To Ruin a Rogue:

by Heather C. Myers

  He makes no move to kiss me, but he makes no move to release me, either. I don’t know which option I prefer, and it’s getting hard to hear my own thoughts over how loud my heartbeat is, ringing in my ear like a bell dismissing children from school. Waking me up from my daze.

  “People like you?” I ask, and my voice comes out low and scratchy. I don’t even know if he can hear me, and if he can, if he’s able to decipher the mumble my words have been wrapped up in.

  This man is making a fool of me, and I don’t know if I hate it or not. But I hate that. The confusion. The confliction.

  “People like us,” he corrects, and then he’s gone, like a ghost, like a dream, where I have to blink and try to remember if what transpired between us was real or a figment of my imagination.

  “I like it here,” I tell him. I’m talking to his back—he’s looking out the small window in my room now, and I can make out his strong back, though the word strong is an understatement because it’s big and beautiful, and I can see his muscles twitch even through the thin material of his tunic—and I don’t know why I’m talking at all, but I need to fill the void his sudden distance and the silence has put in my room. “I’m not used to it, exactly, but I don’t mind it as much as I thought it would.”

  He cranes his neck so he can look at me, and I’m breathless. God, why am I always breathless when he looks at me? I shake it off and force myself to continue, because if I don’t, we’re going to sit in silence and I’m not sure if it will be awkward or not.

  “What’s been the biggest obstacle here you had to get used to?” he asks, and the crazy thing about his voice is that it sounds genuine, like he wants to know.

  “Technology,” I say without thinking. I have to explain, I know I do, but it’s so hard to say what a car is to someone who may not be able to grasp the concept of it. “Vehicles—like carriages, but that run on gas—and computers and phones and…” I let my voice trail off. “Transportation. Everything is motorized. Airplanes—ships, but instead of sailing in the sea, they fly in the air. Communicating with a person across the world with a small, metal box.” I run my fingers through my hair because I know what I’m saying must sound like gibberish. Lulu was always better with words. She could explain what a color is to a child.

  I chance a glance at Matt, but instead of wrinkling his nose in confusion, his eyes pin me to my spot, eager to hear more. I’m not sure if he actually understands what I’m saying, but the fact that he’s so insistent on educating himself about the future and keeping an open mind about it all, makes me feel good. Special. It’s a feeling I’ve never felt before. Like what I say is so riveting and so important that he can’t help but stop and listen. Like what I say matters. I think it’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me. Which isn’t saying a lot.

  Well, actually, no. It is.

  With his encouragement, I tell him about my family and my friends. I tell him about LA and how completely different it is from ports in the Caribbean. I tell him about my life, my education, my job. It’s weird how much I talk—how much he lets me talk—and he doesn’t interrupt, not even to ask questions, not even for clarification.

  I’m not sure how long I ramble for, but I don’t even feel embarrassed about it, which is even more shocking to me. I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut; my opinion isn’t typically valued by members of the opposite sex, so I refuse to waste my breath to tell them in the first place. They aren’t worth my breath. But also—and it’s not something I’m proud of—keeping my mouth shut tends to make guys like me more. I’m pretty and quiet, which equals perfection.

  But being with Matt, talking to him freely, with no filter, makes me realize how wrong I’ve had it. How wrong the guys I’ve been with are.

  Malachite drops off the dress and after he leaves, Matt closes the door. He holds the dress carefully, like he’s afraid the rich material will turn to ash in his hands and blow away with the wind.

  From there, he walks toward me and my breath disappears the way a shadow does in the sunlight. I’m not sure what he's doing, but it silences me without any other effort. I stand perfectly still and wait.

  His hands come to rest on my hips and pushes them, turning me around so my back faces him once again. He's close to me, so close I can feel his hot breath invade the exposed skin on the back of my neck. The hairs there stand straight up, like they're preparing for battle. A battle they're going to lose, because Matt has this control over me, this undeniable way with my senses, and trying to fight against it would be fighting a losing battle.

  I can feel his fingers at the back of the corset, lacing it up tight and tighter. I hope my body looks somewhat normal in the corset as he squeezes the breath out of me, because as great as my boobs look, corsets tend to distort a woman's body so it resembles a piece of modern art rather than a seductive masterpiece. More than that, even though I'm standing in a corset and a shift that reaches my ankles, I've never felt more exposed than I do right now, under his penetrating stare, under his dancing fingers.

