by Skye Warren
Only this. Only running.
We make it to his motorcycle and hop on. Then we’re making a cloud of dust and disappearing down the lane. My heart pounds, louder than the engine. I cling to him, holding him tight in my arms, pressing my body against his as we put feet and yards and miles between us and them.
I know I can’t trust him. I know that now more than ever, but for these minutes I don’t have a choice. I couldn’t stay back there and get shot at. I can’t jump off a speeding motorcycle. It’s completely without consent that I breathe in his leathery, clean-sweat scent. It’s totally against my will that I lean into him, drawing strength from him.
We go back the way we came, the line of trees giving way to dark buildings and locked doors. My mind races with what just happened, but it’s too loud to talk on here. The wind is a howl in my ears. It’s like being underwater. We aren’t driving; we’re swimming, kicking up from the bottom, hoping we reach the surface in time.
I’m out of breath when he stops the bike. The panic hasn’t slowed one bit. If anything, racing through the roads has me high on adrenaline. And fear.
“Don’t touch me,” I say. “Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me.”
His eyes reflect concern, but he isn’t glancing around wildly, isn’t ducking behind a building. No, that’s me, and he looks worried about that. He circles the bike and takes me in his arms.
“Hey.” He pulls me into his chest, and I turn my face against him. A kiss lands on the crown of my head. “You’re okay now. You’re okay.”
But I’m not. I can’t outrun a bullet. I can’t outrun a motorcycle.
I can’t outrun him.
Tears are running down my cheeks. I feel out of control. “Why would they shoot us? I figured they’d want us back alive if they’re going to get their money. Or did Byron just put out a hit on us.”
“I need you to trust me now,” Kip says.
I shake my head. There’s no way. Trust? He’s lost the right to that.
And to be honest, I wouldn’t even know how.
So I don’t tell him the truth. I tell him a joke instead. That’s what it is. “Honor,” I say with a watery laugh. “That’s my name. Honor.”
And then I can’t stop laughing, because that’s how funny it is. A stripper named Honor.
My mother must have had such high hopes for me, to name me that. What did she think I would do with this life? Who did she think I would be? The laughing feels like crying, and I still can’t stop.
I paint his T-shirt a dark gray, sticking it to his broad chest with my tears. I move him this way, whole sobs that shake my shoulders—and him too. I hate him but I let him comfort him me. He runs his hand down my hair, murmuring soothing words I can’t understand. They don’t matter anyway. I’m not Honor. I stopped being her the day I took my clothes off on that stage.
I’m Honey now.
Like the Grand—once beautiful, once strong. Built for greatness.
And now just a seedy strip club.
I wipe tears from my eyes. They come fast enough not to matter. My hands are wet with them. My cheeks too. “But you already knew my name, didn’t you?”
He doesn’t answer. But of course he’s always known. He was already in on the joke.
* * *
The place he brings me to is a house. A nice house in a quiet old neighborhood with faded paint and well-trimmed lawns. Modest but well-cared for. It doesn’t have the off-kilter charm of the Tropicana or the old-world allure of the Grand. This place is a home—only a few streets over from where I strip and hide. We’re pressed together in the city.
I back away from him, down the driveway. I need to get to Clara.
And most of all, I need to get away from him.
He catches my arm. “It’s not safe on the streets right now.”
“And I’m safe with you?”
His expression is dark. “Maybe not. But you don’t have a choice.”
He pulls me toward the door. I go with him—not that I have a choice. He’s stronger than me. Have I been trained not to fight that well? I feel numb. In shock. My arms and legs are wobbly. I’d fall if he didn’t propel me along. He props me against the wall and glances along the street before shutting the door and locking it.
It feels like we are in the middle of a battle, only I don’t have a weapon. My gaze flicks to my bag, which I dropped by the door.
The Taser.
