by Sara Hubbard
“Please don’t leave,” I say. “You need to be here. Just a little while longer until we can get your hemoglobin up, okay?”
He nods, considering. With a single finger, he caresses the underside of his strong, wide jaw. “Okay. If you say so. But only on one condition.”
“Okaaay,” I say slowly, not sure if I want to commit something to someone who quite literally might hurt me if I don’t follow through.
“Go out with me.”
“Maxim…”
“Just one date. After I’m discharged. And then I’ll never ask you out again.”
“You can’t promise that,” I say.
“I just did.”
“I’m pretty amazing,” I tease. “What if I’m the girl of your dreams? Would you let me walk away still?”
He licks his lips before revealing a hint of a smile. “Absolutely. But then, maybe I’d turn out to be the man of your dreams, and then I wouldn’t have to ask you out again. You’d ask me.”
“Aren’t you the optimist.”
“That sounds like a yes.”
It wasn’t, but it also wasn’t a no.
* * *
Arms and legs bound, the tall, lanky man from the warehouse hefts me over his shoulder and tosses me into the trunk of his car. I struggle, squirming and twisting, as I try to fight him. These men are murderers, and they were told to kill me. Maxim was told to kill me.
I thought I might run into him some day and we’d give each other a second glance. I would wonder if he remembered me but would keep walking, knowing our short romance was never meant to last. Never for a second did I imagine this is how we’d meet again.
“Help!” I scream out to anyone who might hear. The man stands over me, holding the trunk hood, staring down at me like I’m the most offensive woman he’s ever seen. With a scrunched-up face and narrowed eyes, he searches his pockets before removing a balled-up handful of napkins.
“Help! Someone! Please!” Tears stream down my cheeks. I’m beaten badly, but I feel nothing except panic and fear for my mother and me. I see images clearly in my mind where they are killing me and my mother—slowly. Making us suffer.
When the man tries to shove napkins in my mouth, I jerk my head in every direction and purse my lips together. With one hand, he holds the back of my head and forces me to still, and with his other hand he plugs my nose. I feel my face redden, feel the desperate instinct to inhale, and as the seconds tick away, I know it’s only a matter of time before my lips part.
He’s willing to wait. I open my mouth and gasp for air, just as he lets go of my nose and shoves the napkins so far in my mouth that they strike my tonsils. My stomach retches but I fight it hard, worried I’ll suffocate. I look at him, pleading with him to let me go.
He slams the trunk door and leaves me alone in the darkness. At first, I let my head fall to the floor as the fight in me dies. There is no way out of this now. Not even with Maxim involved. He won’t save me. Especially not after how I ended things.
Is this the end? Inside the warehouse, I was sure it was…until the others left and Maxim talked with the lanky man. It sounded as if Maxim’s going to let me live, but how could he? Like the lanky man said, I’m a witness. Of my own father’s murder.
Dad… Oh, my God. Dad. My face scrunches up as grief rises up inside of me. He’s gone. We’ll never get past his addiction. I’ll never have the dad back I ached for all these years. Instead, my last memories of him will be of him trading drugs and his life for my own. How could he do that? I was willing to die for him because that’s what you do when you love someone. You sacrifice. You give. You love even when you know it’s not good for you. If he loved me, wouldn’t he have offered to die for me? I never would have let him, but wouldn’t he have offered?
I inhale deeply through my nose and try to calm myself. Tears won’t help me. I need to keep my wits about me and figure a way out of this so I can warn my mother and save her life. And I need to find a way to save my own.
Hands tied behind my back with rough, yellow rope, I wiggle my hands and try to get free. The ropes are too tight, and every twist and turn burns the flesh on my wrists. This guy knew what he was doing when he tied them, but then, he’s likely done this before. I search with my hands, shimmying around the trunk, looking for something sharp. There is nothing here at all. I scream again, my sounds muffled and stifled by the napkins. There is no way out. I thrash about, kick the car, screaming over and over, hoping someone driving by or someone stopped at a light might hear me.
But no one does.
The car rolls forward, stopping and starting, first over smooth pavement, then over gravel until it finally stops. Then I still and hear the thunder of my heart pounding in my chest. Not knowing what’s coming next is almost as bad as waiting to die.
The trunk doesn’t open immediately. With bated breath, I wait. Has he left me here? Then the car moves slightly, and I hear a flicking noise, followed by the smell of smoke. I taste it in the air, and I panic, assuming the worst. That he might actually burn me alive in the trunk of his car. I scream again. Then I scream some more until my voice is hoarse and I have no energy left. Ten minutes? An hour? How much time has passed? I wiggle my wrists again, still trying desperately to pull free.
Footsteps crunch on gravel. They stop just outside of the trunk.
As if the man thought I might spring for him, he opens the trunk slowly while leaning away. He shakes his head at me, and I start to tremble. He reaches down and snatches the napkins. They come apart so I open wide so he can grab one that he left behind.
Resisting is futile. I won’t win. Not like this, and I’m not entirely sure I could beat him if I wasn’t bound. I would try, though. My God, I would give him the fight of my life.
“Easy or hard?” he asks me. His tone is calm and even. Like he’s offering me the choice between coffee and tea.