  "How does that feel?"

  His voice is suddenly at my ear, tickling me in a way I’ve never been tickled before. I can't help but react; my shoulders roll forward and my knees all but give out. I let out what I hope is a muffled grunt but almost comes out like a whimper. His voice—that voice that does things to my body that I've never experienced and can't explain—causes my pelvis to throb painfully and my eyes to roll to the back of my head. I can totally picture him saying those words in a completely different context, and I wish, oh I wish…

  I force myself to nod or I'd stay there like a fish out of water, gap-mouthed and unable to breathe.

  "That doesn't answer my question," he says, and he steps away from me.

  Suddenly, I can breathe again, like finally breaking the surface of water after being held underneath it for so long. But it leaves me cold and shaky.

  He steps forward and I know he knows what affect he's having on me. He almost grins, up until the part where he sees the nasty-colored bruise littering my forehead. I'm sure my neck doesn't look any better, and I get my confirmation when his eyes continue to descend down my throat.

  "I'm fine," I tell him, though I'm not sure why I feel compelled to reassure him. Surely he knows what happened to me last night isn't his fault—hell, he saved me from a worse fate—and yet when he looks at me, takes in the marks on my skin, I can see the sorrow and the anger so clearly in his brown orbs. I want to hug him but don't. Instead, I offer him a small smile. "Really. I'm fine."

  "I—"

  "We don't have to talk about it," I tell him.

  "If you don't want to talk about it," Matt says, "we don't have to talk about it. I’m concerned about you, Isla. You don't have to pretend you're fine when you're not. You can confide in me and I will be there for you. I’m here for you now."

  If you constantly tell yourself you're fine or you don't care, you won't care when you should, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Becky's says. And once you don't care, it's a totally different ballgame. You're a different person and you have to fight tooth and nail to get back to you. Be honest with yourself. Choose to trust someone. Choose to trust Matt. He did save you, after all.

  I clench my teeth and force myself to look at Matt. His eyes are so beautiful that I'm almost sick of looking at them. I used to not be attracted to brown eyes. Everyone and their mother has brown eyes. It's common, and to me, common is boring.

  But Matt changed all that. Matt's eyes showed me that every pair of brown eyes have layers of depth to them if you choose to look for it. Each pair is unique, like fingerprints. And Matt's eyes make me feel things I've never felt before and I'm afraid I'll never feel again. If I really and truly want to change, if I want things to be different, if I want to be different, I can't sit around and wait for it. I have to change. Me. I have to put those desires into actions. It's going to be hard, and I know I'm going to make mistakes along the way, but I'm determined to get there. So I take a breath a
nd maintain steady eye contact and I decide to trust him.

  "No," I tell him. My voice comes out small, unlike me. I clear my throat and say it again, this time with force. "No, I'm not okay."

  Matt says nothing but he nods a couple of times, and I can tell he's sincere in his concern from me. He's sincere in the guilt he clearly feels. I want to reassure him, I do, but I don't have the strength.

  Not yet, anyway.

  And when he wraps his arms around me and pulls me to his chest, the tears come.

  I know from personal experience that I'm not a pretty crier. My face turns red and snot runs down my nose and my eyes get puffy, and I do this weird breathing thing where I gasp and I snort and it's disgusting. So, I try to keep myself under control. I don't want my snot and my tears and my drool on Matt's tunic, but I start to feel my shoulders shudder and I just lose it. I can't help it. There's just something about Matt that makes me lose control. And I have no idea if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

  Matt doesn't shush me. He doesn't tell me everything is going to be okay. Instead, he cups the back of my head with his hand and starts playing with my hair. He keeps his other hand pressed flat on the small of my back, promising, in his own way, he won't let me go.

  I know he's feeling guilt as well, even though he shouldn't, even though I've told him I'm fine. But Matt's smarter than the average pirate. He can smell a lie from a mile away and he has this uncanny ability to read me, my body language, and my tone. I've never been this honest with anyone before and this vulnerability makes me feel both uninhibited and fragile, like a petite glass figurine in a child's clumsy hands.

