by Hope Anika
She had survived. But he knew that look.
He saw it every day in the mirror.
Cheyenne F. Elias: Session #21
Case Manager: Connie Brock
10/05/1997
* * *
I met with Cheyenne this morning to discuss her recent behavior. Last night, she was discovered—along with her constant companion and cohort Georgia Humboldt—defacing the reading room walls with pornographic images. While they were not particularly detailed, they were wholly inappropriate and constitute vandalism. That she has rather astounding artistic talent does not excuse either her actions or her subject matter—in spite of her opinion to the contrary.
“It’s art,” she told me, quite self-righteously, in a tone I can only describe as exasperated and more than a little condescending.
I am certain it was Georgia who incited this behavior. My approval of the girls’ friendship has begun to wane, and I am now beginning to question the wisdom of allowing them to cultivate the close relationship they’ve formed. Georgia has no boundaries, and she does not seem aware that there is a difference between right and wrong. I have witnessed such deliberate cruelty and manipulation in her that I sometimes fear for the safety of those around her. I cannot tell if it is simply the repercussions of her upbringing or if there is something more sinister at work. Her caseworker insists she is simply in pain and lashing out, as they all do. But my gut tells me there is more to it, and I worry about Cheyenne being in her constant company. Since the death of her mother, Cheyenne rarely strays from Georgia’s side.
They have bonded, and I do not know how to undo it. Neither will conform, and both have been kicked out of every home that has fostered them. They return here, again and again, as though planned, and proceed to break every rule, even those in place to protect them. For Cheyenne, I believe it is rebellion. And pain. She lives in such stark, relentless pain, I find I can hardly blame her for bucking the system. And yet, as her caseworker, I cannot continue to allow such behavior. She needs discipline and guidance, and she must be made to understand that what Georgia considers “fun” is neither proper nor moral.
If I cannot find a good foster family for Cheyenne, I will lose her. Georgia has far too much influence over her, and I don’t know that Cheyenne will ever see Georgia for who she is becoming. There is kindness in Cheyenne, courage and hope, and the promise of love. I see none of those things in Georgia. It is my greatest fear Georgia will turn Cheyenne into someone she is not, simply because she can—and because she does not want to be alone.
I have taken Cheyenne’s sketchbook and art supplies and locked them away for ten days. This, in addition to dish detail in the cafeteria for the next month, is her punishment. Moving forward, I am going to schedule more regular sessions with her in hopes that I can somehow alter the path she seems to have chosen—and to create much needed distance between her and Georgia.
She is angry with me, but I can live with that. Someday she will understand.
In the second photo, she stared right at him.
There was no date, but she appeared to be fifteen, give or take. She had grown into those broad bones and that wide mouth, and the word arresting whispered to him as he studied her. She was not beautiful. But there was something alluring there, something that not even the scar that traced its way over the slope of her cheek and trickled down her jaw like melted wax could alter. Character and strength and determination.
She had decided to live.
Her eyes were green, lush, rich, earthy green, like the boughs of pine he’d grown up riding through. Freckles scattered across her nose and brushed her cheeks; her skin was the color of fresh cream, and her hair was a wild, untamed mane of fiery red.
What stirred within Will as he studied the photo was not something he would acknowledge. A recognition—like me—too dangerous to concede; a tether woven of blood and pain and survival. He saw himself in her eyes. She was cold, closed, knowing. Life had nothing new to show her. She was not a child; she never had been.
Set on fire and left to burn…
Christ.
Cheyenne F. Elias: Final Report
Case Manager: Connie Brock
1/13/2002
* * *
This is a follow up to the report filed 1/4/2002.
Cheyenne was reported missing by DFS on the morning of January 4, 2002. Although she disappeared twenty-four hours prior, Cheyenne has a history of running away and returning so the decision to allow her a twenty-four hour window within which to return was made.
As stated in the earlier report, Cheyenne was not alone when she left Haven. Georgia Humboldt accompanied her. However, Georgia returned to Haven at 4:30p.m. on the evening of the 4th. Cheyenne did not.
Although Georgia and Cheyenne have been best friends since they were children, Georgia would not speak of Cheyenne when she returned. She was cold and remote when asked, and even under threat of punishment refused to share where the girls had gone, what they’d done, or Cheyenne’s whereabouts.
This evening, at 7:30 p.m., Cheyenne returned to Haven.
I was in the library, where Mr. Barns was reading I Am the Cheese. Several of the older girls were there, including Georgia Humboldt. Everyone was sitting quietly, listening to Mr. Barns when Cheyenne entered the room. She went directly to Georgia, who immediately stood. They didn’t speak.
Before either Mr. Barns or I could react, Cheyenne pushed Georgia into the eastern wall. Georgia struck the wall with intense force; her nose broke instantly. She had no chance to defend herself. Cheyenne grabbed her by the hair and hit her, again and again, until I lost count. The blows were brutal; blood was everywhere. One of Georgia’s front teeth was knocked out.
Georgia fell to the floor, and Mr. Barns moved to intercept. Cheyenne then pushed Mr. Barns into the wall and began to kick Georgia. She was pitiless. Some of the kids began to scream.
