by Hope Anika
“But he came to us,” Rafe said, confused.
Another moment of silence, and Rafe’s heart beat a little harder in his chest. Cheyenne eyed him thoughtfully, and he demanded, “What?” because he knew a secret when he saw one.
“C’mon,” she said and led him to one of the faded blue couches. They sat down, and his stomach began to churn because even though he’d demanded to know, he didn’t want to. No more bad. He’d had enough in the last three days to last the rest of his life. But he’d asked…and Cheyenne would tell him.
So suck it up.
“Just tell me,” he told her.
“Okay. Your father is a man named Andrew Mailk.”
Rafe stared at her, poleaxed. A dull roar filled his ears. “What?”
“He’s the current Ambassador to Afghanistan. He’s married to a Saudi national, and they have three daughters.”
Rafe’s fingers tingled. He felt his cheeks burn, but his skin was cold, and he rubbed at his heart where it hammered in his chest. “I don’t understand.”
“Will recognized you. He’s met Malik, and you look a lot like him.”
Rafe looked over at Will, but didn’t really see him. Thoughts whirled in his head. He hadn’t expected this. “Why didn’t he tell me?”
Silence. Then, “Because being Malik’s son puts you in danger.”
Rafe’s heart leapt; his gaze flew back to her. “What does that mean?”
“Malik is married to someone who has power,” Cheyenne said. “Someone who will be very angry when they learn he had an affair with your mom. And even angrier when they find out about—”
“Me.” My little trump. Was that what his ma had meant? That he was her…ace in the hole? “That’s why she had me. So she could use me.”
Cheyenne said nothing. He wished she would—but he knew it would be lies made up to make him feel better. Useless and stupid. But—“Does he know about me?”
“Will thinks so, yes.”
Rafe nodded. The pressure he’d released yesterday rebuilt in an instant and pressed against his lungs until they ached. Tears burned the backs of his eyes. “But he doesn’t want me.”
Cheyenne reached over and wrapped her hand around his. “You’re mine. He can’t have you.”
He clung to her. He didn’t want to. He was stronger than that—hell, he figured he’d never even know who his pop was, let alone his name or anything else, so what did it matter if he was a scumbag who cheated on his wife and kids? Who would never, ever want him, no matter what? But it did. And he wished he could rewind, go back to be being in the dark. It was a much nicer place.
“We have to make a decision,” Cheyenne told him quietly.
“What?” he asked dully.
“Will is afraid Malik might try to…do something so his wife will never find out.”
Rafe started and lifted his gaze to meet hers. “You mean…like, kill me?”
“I didn’t want to tell you. You shouldn’t have to know this. But if he approaches you and I’m not around…” Cheyenne squeezed his hand. Her eyes shimmered, and her scar was white. “You need to know. It’s safer that way. I’m sorry.”
He nodded, but he didn’t understand. Not really. Not any of it.
“If we go public, it will protect you,” she continued. “Once everyone knows, the threat is gone. But it will turn your life into a three-ring-circus. I can help protect you from that, but it will always—always—be something you have to deal with. Forever.”
Cheyenne watched him with her worried look. Rafe didn’t want to admit that he didn’t understand what “going public” meant, or why anyone would care who he was, or how that would protect him…it was important, but he didn’t care. Maybe someday. But at that moment all he knew was that his father was man he didn’t want to know—no different than his ma—a man who might actually hurt Rafe to protect himself—just like his ma—and Cheyenne was all he had, so whatever she thought he should do, he would do.
“Whatever,” he muttered.
For a long moment, Cheyenne stared at him, her eyes dark, her hand tight around his. “I’m sorry, sweet pea. If lies could protect you from this, I would lie. But the truth is all we have. Solid ground in a shifting world. And if we have to use it, we will.”
He nodded again. The pain in his chest was sharper, piercing, and he felt…lost. A small bottle in a big sea whose message would float aimlessly around the planet, forever unread. He’d always known he didn’t matter. But he hadn’t imagined someone might want him dead. Especially not his pop.
