The Bequest

by Hope Anika

  Rafe flung himself at Will’s back, wrapped his arms around Will’s neck and pulled desperately, yelling, “Wake up, Will! Please wake up! No, Will, stop….”

  Terror made his limbs weak, but he pulled and pulled, even though it was like trying to stop a giant, even though Will was huge and strong, his body hard as stone, even though he shook so violently, Rafe could hardly hold on, even though that horrible blank look was back, and he continued to mutter like a crazy person in that scary-ass voice—

  Cheyenne punched Will—hard—right in the nose, once, twice, and the third time, Will woke up. Blood burst from his nostrils, and he blinked, and for one, brief moment, he froze. Then he seemed to realize what was happening, and he scrambled back—dislodging Rafe, who fell to his side and squished the pup, who cried out—and stared at Cheyenne in shock and horror as she reached up to grab her throat, raw, harsh gasps breaking from her as she tried to breathe.

  “I’m sorry,” Will grated, and his hands lifted toward her, but Cheyenne flinched and shook her head, and he froze again. “Fuck. Are you okay?”

  Rafe pushed himself off the floor and gathered the pup in his arms and tried to calm her. “I’m okay,” he said, although his heart was beating so hard in his throat he could hardly swallow. But the look on Will’s face made Rafe want to reassure him, even as he reached out a hand to touch Cheyenne’s shoulder to make sure she was okay, too.

  Will met his gaze, and his pale eyes were so anguished, Rafe felt his throat tighten. “I’m sorry, Rafe.”

  “I’m okay,” Rafe repeated.

  Cheyenne inhaled raggedly, and Will reached for her again, but she said, “No,” in a harsh, painful rasp that made Will flinch. Then she slid away from him.

  “Fuck,” Will said again, staring at her in horror. “I never meant to—” He broke off and stood, swaying unsteadily above them. “I’m sorry.”

  And then he turned and walked out.

  Rafe dropped to his knees beside Cheyenne.

  “Are you okay?” he asked anxiously.

  She nodded, rubbing her throat.

  “Are you sure?”

  The pup yipped softly, as if echoing him.

  “I’m okay,” she whispered.

  Rafe looked at the door Will had disappeared through.

  “He didn’t mean to hurt you,” Rafe said.

  “I know,” she said.

  “He was dreaming.”

  “I know.”

  Rafe looked between her and the door, unsure what to do.

  “Should I go talk to him?” he asked her, rubbing her arm to reassure himself she was okay.

  “No.”

  “But….” He hesitated and then wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tight. He wasn’t good at hugging; he didn’t have much practice. But she jerked against him and slid her arms around him and held on like she was dying. For a long moment, they just held each other, the pup worming her way between them, the TV casting them in flickering light.

  “We can’t leave him alone,” Rafe whispered.

  Cheyenne didn’t say anything, and his heart squeezed painfully in his chest. He felt desperate to make her understand, although he couldn’t have said why. Just that it was important. “He needs us, Cheyenne.”

  She shuddered, and her arms squeezed him so tight he couldn’t breathe, but then she let go.

  “I’ll go talk to him,” she said and patted the pup on the head before pushing to her feet.

  “I’ll come, too,” Rafe offered.

  But she shook her head. “No. I’ll go. Stay here and take care of little Miss. She’s probably pretty freaked out.”

  Rafe looked down at the pup, who watched Cheyenne with big, frightened eyes, a faint tremor in her limbs. He picked her up and held her close. “Okay. But if you need me…”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “Promise?”

  Cheyenne turned and met his gaze. “Promise.”

  Then she went to see Will.

  Chapter Twenty

  Cigarette smoke curled through the screened-in porch, and Cheyenne inhaled deeply, even though it hurt her throat. She’d smoked once, long ago, and still missed it; for her, the scent was tantalizing, like the lure of freshly ground coffee or baking bread. She’d long ago accepted it would always smell good. And it would always tempt her.

  That was the thing about addiction: it never went away.

