by August Red
“Something to that effect.” His answer is hollow.
“You're in trouble. Aren't you? You did something you shouldn’t have,” Belle's thick voice cuts through. “Dad, you told us you were going straight now. Was that a lie?"
There are tears in his eyes. “No, Pumpkin… it wasn’t a lie… But the law, they don't care, they’re investigating it all… If my name is connected in any way to Mr. Kulich—I'm dead."
This isn’t happening. What about Stanford?
“Has anyone approached you, Isabelle?" her father asks all of a sudden.
“Approached?” She wriggles under the gray stare of her father’s. It’s never been this hard to meet before.
“Yes, any strange men calling here or following you at the store or when you’ve been out running. Anything or anyone unusual?"
Judas...
Her mind races to all possibilities. The shock of her father’s announcement clouds her thinking.
“Answer me, Isabelle!"
“No,” she murmurs, “no-one. I swear." It rushes out before she can think with clarity.
“If anyone does, I want you to let me know immediately. You understand me?"
“Does it matter now if we're leaving? College is out the door, our whole lives have to change because of this… All our plans…” She rakes her hands through her loose curls, staring down at her bare feet. “I don't believe this."
“I’m your father. I make the decisions and this is what is best for us. I don't need you to think about why or how—just do as I say." Her father's eyes close when he presses his fingers into his forehead.
Belle can’t look away from him, but her sympathy has run its course. She gets up in one swift angry blur. “I’ll never forgive you for this."
“Isabelle," her father calls out. She stops by the staircase, refusing to speak. She is feeling so many things at once. She’s afraid if she starts talking, she will never stop until everything inside her is taken out. “Hate me as much as you want right now, but you have one week to pack.”
“FINE.”
“You sure?” Judas’ voice punctures her black reverie. She’s been pacing the length of the attic since she woke up the next morning. She’s still in her nightie.
“I said I’m fine,” she mumbles, distracted. “I need to paint."
“So paint."
“I can’t,” she says, lowering herself onto the middle of the floor. “You're here."
“So?"
“So… I can't paint with you here… looking at me... The whole point is to... well… You know what, forget it. It just helps and I can't be who I want to be when you're here always watching me."
“I won’t." Her glare is weary, watery. “I mean, I'll try not to.” His eyes smile, but his lips remain set.
She covers her face with her hands, gripping the loose curls that fall around her. “I'm sure that won’t be hard," she mutters.
“What?"
“Nothing.”
“Something's wrong.” His eyes cut through hers. “What?"
“I want you to be honest with me."
Those words trigger something, reshaping his face into living stone again. His eyes swirl, speckled and hard like marbles. He stares out the window.
You ARE hiding something.
She’s stomped on the last eggshell when it comes to their fragile relationship. But instead of being bothered by this, it just makes her all the more determined. His evasiveness always rises when questions are involved.
Yes, you’re definitely hiding something… I’m sick to death of being lied to.
“Why are you really here?" Silence. “Is there a reason you chose my house to hide in? What’s the name of this gang? Why did they shoot you?” More silence ensues. “Who shot you? Where? Why?”
She stands up and stalks over to him. The less he speaks, the more her aggravation grows and burns her up. All her nerves are winding down, her body pleads from exhaustion to drop and her skin itches for sunlight. She can’t remember the last time she went out and experienced warmth on her. The air-conditioning stretches her skin, thaws it in place.
“Answer me. Now,” she whispers, fiercely. He doesn’t appear to have heard her. “I want you out of here unless you answer some of my questions."
He angles forward, holding his side, then stands, slowly at first. He’s in front of her, his full height dwarfing her and her rage. His jaw ticks under a thin control and she knows one word from her can split it into two like tissue paper.
“I'll leave.” His husky baritone shatters the quiet and his resolve kicks her off her rocker. He drags his body nearer to the door, his feet shuffling against the old wood. It’s an incredibly sick sound and it makes her stomach roll to picture him trying to make it two steps out of the door.