I stare at him.
“Choose, or I’ll choose for you.”
I swallow hard. My mouth is dry, and my throat is sore. And my face is pained from the beating I took when those other men abducted me in the street. They hit me so hard, I think they meant to end me right then and there.
“Easy,” I say, my voice cracking.
He nods. He reaches his long arms out to grab me, and after a grunt, he lifts me up and holds me against his chest. There is a faint smell of salt in the air, and it mixes with the man’s minty breath and the bergamot in his cologne. He eyes me, though he doesn’t look down. I look up at the moon. It shines down on us, and I wonder if this is the last time I’ll ever see it.
He carries me to a tall contemporary house with dark walls and few windows. The front door is massive and wide and stained a rich cedar color. Off to the side of the door is a small electronic box with a small clear square on top and numbered keys below it. He leans forward and stares into it.
“Good evening, Mr. Antonov,” a robotic voice says.
After a loud click, the door opens wide. I’ve never seen technology like that before. I’m not sure if it scanned his retina or his face.
“Antonov is your name?” I say.
“Da,” he says. I think he’s speaking Russian. That might be the only word I know in their language. “And it’s better for you if you forget it.”
“Does it really matter now?” I ask, but I don’t say it to him. It’s more me musing to myself.
“Net,” he says with a frown. “It really doesn’t.”
My eyes roam the house as he walks down a wide hallway and up a curving staircase. The rails are metal and cold. Everything about this place is cold. White walls and furniture with clean, sleek lines. Framed pictures on the wall that are scenic but not familiar. It doesn’t even look like someone lives here. It looks like a museum.
He continues down a hallway and stops at the last door on the right side. Gently, he puts me down. Then he pulls out a knife. Legs still tied, I struggle to run from him, but end up falling on my face. I feel him next to me, and then his knife s
lices through the rope around my ankles.
I turn my head to look at him. He won’t meet my gaze. He opens the door and says, “Get up.” He still holds the knife and points to the room. The lights are off, and I can’t see inside. My imagination runs wild as I think of a torture room, or worse, a bedroom.
“No,” I say, my eyes wide.
“We’re doing this hard now, are we?” He waves the knife through the air at the room. “Do you want me to hurt you? Haven’t you had enough for tonight?”
“Please,” I whisper.
“Move!”
I hold my breath and steel myself. With tiny steps, I inch inside the room into the darkness. When the lights flicker on, I take in my surroundings, my heart beating a million times a minute. A four-poster bed with plush gray sheets and a comforter, French doors with golden drapes pulled to either side, a tall mahogany dresser, a sitting area with two chairs and a small table between them. Two open doors, one to a walk-in closet and another to a white-walled bathroom.
“Your new room,” he says. There’s a touch of annoyance to his voice.
His footsteps boom as he walks closer to me. I round my shoulders and hang my head, thinking he might touch me or throw me on the bed. If they aren’t going to kill me, what else could they want with me? This is the only explanation I can think of.
“I have Aids,” I say.
He chuckles. “Good for you.”
“If you were thinking of…you know…”
He raises an eyebrow.
I nod to the bed.
He laughs now. “If I had my way, you’d already be dead. Fucking you is the last thing on my mind right now.”
“Why aren’t I dead?” I ask.
“You tell me. How well do you know Maxim?”
I open my mouth and snap it shut. Not well at all, and yet, there was something between us, something unexpected. Something powerful. A few weeks with him in the hospital and a few weeks out. That was all it took for me to crave him. I couldn’t help myself, which is why I couldn’t let it continue.
He stares at me with a single raised eyebrow.
I swallow hard. “I want to speak to him.”
He scratches his cheek right before chuckling at me. “You don’t get to make demands.”
“Is he going to kill me?”
He says nothing, just continues to stare.
“Please! Just tell me. What about my mother? Will he kill her? Will you?”
“That’s up to him.”
“Why would he ask you to bring me here?”
He groans at me and rolls his head and then his shoulders. “Look, lady, I don’t know anything. He wanted me to take you here, so here you are.”
I swallow a building lump in my throat and choke down tears. I won’t let them fall, won’t let him see them. I have to be strong. “I’ll do anything you want. Just let me go. I won’t go to the police. I’ll pretend tonight never happened. Just please let me go.”
“Do you really think I’ll let you go? Do you really think begging me will make a guy like me feel for a girl like you?” He shakes his head. But there is a slight frown on his face.
I hang my head, but then hold it up high. “I had to try.”
With long strides, he approaches me, and I take a step back and then another. He holds the knife out and says, “Turn around.” He towers over me. I’m only five-four and he has to be at least six feet.
My eyes go wide.
“Now!”
Trembling, I do as he asks. He grips my hands, but then I don’t feel the burn and pain of a knife anywhere except from the ropes as he saws through them. When they’re finally free, my hands fall to my sides as if the bones inside have somehow melted away. It takes everything I have to lift my hands and stare at my raw, bleeding wrists.
“Give me trouble, and I’ll tie you back up. Only this time, it’ll be tighter and with chicken wire.”
I gulp.