An asshole. Just like his ma.
Tears wedged in his throat, but he refused to let them fall. He was done crying. Suck it up. He looked at Will again. “Is that why Will’s mad at me? Because of my pop?”
“Will is not mad at you,” Cheyenne insisted. “He’s pissed off at a lot of things: fate, circumstance, whatever power put him in the desert that night. Me, even. But not you. Never you, Rafe. I promise.”
Rafe met her gaze and searched it. He was good at seeing lies—even his ma hadn’t been able to pull one over on him, and she’d believed most of her own lies. But he saw only truth in Cheyenne’s eyes, and he hoped she was right. Because he didn’t want Will angry with him.
Shouldn’t care. He’s a stranger. Who gives a shit what he thinks?
But Rafe did.
“Ah, here you are.” The funeral director was back. In his hands was the wooden urn Cheyenne had chosen, and Rafe stared at it, unable to believe it contained the craziness that had been his ma. It seemed too small, too…benign. As if it should carry a warning—like a skull and crossbones.
That would be appropriate.
“Thank you.” Cheyenne stood and accepted the urn. “You’ll put it on my card?”
“Yes, yes. It’s all taken care of. Thank you for using Rosemont, and again, I am very sorry for your loss.”
Rafe watched him walk away. “He’s the only one who’s sorry.”
“True story,” Cheyenne said. “You ready to beat feet?”
Rafe didn’t need to be asked twice. He stood and headed for the door.
Are u there? WHAT’S HAPPENING???
Raining here (Gray, gray go away!!) *SIGH*
Dexter ate Angus’ hat. He says you owe him a new one.
So…what’s the kid like? Are you really keeping him?
Sorry wasn’t supportive. STILL THINK CRAZY.
But love u. Will love him, 2.
CALL ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Cheyenne smiled down at Whitney’s text.
All is well, she responded, be home soon. Tell Angus will bring him Green Bay hat.
Which, as a stalwart Denver Broncos fan, he would despise.
Across from her, Rafe sat quietly eating his chicken fingers. He’d been subdued since the funeral home, and that worried her: she shouldn’t have told him about Malik. But if Malik—or one of his flunkies—approached Rafe when she wasn’t around and spun him a fantasy, she would lose him. Maybe forever. Because in spite of how horrific a thought it was, she did not doubt Malik was capable of murdering his child to save his own skin. It was quite probable that he’d willingly sacrificed an entire SEAL team—and countless unknown victims should those bombs be detonated—in order to cover his ass. What was one more life? One he’d never tried to find or protect or care for.
“Son of a bitch,” she muttered.
Will glanced at her from his position against the wall. They sat at the food court of the Mayfield Mall, surrounded by packages, their table filled with all manner of fried and ludicrously unhealthy food options, but he hadn’t eaten anything. Instead he sat still as a statue, staring at the people who came and went in waves, his arms crossed against his broad chest, his expression the epitome of badass.
He was distant today. Cold. Even with Rafe, he was brusque—which she was going to take him to task for when they had a minute alone, because a ten-year-old didn’t deserve that shit—and he’d barely said two words to her since they’d awoken.
Which she didn’t understand. He was the one who’d disappeared last night without explanation. The one who blew hot then cold. The one who kept crossing lines. She should be the moody, pissed off one in this picture. She was always the moody, pissed off one.
Goddamn irony.
“Thanks for all the stuff,” Rafe said.
But there was little excitement in him. The only gleam of interest he’d shown was when they’d walked into the Apple store, and she’d told him to pick out a laptop, which he had—but only after asking the clerk a hundred and fifty questions, the intricacy of which made Cheyenne feel like a complete and utter moron, and also made her realize the kid was far more intelligent than she’d comprehended. She’d bought him clothes, shoes, a new backpack, the laptop and a new phone—she’d gone a little crazy, and she knew it but didn’t care because she understood what it was to not have anything of one’s own—but Rafe had been reserved and diffident—if grateful—in his reception.
Her fault and she knew it. She’d upended his world—again—and utterly destroyed any illusions he may have retained about his parentage.