I’m ashamed to admit I just stood there, stunned and horrified.
When Mr. Barns again attempted to separate them, Cheyenne turned and head-butted him. She then said something to Georgia that I couldn’t hear and immediately thereafter, fled. She somehow managed to avoid security and escaped the facility. As of this date, Cheyenne has not returned.
Georgia will not speak of that night. I can only speculate as to what destroyed these girls’ relationship and why that break was so violent. While Cheyenne had a history of disciplinary problems and rule breaking—we were never able to place her permanently with any foster family—she never physically harmed anyone. Georgia, however, has an extensive history of physical assault. Personally, I believe something Georgia did was the catalyst for this event, but, again, that is only speculation.
I will continue to question Georgia, and the other children as well. The police have issued an APB, but I believe Cheyenne Elias has left Haven for the last time.
You’ll know her when you see her.
Cheyenne Elias stood on the escalator, a leather pack anchored over her shoulder, the brim of her hat pulled low over her eyes.
People milled throughout Mitchell International Airport as Will watched her, but he blended easily, moving against the slow crawl of the crowd like a fish swimming effortlessly upstream. His gaze locked onto her as she stepped off the moving track and made her way toward baggage claim.
She walked with a long-legged, confident stride: a city walk. Aggressive and uncompromising. She didn’t go with the flow, she was the flow. Leading those too confused to lead themselves. She didn’t smile; she didn’t chat. She moved.
Will followed.
Awareness thrummed through him; anticipation licked at his nerves. If the girl in the photo had touched him, witnessing the woman in the flesh was like being struck by a bolt of fucking lightning. Instant and electric and goddamn painful. The allure was manifest: shocking and visceral, and something for which he was wholly unprepared. That tether of blood and pain and survival seeking to reel him in.
Like me.
But it was bulls
hit. She was nothing like him.
If his heart beat too fast, and his blood rushed too thick, it was just the promise she offered. The avenue she might yet present to his destination.
Means to an end. Nothing more.
Adrenaline surged through him as he stalked her through the crowd, only a few feet away. Close enough to touch. A stupid, dangerous thought that made the tension riding him tighten to the breaking point. But he was already broken. Nothing she could do—or be—would change that.
He followed as she made her way through the crowd and moved to the car rental counter, where she took a place in line. She stood patiently, one hand on the strap of her pack, the other tapping her leg in a rhythm that betrayed her calm veneer.
He should have retreated into the mix of bodies then, a phantom observer only. Learning her was his first priority, and that was best accomplished from afar, while she was unaware and unguarded. Her body language alone would tell him far more than any of her words. Truth, not lie. A foundation to build upon.
He stepped into line behind her anyway.
He couldn’t have said why; in that moment, he wasn’t asking. Instinct drove him, overriding his training, his experience, common fucking sense. Because she could be no one good. Even if part of him wanted to kiss her for beating Georgia Humboldt’s ass into the ground; even if her pain had singed that part of his soul thought lost. She was the enemy, as proven by her presence. She was the guardian to Georgia’s son. Whatever had passed, she and Georgia had survived. They’d been friends.
Conspirators.
And if everything within him rebelled against that idea, well…that was because he was fucked in the head. Plain and simple. He knew better than to believe.
Yet, he didn’t move. Instead, he stepped closer. Called himself every name in the book and stood motionless as her scent washed over him.
Lemon and verbena and…turpentine?
She wore black cargo pants that clung, a black fitted fleece and a black ball cap. Scuffed, well-worn hiking boots covered her feet. He stared at the thick, tangled ponytail of fiery red hair she’d threaded through the back of her cap and wanted to wrap it in his fist. It hung nearly to the small of her back; it would provide an inescapable handhold. His hand clenched against temptation.
Sickened by the alien, unwanted something she touched within him, Will stood there, inhaling her.
For months there had been only fury, hungry and relentless, driving him forward, consuming everything in his path. He hadn’t been burdened by any emotion outside the scope of his wrath. But reading that goddamn file, seeing those photos, the brutal slap of her existence…it threatened to make him feel. Beyond the fury. Beyond vengeance.
Illogical, inexplicable. And something he would not allow.
Enemy.
The woman who stood in line beside them turned and glanced at Cheyenne. She flinched, looked away, and then turned back, as though helpless to resist. She eyed Cheyenne’s scar, and distaste crawled across her features, as if she’d spotted something that preferred dark, damp corners and ate insects for dinner.
His hackles rose.
Damned fool. Some soldier you are. Distracted by the motherfucking enemy.
Cheyenne turned and stared at the woman, challenge and annoyance in her profile. She was a moment from speaking—he knew it, could feel it, which just spiraled him further into the chaos she’d produced—when the woman blushed and looked away.
Christ, it made him hard.
He was fucked in the head.
He told himself to step away. You are the monster in the closet. She had to fear him. Instead, he took another step forward, turmoil churning, pressing hot and sharp against his lungs.
So close. So easy, to just reach out…and touch.
Chapter Five
Goddamn humanity.