  Moonlight streamed into the small room. She could see Will seated on the wooden porch swing, his elbows on his knees, the coal of his cigarette glowing like an unearthly jewel in the darkness. He was shirtless; the plane of his muscled back was washed white by the moonlight, and her gaze was drawn to the brutal scar on his left side, a thick, ridged rupture of uneven tissue in the shape of a sunburst. She remembered how it had looked that afternoon in the bright sunlight. He had marks all over him—knife wounds, bullet wounds, even a burn scar not unlike her own—and a large, black tribal tattoo around one bicep. A scorpion on the back of his neck and a round, intricate symbol she didn’t recognize stamped on the carved muscle of his belly. His left nipple was pierced with a slender silver bar.

  Seeing him like that had affected her. Witnessing his scars had made her own less, somehow, and freed something within her. Something wild and reckless.

  Something she didn’t trust.

  Her throat hurt, and for a long moment she stood motionless, rubbing what would be a ring of dark, ugly bruises in the morning. She knew Will hadn’t meant to damn near break her neck—knew better than anyone—but she wasn’t dumb. She had a strong sense of self preservation, and it was in four alarm—are you fucking stupid?—mode at the moment, and she had to stop herself from turning tail.

  But she couldn’t run. Circles were closing—irony and karma and goddamn fate—and she understood her place within them—for once—and she was beginning to understand that paying something forward was a process, not an event, not a person, not merely one moment in time. It was a tapestry woven of past meeting present, and a conscious weaving of the future. It required diligence and sacrifice.

  Again and again and again.

  So she didn’t run. Because this was not her first trip down bad memory lane—it was just her first time on the receiving end.

  “I’ll be gone by morning,” Will said harshly, rocking the swing back and forth, a jerky, agitated motion that made the chains which anchored it to the ceiling creak in protest.

  Cheyenne walked along the back of the swing, circled it, and when it swung toward her, caught the chain in hand and halted it. Then she sat down beside Will and drew her knees to her chest.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and the pain and regret and fear she heard made her chest ache.

  “When I was seventeen,” she told him quietly. “I stabbed a man. A good man. A man I never, ever wanted to hurt.”

  Beside her, Will froze. The swing halted.

  “It wasn’t intentional,” she continued. “Like you, I was dreaming and bringing down the house, and he was trying to wake me up. I never should have touched you—that was my fault.”

  Will shook his head but she kept talking.

  “Hank took me in. Gave me a job, a home, a family. I didn’t really know what it was to belong to something bigger than myself. He gave me that. So when I hurt him…I felt like a monster. Like my mother.” She hugged her knees tight and drew the words from the dark, quiet place she kept them, painfully aware of the faint tremor in her voice, the fine tremble in her limbs. “He knew it was an accident, that I hadn’t meant to hurt him. He blamed himself, not me. But I blamed me. I knew I was dangerous. It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened, but I wanted what he gave so badly, I took the chance. And he paid the price.”

  The wind lifted, and somewhere far off, a wind chime sounded.

  Cheyenne paused and took a deep breath and listened. The sound of the waves lapping at the shore below them soothed, made it easier somehow. “I wanted to run, but Hank wouldn’t let me. Luckily, it wa
s a minor wound—all I had was a tiny Swiss Army knife—and I hit him in the arm, so it didn’t do anything but leave a small scar. He had me bind the wound, and while I did, he told me about his time in Vietnam. About the jungle and the Vietcong, about the napalm and the dead children and coming home to a country that despised him. About how he still woke screaming in the night, and how the sound of a helicopter flying overhead took him right back to that jungle. About how he’d almost killed his son when they were elk hunting, because the rifle firing made him go crazy. It was the first time I understood what happened to me in those moments, that I realized I wasn’t alone.” She turned and met Will’s pale gaze, almost otherworldly gilded in moonlight, watching her with an intensity she would have—at any other time—shied from. “It happened for a long time after I first got to Haven, but eventually it stopped. After my mother died, and I knew I was safe. But what I did to Hank…what I did to Hank was because of what Georgia did to me.”

  Hank was the only person she’d ever told. Now there would be another. But if it helped Will…it was little enough.

  No matter how painful the telling.