“Don’t take me to Byron,” I say, almost begging, even though it’s a lost cause. The shooters at the ballroom prove I’ve already been found by other mercenaries. And Kip—he’s Byron’s brother. Of all people, I understand the hold that family has on us. “Don’t tell him you found me. Just let me go. I’ll run. I’ll—”
His eyes are so dark, almost angry as they take me in. He reaches up, and I flinch. His hand freezes an inch from my face. “He hurt you.”
“No,” I say too quickly. I don’t want Kip to know what his brother did. God, even I don’t want to know. If I could scrub it from my mind, I would. If I could take a scalpel and carve the memories out, I would. I’ll never let that happen to Clara, not ever.
“From the glass,” he says gently. “You’re bleeding.”
Oh. And sure enough, when I reach up, my fingers come away smeared with red.
I must still be in shock, because I’m standing there, staring at my blood like I’ve never seen it before. In fact I’ve seen my blood plenty of times. And cuts and bruises. We’re old friends. “It’s nothing,” I say. “I can’t feel anything.”
“It’s not nothing. Let me take care of you.” It sounds broader when he says it, like he’s talking about more than the cuts on my face.
“I don’t need anything from you.”
His eyes are dark, accepting my accusations. But not my answer. “Wait here.”
“Kip, please. Let me go. I need to go…”
“To your sister?” he asks softly. It’s not really a question though.
Dread is a cold stone in my stomach. “You can’t touch her. You can’t—”
“I’m not going to do anything to her.”
“So you can turn us in for whatever price is on our head?”
“It’s not about the fucking money.”
I smile grimly. “It’s always about the money.”
He grasps my chin, careful not to push the glass in deeper. He manages not to touch my cuts at all. But his look is just as sharp. “I’m not going to give you to Byron. But I am going to use you. To put a stop to this. To end it.”
“How?” I whisper. There are a lot of ways this can end.
I don’t come out alive in most of them.
He shakes his head. “I’m not sure yet. And with Byron’s men in Tanglewood, we don’t have much time. So I need you to trust me. I need you to sit down and wait. I need you to let me pull the fucking glass out of your face.”
Then he’s stalking toward the hallway, presumably to get bandages or tweezers.
It’s a command, and I’ve been trained all my life to obey. Still, I remain standing. Could I make it back to the Tropicana from here? I know we’re close enough, but I haven’t explored enough to be sure of the way. Abruptly I sit on his couch, shaking. Clara.
Kip could help us. He has a gun. He used it to protect me.
I need you to trust me.
A clock points to four thirty. Still morning. Still night. I’m cutting it close getting back to her. If she’s even there, she’d be leaving soon. But then, maybe it’s better that way. If she’s safe now, she might stay that way. Better than me going back, leading those shooters right to our doorstep.
I ignore the pang in my chest at the thought of never seeing her again. Safe.
There is a book on the side table. I recognize it even though I’ve never seen it before. Rudyard Kipling’s book of stories, the ones Kip told me about. This book looks ancient, its pages well touched, both soft and brittle in the way old things sometimes are. I flip open the cover, feeling like I’m intrudi
ng on something private. This whole night has been intrusion—me, him, this book that is his namesake.
There’s something written in faded black ink on the first page. Not printed with the book but added after. It’s a poem.
The jungle is a scary place for those who wander in
It holds its secrets tightly furled, locking out the wind
Each leaf has a map, each river points the way
But the jungle is too good a host.
You really must stay.
So lay your body on the dirt,
And make not a sound.
Only when you rest you’ll find,
The key is underground.
I read the poem again, imagining walking into a forest. Being afraid and lost. It’s not a foreign feeling even though I’ve rarely left the city. The jungle is where I lived most of my life, in the mansion I wasn’t allowed to leave, where the trees are made of marble, where the leaves are gilded gold. I may have finally broken my way out, but sometimes I wonder if that’s an illusion. Maybe I’ll wake up and find myself back there, that my time at the Grand was all a bad dream.