How can he have anything to do with Dad? Why would Mr. Kulich send the man who saved me years ago—shot and dying—to hide in my attic? In the highly-unlikely event that that’s true, then surely Mr. Kulich would have taken Judas when he came over last night… No… The idea is ridiculous. He just can’t have anything to do with what’s happening with us…
She’s taking her anger out on him, and that simply isn’t fair.
Her eyes cloud with tears. “Please, just…” She drowns her nerves. “…Just tell me the truth. I don't want you... hurt."
Judas stiffens. She listens to his heavy breaths as if he’s breathing right in her ear. He faces her, leaning to his side. Her head drops but the tears fall. One by one.
“I can’t."
She slouches forward, her hair covers her, protects her, but it’s clear as day, ringing in her ears, enveloping her senses, breaking through the atmosphere. She is so unprepared for the things she feels when Judas is around her.
“Why?” she asks, almost breathless.
“Don’t make me lie to you,” he whispers, as he edges closer. “Belle, whatever happens... know I would never hurt you." She doesn’t notice how close he gets until she wipes her cheeks and braves herself for his glacial expression, only to find him towering over her, his eyes soft like blue raindrops. Her sigh vibrates between them like a soft measure on a piano. He takes one, sure, step closer, the small distance between them evaporating from the thick space of his body. His eyes dance between her eyes and her mouth. “I promise." His thumb nudges her chin up, forcing her to take him in.
“You promise?” She is lost in him. Her nose scrunches and her swollen lips wobble. He inches the pad of his thumb higher, watching her.
“I won’t hurt you. Believe that,” he breathes out, against her forehead.
“I don't.” She swallows, her body swaying on its own accord toward his. “I don't believe anything anymore."
“Believe me."
The warm palm of his hand burns her neck as it wraps around her and takes hold. She blinks, her mind scrambling as a dizzy heat starts in her stomach and oozes through her. “I don't… I can’t..." Her mind flashes back four years, remembering.
His nose touches hers. At first she wonders if the touch is by accident, but a second time… she can’t deny the second time.
The sharp tip bumps her rounded one, then grazes the side when his shadow eclipses half her face. “Believe me." His words are like a whirlpool, carrying her down into the unpredictable, the unknown. Into the past. When she did believe in someone.
The mysterious biker who carried her in his arms.
Mesmerized, she knows she is being sucked in. His eyes brighten, taking in her lips. Her cheeks burn, her pulse skitters. “Why? she whispers. Her eyes close when a rush of his breath strokes her skin. She can’t breathe right.
“Why not?” he asks.
“Why do you want me to believe? Why do you care?"
His breaths comes out shorter, bursting against her lips, making her lick the flesh there. His mouth edges closer, a secret away from hers, an eyelash's length of an eternity. His brow crinkles as though he’s lost to the fight of control. “I don't… I don't know,” he replies, “I ju
st need you to."
“Believe in you?” she shakes out.
He bends his dark head to whisper against her temple, “Yes…” His voice tidal waves over hers, bathing her skin with heat. His nose embeds itself in her cheek and he inhales her, drinking her in.
She holds her breath until she feels like her lungs are going to burst. She stammers his name as he leans his top lip against hers, “J-Judas.” Their breaths mingle together, drown in confusion, surfacing in awareness, as their foreheads, along with other parts of them, touch, flesh to flesh.
Judas licks his lips, nipping her lower lip with his tongue along the way. His lips part when his eyes devour her face; she’s frightened by the amount of hunger she sees in his eyes. Her knees go soft when his upper lip skims over hers, her skin jolts—
“Isabelle?”
The knocking on the attic door makes her soul leap out from her body.
The doorknob jiggles.
"Isabelle. Are you in there?"
Chapter Eleven
SHE HAS COME so far without giving herself away.