  “Baby,” Will said, a whisper of sound, and she almost faltered.

  But she had decided. Jumped. And was already falling.

  “Two months before I left Haven,” she continued. “Georgia and I snuck out and went to a frat party. I won’t bore you with the details—suffice to say, there was a lot of alcohol, a lot of drugs and way too many horny frat boys. I got shit-faced drunk—which I would like to blame Georgia for, but can’t because I liked cheap beer and whiskey shots—and ended up getting cornered by a very large football player who had a thing for—as he put it—‘damaged goods.’”

  Will snarled softly. Cheyenne only shook her head. “If I was sober, I could have handled him—I knew how to fight—but I was too drunk. He pushed me down, right there in the hallway, and put his knee in my back. When he tore my shirt off, I started to scream.” She paused again, her heartbeat a hollow throb in the back of her throat. Her stomach churned, and she didn’t look at Will, doing her best to ignore the heat of his body, the scent of pine that marked him. Too tempting. Because he would let her seek comfort, let her touch. “I fought like someone possessed. Head butted him and made his nose bleed, elbowed him, kicked him. But then he slammed my head into the floor and knocked me silly. I was in and out of consciousness. Finally, Georgia came. I thought she would get him off me. I thought she would help. I was a fucking idiot. She just egged him on. Told me I should enjoy it, that it was the only kind of fuck a freak like me was ever going to get. And then she watched while he raped me.”

  A rumble broke from the man beside her, but Cheyenne only stared sightlessly out into the moonlit night, remembering. “I don’t have clear memories of it. Just flashes, moments when I realized what was happening and then…nothing. Like a fucked up, horrific dream. I blacked out afterward. If it hadn’t been for the pain and the bruises afterward, I probably would have assumed it was just a dream. Georgia acted like nothing had happened; for two days I wasn’t sure it did happen. I didn’t know what to do. She was all I had. I couldn’t understand why she would do what she did…and when I asked her, she told me it was for my own good. She was toughening me up—and the asshole gave her fifty bucks, so as far as she was concerned, it was a bang-up deal.”

  “I can find him.”

  The menace Cheyenne heard was both terrifying and sweet. She turned and looked at Will, who watched her with predatory stillness.

  “No,” she told him softly.

  “I’ll kill him for you.”

  She should not have been turned on by that offer, but she was.

  “No,” she said again. She hugged her knees tighter. “Six weeks after the party, I realized I was pregnant. I didn’t want a kid—I was a kid—and…I didn’t trust myself. I was afraid I would be my mother. I was still trying to decide what to do when Georgia caught me puking up my breakfast for the third day in a row and figured it out. She cleaned me up and told me she would help, that she knew just what to do, that everything would be okay. And I believed her.”

  Another deep breath. Almost done. “Three days later we snuck out again and got on a city bus. Georgia told me we were going to Planned Parenthood, that they would help me. Instead, we got off downtown, and she led me into a blind alley where the boy who raped me ambushed me. Shoved a chloroform rag in my face and threw me in a white van. I passed out…and when I came to, I wasn’t pregnant anymore.”

  Will was suddenly right beside her, his size—once so intimidating—now comforting, the length of his body warm and solid and real, a hairsbreadth from hers, but not touching. He didn’t speak, didn’t interrupt, and Cheyenne was grateful.

  “There was blood gushing down my legs and the pain was….” She shook her head. “I was dying. They dumped me in the street and drove away. I remember sitting on the curb, watching my blood flow down the sewer drain and screaming until my voice broke. Flashing lights, sirens…then nothing. I woke up in the hospital three days later, alive but permanently damaged. An infection and too much scar tissue, they said, and I was lucky to have survived.” A dark smile. “I didn’t feel lucky.”