Or maybe I’ll realize I died in that mansion, that freedom is just ghostly wishful thinking.
Kip comes back with tweezers and a bottle smelling of rubbing alcohol. He glances down at the book, a strange expression on his face.
“Did you write this?” I ask, gesturing to the poem.
He shakes his head. “My mother.”
“Oh.” I look again at the last line, the final escape from the jungle. Underground. She’s talking about death. “It’s pretty. And sad.”
“That was my mother. Pretty and sad.” He pours some of the rubbing alcohol on a cotton swab. “No more stalling now. I hate having to hurt you, but the sooner we start, the sooner we finish.”
It’s disturbing how like Byron he is… “Do what you have to do.”
He sits beside me and places my hand on his thigh. “When it hurts, squeeze.”
He feels like a denim-covered log in my hand. “I don’t think I’d be able to squeeze—oh shit, that hurts.”
It turns out I have more hand strength than I realized, especially when a man with large, gentle hands carefully uses tweezers to extract glass shards from my face. I must be leaving five dents in his leg, even through his jeans, where my nails dig in. He doesn’t flinch or jump, even when I hold on for dear life, even when I can’t hold in a little whimper.
Little pieces of red glass line up on the towel he laid out.
“That’ll stain,” I whisper.
“Let it.”
The couch is old but comfortable, lumpy in the way you can sink into. It’s too feminine a house for Kip, though. Everything is rose gold and sunshine yellow, corduroy softness and old brass fixtures. And dust. The house doesn’t feel lived in. Nothing like the hard man in leather and grit. “You grew up here?”
He doesn’t answer. His lack of expression tells me he did. “I don’t stay here much.”
“Why are you here now, then? Is it just a convenient place to stay while you hunt me down?”
“If that was true, I would have taken you back to Nevada when I first met you.”
“So why didn’t you?”
He pauses after the next sliver and looks me in the eye. “It’s complicated.”
“This isn’t a relationship status.”
“We don’t have a fucking relationship.”
I suck in a breath. It’s like he’s slapped me. No, it’s worse than that. It never hurt this much when Byron bent me over and fucked me dry.
Then his head lowers, before I’m even aware of what he might do. I’m braced for more pain. More lies. His lips are featherlight on mine. I hold still, allowing his mouth to move over mine, corner to corner, finding every square centimeter of my lips, kissing away the hurt.
When he reaches a little too close to my cheek, I can’t help but flinch.
He pulls back, regret on his face. “We need to get moving.”
“There is no we,” I say softly. “You made that clear.”
His eyes turn hard. “Let me finish cleaning your wounds. Then we’ll go.”
I’m looking at Kip, but all I can see are Byron’s eyes, his nose, his mouth. My heart slams into my chest as I remember that face looming over me, fucking me. Hurting me. I don’t know why I couldn’t see it before. Of course they’re brothers. They’re the same.
I have to leave without him. I can’t trust him at all. He’s been kind to me at times, but he’s also been rough and crude and cold. For all I know he will drag me back to Byron out of family loyalty. Delitto d’onore. An honor killing. That’s what it will be.
I need to get out of here. I need to get away from him.
I can’t trust him, even though I want to. God, I want to.
He leaves the room again to put away the supplies, and I know this is my chance.
I get the Taser he gave me and follow him into the bathroom. His eyes meet mine in the mirror. I smile that fake, seductive smile I’ve perfected through hours onstage. One hand slides up his back, meant to distract. To disarm.
He isn’t fooled.
Something awful flashes through his eyes—recognition. He knows what’s about to happen. And even worse—acceptance. He’s strong enough, fast enough to stop me.
“Honor,” he says.
Just that one word.
It’s the first time he uses my real name, and I repay him by using the Taser on him. He knows he deserves it, and I know it too—but that doesn’t make it any easier.
I press it to his side and press the trigger.
The shock reverberates up my arm. Kip falls like a tree, shaking the ground, falling against the door frame, body rocked by the powerful electric shock. It’s Kip who’s hurt, Kip who I leave on the floor.