Having a man, a flesh-and-blood fallen angel, almost kiss her, shouldn't wipe her senses from her brain. No matter how inescapably and dangerously beautiful he is. The sound of their breathing mingles at a furious pace, pulsing between their faces.
The knock, at first, a distant hum—then it grows louder.
The fog slowly lifts and Judas is the first to react. He is still very much pressed into her. His hands are all over her, his fingers wild and desperate as they cling at the edges of her jawline, then sweep her hair away from her shoulders only to grip the sides of her face again. His eyes fight for something—Belle can’t decipher what—but it looks very much like... control.
He pulls back slowly, his mouth gradually breaking from hers. Her upper lip sticks to his for a second before letting go on its own.
Belle fights to say something, anything to explain herself as her cheeks swell with heat. “I… I didn’t mean…"
“Shssh.” The long lean side of his index finger presses into the center of her lips to silence her.
The door knocks again and Judas—his eyes never leaving her face—moves away from her. A dark hint of an ache shadows every feature he fixes on her. Her mind is sluggish, feverish, and sputters off helplessly working at a snails pace. Her mind, her body, is otherwise entangled in Judas’ presence, and no matter of knocking, as weighty as it is, can jump-start her.
Thank God, Judas is quicker. His warmth, his building shadow, is one second looming over her, bearing all, permeating her senses, and the next, he is gone, hiding somewhere.
The fourth knock, heavy with impatience, catapults her body forward. Unfortunately her thoughts are not as quick to catch up.
The door opens.
NO!
Her father steps inside.
Oh God, no… Dad’s in the attic!
“What are you doing in here?” he asks.
Her whole body shakes. Belle’s heart is thumping so loud, she almost can’t hear anything else.
Her secret is just a breath away from being uncovered.
“Isabelle? Are you all right?" She can feel all the color draining from her face, like paint dripping from her canvas.
“Fine," she coughs, while moving forward, ushering her father out of the attic. He turns, giving her a confused look.
Dad, please—why now of all times decide to investigate the junk in the attic…?
He angles his head to the right as if he hears something.
“Dad, let’s talk out here. Please.” Just before her life is drained from her, he finally listens and follows. Belle immediately goes behind him to close the attic door. “What is it?”
“Emmett Irving’s on the phone.” He hands her the portable. “He says it’s urgent.”
Belle gulps down some air, the constriction in her throat lessening as her father goes back downstairs. She waits for her heart to jump back inside her body before bringing up the phone to her ear.
“Emmett," she mutters.
“Petal,” he purrs.
“What. Is. It?"
“Remember that favor I did for you not too long ago?"
Belle’s back stiffens. “What about it?”
“Pay up."
“Excuse me?” She doesn’t like where this is going. She doesn’t like it one bit.
“I helped you out. You owe me."
“What do you want?" she hisses.
“You know what I want,” he sniggers. “What you gave me years ago, Petal.”
Belle's eyes prickle, her hands ball into fists at her sides. “God’s sakes, I don't have time for this."
“Okay fine. I guess you won't mind me telling Daddy you’ve been a naughty little girl—again. Asking for medicine you didn’t even have prescriptions for—"
“Emmett.” Her nostrils pinch together, a flare of nervous heat scrapes across her skin.
“What? If there's nothing to hide..."
“Enough with the games. What’d you want?” she spits out.
“Do you still have that white dress?”
“Why?” She can feel acid rise up and down in her throat. She’s caught, and her predator has its mouth wide open.
“Tonight. You and me. On a date."
HER NAME IS Isabelle Dela Cruz.
The little bit…
He doesn’t know how to handle the little bit in his life that’s come crashing into him from all sides. His eyes close without thinking.
Handle Belle…
Just her name knocks every sense inside him on its back. It isn’t her staggering natural beauty that has Judas in knots. Neither is it her enchanting emerald eyes, her vanilla skin, her long silky strawberry-scented hair, her sweet scent or those perfectly pink lips. That’d be too easy.