  The swing swung gently, back and forth. Moonlight kissed the surface of the water below them, a scene so peaceful and earthy, it helped smooth the jagged edges of memory. “I stayed for another two days, ducking questions and lying about who I was and what had happened, but then the doc let slip that the cops were on their way, and I snuck out. I stayed another five days at a local shelter. Spent the entire time talking myself out of stealing a gun and killing her. A knife, a club, a tire iron. The things I fantasized about would have made my mother proud. Instead, I went back to Haven and collected the money I had stashed and beat the fuck out of her. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough, but it was all I got.” A long shuddering sigh. “After, I went to the bus station. Cheyenne was the one of the destinations, and I took it as a sign. Of course, I was dead broke by the time I got there, and being the juvenile delinquent I was, I tried to jack an old Chevy truck. The guy who owned it caught me, tore a strip a mile wide off me, and gave me two choices: work off the damage at his ranch or get up close and personal with the local sheriff. Obviously, I chose to work. And then, one night while dreaming of blood and terror and death, I stabbed that same man with my pocket knife.”

  And so the circle closed. The wind chime sounded again, and Cheyenne sighed once more. It had come easier this time, but she really hoped she never had to tell anyone else. Some things were best left in the hole in which you buried them.

  “Fuck,” Will said and grabbed her, hauling her into his lap, where he wrapped his arms around her and held tight, his forehead pressed into the hollow where her pulse leapt unsteadily. “I’m sorry.”

  For a moment Cheyenne didn’t move; her heart pounded with painful intensity, and her throat ached, but not from the bruises. Her eyes burned. Emotion rose and scalded her, and she wanted to push him away and run, but it felt so good—he felt so good—that she slid her arms around him instead and clung, even when one of those violent tremors shook him, even when his hold tightened, and his lips pressed gently against her throat.

  “I hurt you,” he grated.

  “Yes,” she said, unwilling to lie.

  “I thought you were her.”

  “A dream,” Cheyenne said. “Just a dream.”

  “Fucking nightmare.” His arms tightened. “I can’t protect you from me.”

  “I can protect myself. That’s why you’re bleeding.”

  A rough sound escaped him. For long, silent moments they simply rocked, her arms stretched around him, his mouth tender against her bruised flesh, his fingers digging into the swell of her hips.

  “Tell me what happened,” she whispered. “Purge. It will help.”

  Will said nothing, his hands flexing against her, his chin rasping the sensitive skin of her throat. He was so hot against her he felt feverish, his body hard and tense,
like supple hardwood, and she dug her nails into his shoulders in effort to hold him to her.

  Just when she thought he wouldn’t tell her, he began to speak.

  “We shouldn’t have even been there.” His voice was vibrant with pain and rage and frustration. “The team who was supposed to pack the cache out got hit by enemy fire in Kandahar, and we were sent instead. Middle of goddamn nowhere: sand and scrub and dunes as tall as trees. No shelter, no cover, nowhere to hide. Hell on earth.”

  She raised a hand, hesitated, and then gave in and ran it through the coal black hair at Will’s temple, thick and lush, like silk in her palm, and he made a low sound of pleasure and turned his head, like a cat seeking another stroke.

  “We went in early, before the heat could cook us to death, and set up at the ridgeline. The weapons were stashed in a cave halfway up the rock face. A couple of kids from one of the local villages found them and reported them in exchange for food rations and medicine. They told us to look for the poppy field.”

  Silence fell, and Cheyenne continued to stroke her hand through Will’s hair. It was an intimate act—far more so than she would have imagined—but it seemed to soothe him.

  “The poppies were easy to find. They stuck out like a beacon.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how the hell they were even alive. Hogan said it was proof that miracles existed, and I laughed, but I don’t think he was kidding. Not a lick of water for a hundred miles, and there they were, a blanket of blooms in the shadow of the ridgeline, like a red flag waving in the breeze. They were beautiful.”

  Silence fell once more, and Cheyenne realized Will had not told anyone what he was sharing. The words came haltingly, pieces he was putting into place as he spoke them. She continued to run her hand through his hair—because she enjoyed it, too, more than a little intoxicated by the freedom to touch him—and waited.

  “We brought the crates down with a winch system. It took hours. By the time we had them on the ground, the sun was sinking, and the wind was rising. Retrieval was supposed to be 2100. We grabbed some grub, confirmed we were a go with command, and waited.”