“You’re welcome,” she told him as she put her phone away. “Is there anything we missed?”
A dark, surprisingly bitter smile turned his mouth. “Someone who gives a shit?”
“Hey,” Will chastised sharply.
“I give a shit,” Cheyenne said.
Color touched Rafe’s cheeks. “I know. Sorry.”
Cheyenne stared at him thoughtfully. When she’d decided to accept responsibility for him—to keep him—she hadn’t understood that it was something which would take all of her. Not just the parts she’d polished to perfection in the last decade, but every piece of who she was. Every bad memory, every hard won lesson, every wrong she’d ever committed. Not just the good. Because it was the bad which had shaped and molded her into who she was, and that was…okay. She’d come out alright. Not perfect, but not bad, either—and not someone who believed others should share her pain.
The bad had made her strong, resilient. It had made her better. So being ashamed of it meant being ashamed of who she’d become. And she liked who she’d become.
Mostly.
“I was five when they took me away from my mom,” she said into the silence that had fallen. She felt Will’s gaze touch her, but ignored him. “Permanently away, I mean. They’d taken me from her a couple times before that, but always put me back. When I was five…that was it. Because she did this.” Her hand lifted, and her fingers smoothed over the uneven flesh that marred her left cheek, a light, sweeping motion, one she’d repeated endlessly after it first happened. They’d had to tie her hands down because she’d done it so often it bled. “It was the first day of spring. I remember because it was the first time I’d played outside since Halloween, and Mr. Pettington was excited that his daffodils were coming up. Until my mother came for me, it was a beautiful day.”
Rafe sat frozen, staring at her with stricken eyes, but Cheyenne didn’t stop.
“Years later, I learned that she’d been diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic, but that night…” Cheyenne shook her head, remembering. “I thought she was the devil.”
“You don’t have to—” Rafe began, but she cut him off.
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
“Cheyenne,” Will said softly, but she only ignored him.
“I’m not sure why she had me; she didn’t want me. I have no idea who my father was. I’m not sure she knew who he was.” Cheyenne rubbed her scar again, the feel of it almost comforting. “I used to think he would suddenly appear and save me from her. But he never did. And in the end, I had to save myself.”
She sipped her iced tea. Will’s stare burned into her, as palpable as a touch, but she didn’t turn to look at him. “When she came for me, everyone ran. She scared the hell out of the entire neighborhood; no one interfered when she dragged me inside—except Mr. Pettington. He tried to calm her down, but she swung at him and threatened to cut his balls off. She was always colorful in her threats. Must be where I get it from.” And isn’t that a kick in the face? “We went upstairs, and she sat me down on a kitchen chair. Very theatrical, my mother; she liked an audience. So I gave it to her and just watched, quiet and still, like a mouse. She ranted and raved and screamed like the lunatic she was...and to this day, I still don’t know why.” A bitter smile. “I waited, and I prayed. Sometimes she just made a lot of noise, but sometimes…sometimes she beat the hell out of me. There was never any way to predict it. But that night, she was different. I must have known that, because when she went into the bedroom to get her belt, I grabbed a knife off the counter and hid it under my leg.”
Another sip. “My memories aren’t clear. I remember her rage. She was so angry. I remember her telling me to go to my room and being relieved, because I thought it was over…but then she followed me.” Cheyenne rubbed her scar again. “She made use of that belt. Her fists, her feet… She wore these sharp-heeled cowboy boots, and she liked to kick. When she stomped on my right arm, it snapped like a twig. I’d never felt pain like that. It made me crazy. I’d held onto that knife through it all—even when she punched me in the face, I didn’t use it—but when my arm broke…I stabbed her. I buried that knife in her belly and wished it was her heart.”
Rafe inhaled sharply, his eyes as big as saucers, but Cheyenne couldn’t stop. It was like a dam bursting, and there was no halting the flow. “Of course, that just enraged her more. I remember her screaming as she ran from the room; it was like a horror movie. I couldn’t see, and I was mindless with pain and terrified I might have killed her. But then she came back.” A deep, steadying breath. “She told me I was the spawn of Satan, that she was going to send me back to hell. Then she poured kerosene over my head and lit me on fire.”