I barely have time to whisper I’m sorry before I’m gone.
Chapter Fifteen
I practically run back toward the motel room, out of breath.
Even at full speed, hurdle jumping turned trash cans and puddles of dark liquid, I can’t forget the way he looked, his big body hurting, incapacitated, at my hands. Why do you care what happens to him? Kip said that to me once. But I do care. Guilt is something I’m used to by now, but it doesn’t get any easier.
I glance back, but the streets behind me are empty. No Kip. And no one else.
I run toward Clara, trying to make it back before she leaves.
Maybe she is better off running anyway. I can’t get the thought out of my head. Like pushing a baby bird out of the nest because she needs to fly. But I can’t do it. I can’t let her go. Maybe that’s my weakness. Maybe that’s her downfall.
Or maybe I’ve learned lessons from my father too well.
That’s what we do to the women we love, isn’t it? We tuck them in a room, give them food and books, tell them to be happy. Sometimes it works. But other times the woman fucks a guard. Other times the woman doesn’t like her fiancé’s fists. Other times they run. Then what will you do?
I did the same thing to Clara as my father did to me. I locked her in a tower.
I take a long roundabout way back to the motel. If I see anyone, anything suspicious, I won’t go back. I’d let myself be taken first. But the streets are empty. Barren.
Finally I let myself slip into the Tropicana from the back. The bricks are lit by Christmas lights, the palm trees dark and sinister. I pause in the little walkway between our building and the next. Something is different.
The Madonna. It’s not in the window anymore. It’s gone—and so is Clara.
Everything in me slows. My heart. My head. I even blink slower, eyelids dropping, blotting out the sight of that empty window. I’m swaying where I stand, off balance, and I don’t care. That was our signal. If she was ever to run, she would take the Madonna with her. Then the wall is behind me, cool brick holding me up. I lean my head back and let the guilt and shame and sorrow wash over me.
There’s gladness too. Relief that s
he’s gone, away from me. She’ll be safer without me.
Maybe I have always known she would be.
I hadn’t been able to let Clara go, though. I loved her too much, needed her more than she knew. Or maybe she did know, because she fought me about leaving. Every time she’d tell me no. But it looked like she listened to me anyway.
Dawn broke over the tallest buildings, rays fracturing around broken spires, bathing every crack in orange and pink. And she left, just like I told her to.
Kip can’t get to her. He’ll never find her.
And neither will I.
Something moves in the room. A brush against the drapes. They sway, just slightly. I wipe my tears so I can see more clearly. Is she still there? Have I caught her before she’s left?
I take a step toward the room. Another.
“Clara?” I whisper.
The landlord wouldn’t have started clearing out our room already. Clara wouldn’t have stopped to tell him she was leaving. And anyway we’re paid through the week. Cash, of course.
Then the door opens. A man stands in the doorway. I would recognize him anywhere. Hadn’t he stood in the doorway to my room enough times, blocking me, frowning?
Daddy. This time I don’t whisper. My lips move, but I don’t make a sound.
He looks up anyway, right at me, where I stand in the shadows. He sees me. His body shifts, moves toward me. He is old now, with knees that ache, and back problems, but he was a warrior once. A killer.
He still is.
I run.
* * *
So much for eighteen years of ballet lessons and long hours spent on the pole. He is old, but he is a born hunter. All I want is to get away. I run toward the Grand. Strange—I shouldn’t feel safe there. But I do. He must have anticipated it, because he cuts me off in an alley.
A hand on my wrist, clamping down hard. “Honor!”
That hand had tucked me into bed. It had rested on my head while my fiancé fucked me over the desk.
That hand had killed my mother.
I’m holding the Taser but he’s got my wrist. He squeezes—hard—and my grip loosens. The Taser clatters to the ground. My father kicks it into a pile of trash bags. Disappeared into the shadows and muck.