Six hours and seventeen minutes of it was damn near all Cheyenne could take. And because she felt like a martini that had been quite violently shaken, any semblance of patience she’d had was gone. The crowd, the noise, the press of bodies—there was nothing about this place she had missed. Nothing at all.
And while she’d spent a fair amount of the last six hours mulling Olga’s advice—and making mental lists of what The Kid might need—there had also been far too much time spent questioning her decision, second guessing her gut and replaying Whitney’s freak out in her head.
YOU WILL REGRET THIS!
Christ, she hoped not. But standing there, trying to fake patience in the car rental line, she’d begun to wonder. She’d not expected to feel anything from this place, but she did. She did. Which only made her wonder if it could truly happen, if the new could fade away, bled out by the open wound of the old, until she was not who she’d become, but someone altogether different—her—that stupid, foolish, hopeless girl who had almost gotten them both killed.
And wouldn’t that just be sucktastic?
But there was a choice to be made. She could either dick around in self-doubt and uncertainty, or she could stick to her guns and keep moving forward. She’d made a commitment. And even with her suddenly chilling feet, she would honor that. There was no turning tail now.
Movement stirred behind her, but she didn’t turn. Her awareness levels were on full alert—warning, warning, you are surrounded!—and her nerves were so taut it was fortunate the airlines did not allow one to travel with firearms. Bad enough that she felt the eyes that touched her—flitting away and then returning again, as though the scene of a horrific accident played out across her flesh—worse was the feeling that it was personal, as though she’d been unknowingly tagged for a hunt.
Paranoia—not so uncommon when dealing with Georgia Humboldt. And not something to dismiss. Because that other goddamn shoe was going to drop. Cheyenne was certain of it.
But that was something she’d accepted. It was inevitable, like death and taxes, so she only squared her shoulders and gave the woman beside her—who was staring like an ignorant five-year-old—her darkest You want some of this? look.
As expected, the woman’s gaze fell, and her cheeks bloomed bright pink, and Cheyenne sighed at the sad predictability of it all. Not everyone was Olga.
The line wasn’t moving. She supposed she could give up and take a cab, but—
A nudge from behind, propelling her forward.
Annoyed, Cheyenne halted and turned to share her What the fuck is your problem? look. She stopped cold when she focused on the man who stood there.
He was tall and broad—two of her, at least—and roped with the kind of muscle that spoke of sunlight and sweat and raw, physical labor. Dressed in black jeans, a fitted, black soft shell jacket and black shit-kicker boots, he wore not a hint of color. That darkness was echoed in the thick, blue-black hair that was shorn close to his skull and matching, winged brows. But it was his eyes that captured her: chilling and pale, touched by only the faintest hint of blue, like the arctic glaciers she’d seen in photographs.
Dangerous eyes. And his expression…
All hands on deck! Death has entered the building.
Her response was instant, so instinctive she had to physically stop herself from taking a step back. Because she wouldn’t give ground. Not even to someone who appeared…lethal.
Why had he touched her?
“Problem?” she asked.
That pale gaze went to her scar and studied it with leisure, seemingly unperturbed, before roaming over the rest of her features, ending with her mouth, which made her lips throb, and her heart beat too hard.
Some men got off on her scar. Some were repulsed. There were very few in between.
“No problem,” the man said, and his voice was deep, a harsh, gritty rasp that rubbed everywhere the wrong way.
Goosebumps washed over her. Cheyenne wanted to turn away, but she didn’t trust him enough to give him her back. The way he was looking at her…far too direct, too familiar—and completely unfazed by her disfigurement. Like he knew her.
Goddamn Georgia.
/>
Of course. Death and taxes.
“Queen of fuckery,” she muttered and forced herself to turn back around. Blood rushed through her like a freight train—boom, boom, boom—and her heart rattled unsteadily in her chest. Adrenaline spiked, and her hands clenched in effort to keep herself where she stood, calm and composed, when part of her wanted to run like hell.
Punch him in the face first.
Tension made her ache. She was so aware of him, she could feel the heat emanating off of him, touching her nape, the faint rush of his breath ruffling her hair. His scent had invaded her nostrils, something earthy and verdant, like the heart of a pine forest. His threat was no less grave for his silence, the utter stillness with which he stood behind her. She knew, if she turned, he would be standing too close. And she wanted to turn.
Punch him in the face.
But she was not that foolish, headstrong girl any longer. Now she thought before she acted. And there was the slimmest possibility she was jumping to conclusions. Maybe he just—
Another nudge, harder this time. Nails digging into her palms, Cheyenne slowly turned back around.
“Yes?” she asked, her smile feral.
One of his brows rose. “Sorry?”
She was going to punch him in the face.
“You touched me,” she growled.
“I did,” he agreed softly.
She stared at him for a long moment, but he only stared back. Her skin prickled. Awareness of a different sort rippled through her, and she inhaled sharply, unaccustomed to her body wrestling her brain for control.
A fine time for pheromones to fire. Thanks for nothing, libido.
“Why?” she demanded.
He shrugged, and she was made aware, once more, of his size. Like standing in the shadow of a mountain.
“Because I wanted to,” he said.
Her breath tightened around the words that dammed in her throat as she glared at him.