No. She’s gotten inside him somehow. Filled the little bit inside him that he didn't know had been empty.
Until now.
Another day has rolled on by, night taking over again. She’s been attending to his needs all day. She’d even gone all out and bought him a white shirt since none of her father’s clothes fitted his large stature. She’s been doing nothing but helping him. Saved his goddamn life, for fuck’s sakes! And she’s doing it all for nothing in return...
People don’t lend a hand unless they want something in return. Especially from a man like him. A man who has one-point-two billion to his name. And Belle has smashed his beliefs—his world—into millions of pieces.
Jesus Christ, I need to get the fuck outta here before I go all kinds of crazy.
He is so tangled up inside, he’s beginning to not trust his own instincts. How can he let this mere wisp of a woman—girl—distract him from his mission? He’s soft. Weak.
No. This isn’t him. It’s because he’s been shot. Because he has a high fever and it’s making him delirious, making him feel and say things he doesn’t mean. Nothing more.
The door creaks and shuts on a small thud…
His body, which is leaning heavily on support of the center beam, straightens. A fuzzy sensation heightens his senses, blurring all sounds and objects around him. It’s a funny feeling that feathers across and over his skin, like silken leaves are brushing over him.
Belle is there. Alone. In the attic. With him.
He turns, finding her in the shadows of the evening light. Nothing could have prepared him for this moment…
His adrenaline spikes at the sight that beholds him. His heart beats like a drum. The white dress gliding toward him glows in the moonlight. It takes his breath away.
An angel.
Her face, her eyes, fixes on the window as she places his dinner near the bed. Despair is present in her blank eyes, filmed over, not taking much in as she walks over to the window.
And it bothers him.
Something pulls him toward her. Belle doesn’t even seem to realize he’s come to stand next to her by the window, although he makes sure to stay a good foot away.
“I love the
night time, don't you?" she murmurs.
She’s been crying. He can tell easily by the tears that haven’t been wiped away on her soft cheeks. Her voice also has an aching hoarseness to it. He doesn’t answer.
“I usually come up here at night.” She moves closer to the window. Closer to him. Her dress blends into the glow of the Moon and something sparkles near the base of her neck. He’s mesmerized, can’t pull his gaze away. He watches her, his lips tugging at the corners as he drinks in the sway of her hips, the tilt of her head, the fluid movement of her body, and the beautiful way her dress clings to each curve—
“It's so much more peaceful… And the Sky…” she breathes out, “…the Sky looks like a painting come to life. It's so overwhelming… You think your problems are so huge, no-one can understand and then, you come up here and look out the window, and it all just seems so… irrelevant."
She hangs her head for a second and Judas fights the urge to move closer.
“If I could, I would leave and never come back. If I had one wish…” she trails off.
“Where would you go?” he hears himself say, coming closer, giving in to his urges.
“Nowhere… Everywhere… You know I've never been outside of Wentworth Creek except when I was a small child... Just when I thought my life was going to start... God, I feel like I’m going nowhere.” She turns to face him, her eyes searching as though waiting for him to give her all the answers.
Her fingers accidently brush against his, and something drags him under. He doesn’t know if it’s her eyes, or the way her mouth trembles each time his skin passes over hers, but he doesn’t like it. He can’t stop it either.
“Your dress... You must be going somewhere tonight?”
He feels her body tense. “I, uh… I... have a date…” His whole demeanor drops then, as if he’s just been told he’s going to die. And she notices. “Well, not a date date—it’s not a date, Judas. I mean, it’s hard to explain—”
“The fuck I care if you go on a date?” he snaps, crossing his arms like he’s trying hard to protect himself from something. His jaw stiffens and he takes a step back, needing more air.
The sigh of frustration she breathes out, slices him like a paper-cut. “Fine... Forget it.” Her voice is dry, exasperated. “Well, maybe I won’t be home tonight then.” She stomps toward the attic door, and the room feels colder all of a sudden.