couldn’t breathe. If he had any inkling that Fletcher had witnessed what had just transpired, I was certain he would spring like a cat—switchblade extended. And though Fletcher was bigger, younger, and stronger, Jake was an armed, veteran brawler. It would be a dangerous battle, and without some weapon of my own, my assistance would be negligible. Once Jake was set off—the die would be cast. Someone would get hurt.

  I took a deep breath, wishing fervently that Fletcher had stayed hidden. He could have called the police and waited. I could have—

  "Jake Kozen," my attacker answered with authority. To my amazement, he extended his hand. It was empty.

  They shook.

  "Nice to meet you," Fletcher responded, all smiles.

  I remained immobile, feeling as if I had dropped out of one surreal dimension and into another. The Jake I saw was back to his policeman persona—swaggering, confident, charismatic. The happy-go-lucky, gregarious, and not-necessarily-so-bright incarnation of Fletcher was someone I’d never met before.

  "Sorry to intrude," the unfamiliar Fletcher apologized. "I’ll get out of your hair in a minute, here. But I just had to come and tell Meara the good news." He turned to me, though he kept one eye on Jake even as he spoke. "I heard back from Ben. He’s been promoted! Isn’t that great? He’s really coming up in the world."

  Our eyes met for only a split second, but I read his message loud and clear. Ben is coming up. The police are on their way.

  The knowledge brought me near to crumbling with elation, but I fought to keep my composure. Fletcher obviously had a ruse in play; I could not screw it up. He must have known that Jake was at the inn when he got here. He must have been intentionally quiet, called the police from the common room, then come up and brainstormed how best to intervene. He had probably accomplished it all in seconds; it was only in my mind that time had stood still. Thank God he’d had the sense not to come flying up the stairs like a maniac.

  "That’s wonderful," I responded. "Ben seems like a nice guy."

  "Oh, he’s great," Fletcher continued enthusiastically, turning his full attention back to Jake. "He’s a cop," he explained. "Down in West Virginia. Just got made detective. You know anything about police work?"

  Jake’s ego swelled visibly. I slipped back slightly, just out of his reach. He didn’t seem to notice. "Hell, yeah," he bragged. "I was a cop for thirty-five years."

  Fletcher appeared impressed. "Really? Well, in that case, why don’t you join me for a drink? I’ve got a bottle of brandy just waiting for a celebration. You can explain to me how they decide who gets detective and who doesn’t. I’ve never really understood all that." He stepped up to Jake and clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder.

  I stifled a gasp. Every muscle in my body tensed as I imagined Jake waiting for just the right moment, turning sharply...

  He didn’t. "Little early in the day for brandy, don’t you think?" he asked with a touch of derision.

  Fletche
r merely chuckled. "It’s never too early for brandy. Hey, Meara," he called to me offhandedly, almost derogatorily. "Would you run and get that bottle from the house? You know the one. Thanks."

  Translation: Get the hell out of here and don’t come back.

  I couldn’t move. In my mind all I could see was Jake’s arm, antsy, his hand fingering the switchblade in his pocket. Fletcher standing close. Too close. Jake raising the knife with a jerk…

  No! I was not running. I would not allow Fletcher to get hurt protecting me. It was not going to happen.

  "I won’t keep you long," Fletcher said cheerfully, guiding an unresisting Jake toward the door. "I’ve got to head out myself in a minute. But you know what they say about drinking alone. So, thirty-five years on the force, eh? Whereabouts?"

  The men walked through the door and out into the hall, and I followed at Jake’s heels, steeling myself to grab his arm should it stray anywhere near his pocket. But his voice remained casual as he answered the question, and the two proceeded toward the staircase as amiably as old chums. Only when they reached it did Jake turn his head to catch my gaze.

  Just wait, his dark eyes taunted me. Just you wait.

  Chapter 29

  A cold chill swept along my spine, but I countered it with the heat of anger. I knew what Jake was doing. He thought he was running a bluff of his own, exiting a tight spot the easy way. Why tangle with a man like Fletcher if he didn’t have to? Fletcher claimed he would be leaving soon—Jake obviously believed he could get me alone again afterwards. Playing nice with Fletcher now would only make Jake’s previous and future encounters with me seem that much more innocuous. Whatever squawking I might do to the contrary would be my word against that of a retired police officer.