Around them, people murmured and laughed. Children played, babies cried. The sizzle of food frying was a constant hiss in the background. Cheyenne heard none of it. Instead, she heard the echo of her own screams, the crackle of fire, the roar of her blood, her mother’s insane laughter.
“So much pain,” she murmured. “I wanted to die. But I remembered what they taught us at school, and I rolled, trying to put myself out. I begged her for water. I didn’t know that would have been the worst thing for me…I just knew water put out fire. But she left and never came back. Then Mr. Pettington was there with the police, and it was over.”
Over. Yeah, right. As if.
“After I got out of the hospital, they put me in Haven. That’s where I met your mom.” Cheyenne met Rafe’s gaze. “I didn’t tell you this to scare you or make you feel bad. I told you to make you understand it can always be worse.”
His mouth opened, then closed.
“It’s okay,” she told him. “You don’t have to say anything. I just…needed to share it.”
Will was silent, but she realized he’d moved closer, that beneath the table, his leg pressed against the length of hers. Firm, warm, generous solace. He might have been a terse bastard all morning long, but he didn’t waver when it came to offering comfort.
Cheyenne moved away. The temptation to turn to him was far too strong; she’d never needed anyone. Never wanted anyone. That he held such allure both shocked and scared her. Especially when he was in the middle of his own personal war, as proven by his secretive disappearance last night. She was still pissed about that, especially since it had occurred right after he’d had his hands on her. He wanted her to rip out her guts and give them to him—her deepest, darkest secrets—while he guarded his own, unwilling to share any of what he demanded she give.
Jackass.
Worse. Because she’d begun to trust him…and last night was just further evidence that she shouldn’t.
No, she had no business thinking about him in any context. The safety he made her feel was illusion, born of nothing more than potent sexual chemistry. It wasn’t real. And just because she felt vulnerable didn’t make it real. Having him with them today had been—she could
admit it—nice. But they didn’t need him, and clearly his presence was just going to screw with her head. A distraction she couldn’t afford, because she had Rafe to think about. Their future to put first. And a man who kept secrets was not safe.
Will strove toward only one conclusion, and that resolution had little, if anything, to do with her or Rafe. Will’s reasons for “protecting” them were all aimed at accomplishing his own goals and did not exist outside of those objectives. There was nothing selfless or noble in his actions—they were merely a means to an end.
Stupid of her, to lose sight of that. She wouldn’t forget again.
Chapter Eighteen
“We need to talk, Will. There’s been a development. Call me.”
Will hadn’t decided what—if anything—he was going to report to Ethan Scott. More and more fingers were pointing in his direction, and regardless of what Will’s gut said, he couldn’t afford to ignore the growing number of voices who claimed Scott was suspect. Especially considering that the official investigation file Ethan promised him had never materialized.
Like Malik, Ethan had knowledge. Unlike Malik, he hadn’t had motive—at least, none Will could figure out. Hell, he didn’t even know if Georgia had known Ethan. But judging by the photographs in her condo, it was possible. Most of the faces in those pictures were ones he recognized—diplomats, ambassadors, men with the DOD and the State Department.
Powerful men. Which meant no one was exempt from the list of suspects—including Ethan Scott.
Will deleted the message. Still nothing from Red. Agent James, too, had disappeared, and Will wasn’t certain what to make of that, but it made him nervous. He preferred to keep the players where he could see them.
“I can fly!” Rafe’s gleeful cry echoed around him, followed by the call of a gull. “Look!”
The kite soared high into the air, riding the currents that rose from the lake. Shaped like an eagle, its wings lifted and fell as Rafe ran along the beach with it, his laughter trailing behind him like a song. Cheyenne watched him from a picnic table that sat at the edge of the sand, sketchbook in hand as the sun sank slowly behind her and turned her hair into a halo of red flame.