“Take a seat.” He points to the bed.
I sit down, my hands in my lap. That’s when I notice the blood on my scrubs. I touch the splatter, run my fingers over it, processing it for what it is. My father’s blood. On me. I lift my legs and see most of my pants from my knees down is red. His blood was everywhere. It reached for me like long, crimson arms until it touched me and soaked through to my skin. I choke back tears again, but I can’t hold them back anymore. I start to sob. I can’t catch my breath. I heave in and out, gasping for air. I’ve never had a panic attack before. I recognize it, and I know it’ll pass, but it still grips me, and I struggle to breathe. When I’m able to calm down and be quiet, I still at a banging noise coming from downstairs. I look up at him and swallow salty tears.
“Stay here.” The man puts his knife away and then reaches for his gun from the holster under his arm.
With long strides, he marches to the door and slams it shut behind him. I’m struck between calling out in case there is someone here who could help me and trying to find an escape. I make my choice quickly, hurrying to the French doors. They’re locked and the deadbolt won’t move. It’s as if it’s cemented into place. I grab a chair and hurl it toward the window, but it bounces off and falls to the floor. I pick up a lamp and toss it as hard as I can. It bounces off, too. Bullet proof glass? You’ve gotta be kidding me! I sprint to the bathroom and look for a window that opens. There is one above the toilet in the corner of the room, and it’s actually open. It’s small, but still large enough for someone like me to fit through.
I run to it and stand on the toilet seat cover. It’s only opened a crack so I shove it over and over again until it’s open as far as it will go. Then, I poke my head out and look down. Although I’m on the second floor, I’m surprisingly high up. The ceilings were much higher than normal on the first floor. Thankfully, there’s a bush below the window, and it might be enough to break my fall and not break me.
The door handle of the bathroom wiggles. I hear the quiet clanking. Then it gets louder. Bang, bang, bang. I pause and turn. The door shakes as he hits it again. If he catches me like this, I’m dead, for sure. My mother, too. I have to get out of here and warn her. Grunting, I push myself out headfirst. My heart races as he fights with the door. Bang. Bang. Bang. I’m almost out. Nearly there. I rest my hands on the side of the house and push myself to force my hips through the opening that seems smaller than when I first looked at it. Just a little more.
Bang, bang, bang.
Warm hands encircle my ankles. I let out a scream as I’m yanked backwards. “No!” I push hard on the house, but he’s stronger. When my chest reaches the sill, I bend my arms and refuse to be moved another inch. That’s when a hard fist hits me in my side. I let out a gasp, and my arms go limp as he pulls me the rest of the way inside. He catches me before I fall. But then he drops me onto the cold tile floor. My elbows and knees connect first. My adrenaline is high, and I don’t feel a thing physically. Mentally, I’m about to break.
I roll over, my hands up in surrender. He stares down at me, his arms out at the sides, his fists balled up and ready to strike.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Are you done?” he growls at me.
I nod quickly.
“Get up!”
I’m not sure I can, but somewhere I find the strength to put my hands on the ground and push myself up to my feet.
He takes a step back, leaving me a clear path back to the bedroom. The bedroom door is open, but there is a massive, jagged hole through the centre of it. The wood on the frame near the lock is splintered. With my head down, I walk by him, feeling the intensity of his stare. In the bedroom, I take a seat in one of the chairs by the French doors.
“I swear to fuck, lady, you try that shit again, I’ll kill you myself. I don’t give a fuck what Maxim wants.”
I glance up at him and see no trace of a lie in his cold, hard face.
“What now?” I ask him quietly.
“We wait.”
Wait? For what?
Chapter 4
Maxim: Even as I pull into the attached garage of my home, I’m not sure what I’m going to do with Luna. She’s going to cause me a great deal of grief. Not just from her fiery attitude, but because my father is going to kill me—literally—when he finds out she’s alive.
My life would be easier if I’d just aimed my gun at her innocent face and pulled the damn trigger. I was resigned to do it, too, before I knew who she was—or more accurately, who she is to me. But then she had to open her mouth. This is the exact reason why we gag people. The people we deal with are manipulative, and they try to talk their way out of anything.
But she’s not like the others.
I run a hand through my hair. The people I’ve killed were criminals like me. When you live this life, you accept that you’ll likely never die of old age. You’ll have enemies, and they’ll want to end you at some point. It’s part of the game. And because I kill people like me, I feel no remorse when I kill. But this woman? This woman who nursed me back to health, who listened to me in a way no one ever had—or has since. I cared for her, and I don’t allow myself to truly care for anyone. Which is why I let her walk away before I wanted her to. She doesn’t belong in my world. I knew that from day one. She’s a fucking nurse, for crying out loud. I kill and she heals. The fucking irony of it is laughable.
I didn’t recognize her right away, and I should have. Those intense eyes that are almost too bright to look at. Once I made that connection, it didn’t matter how bloodied and dirty and swollen her face was. I saw her. And she saw me—the monster she always knew I could be.
“You’re safe. Everything is going to be okay now.” When she said those words to me nearly two years ago, I remember trusting her. No, I remember wanting to trust her, which, for me, is just as remarkable.