  One of the reasons I don't commit to men is because I don't know who I am in relationships, and I'm so afraid of losing myself in one and waking up one day as a completely different person. I also have no patience—I'm reactive and confrontational and I'm afraid that if anyone were to find that out about me, they'd leave me without looking back. Those are masculine qualities no man I know wants to deal with, which means I'm a woman they don't want to deal with. I like who I am, and I don't want to lose myself to a man and a relationship. What if I become so different, I can't even recognize myself? What if I'm the type of girl not worth putting up with my flaws—and trust me, I have my moments. Am I destined to be alone all my life? Or is it something I have to consciously choose to change? I don't know how to fix my fear of committing. I don't know how to fix my anger. I don't know how to fix my confrontational nature. So I cry and cry and cry out my anger and sadness and my frustrations in Matt's shirt. It’s probably ruined. He'll never wear it ever again.

  When I calm down to mere sniffles and sticky tears on my cheeks, Matt places his hands on my shoulders and pushes me back so he can look in my eyes.

  "How do you feel?" he asks.

  I nod a couple of times. "Okay," I tell him. "Better."

  "I find that when things happen to us, we have three choices," Matt says. "We can fight it. We can be victim to our circumstance. Or we can let it go and move forward with our lives. The difference is relinquishing all control and responsibility for our actions, taking too much control, and simply letting go and trusting in yourself to guide your way. I'd never tell you what to feel or how to act and certain circumstances call for different action. But I find that when I accept who I am and trust myself to guide me in my life, I experience the most relief and freedom and contentment I've ever felt before."

  I nod because his words speak to me more than I expect, and I can't find a way to respond in kind.

  "Thank you," I decide to say instead. "For everything. For…" I'm about to list the reasons but decide not to. He knows. So I just say, "Everything."

  Chapter 7

  My hands are sweating, which is disgusting and something I would never have thought I’d need to worry about. However, the fact of the matter is, I’m nervous. I’m nervous about meeting Matt’s sister. All I know is her name is Sarah and she runs a brothel on Port Royal. And Matt is absolutely crazy about her.

  Will she like me?

  It’s a thought I refuse to think about, but it echoes through my head like an annoying pop song that stays stuck there no matter what other songs you listen to to rid yourself of it. I shouldn’t care what she thinks of me—I don’t care what people think of me—but this place is changing me. I realize I do care about what she thinks of me, because if she doesn’t like me, Matt may be persuaded not to like me anymore, which means I could be out of a place I can call a temporary home. And I want to stay with Matt. I want to call his old, smelly ship home.

  For now.

  I wipe my hands on my stomach, tied up in an all-too-tight corset. It could be my imagination, but I think Matt got more enjoyment tying that thing up than he would have if he had been untying it. The squeak I made when it reached its tightest did cause him to chuckle, after all.

  And that’s when I realize, not only am I meeting Sarah for the first time, but I’m wearing one of her dresses. It’ll be a miracle if she doesn’t go off on her brother, whether in private or in front of everyone.

  My eyes flit over to Matt, and he’s pacing, his brown eyes shining, and it’s heartwarming to see how excited he is at the prospect of seeing his sister again. I catch myself smiling at his behavior and look away, needing something to distract myself with. Matt causes all other thoughts to disappear, and that could be dangerous.

  “You know,” I say, and my voice comes out much more forceful than I intend it to, and suddenly, I’m on fire, my face, my neck, my chest, all completely red. Matt looks at me with his brow furrowed, waiting for me to continue. Which means I need to think of something fast, before I embarrass myself further in front of him. “I can wear the clothes you let me borrow. I can change. Before I came here, I used to wear jeans all the time. I never wore dresses unless I went out to a bar or a club. But they definitely didn’t look like this.”

  Matt is grinning now, his eyes filled with amusement. I stop mid-sentence, and clench my teeth. “What?” I ask, trying not to sound too aggressive.

  “You’re nervous,” he states, like it’s a fact and not a question. “Why would you be nervous?” He seems genuinely perplexed at the notion that anyone could be nervous meeting his sister, and I don’t want to explain it explicitly because despite my previous notions of the lack of education pirates have, Matt is the most clever person I have ever met in either time, and I know he’d probably be able to figure it out.

  However, he still expects an answer, so I make a decision to tell the almost-whole truth. Is it a lie if I leave stuff out? Does it matter?

  “She’s clearly important to you,” I tell him, throwing my glance over in his direction. “That makes her important to me, and I want to make a good impression.”

  Matt seems surprised by my honesty but accepts it. I don’t tell him that if Sarah doesn’t approve of me, she can kick me out of her brothel at any time, whether Matt insists on keeping me with him or not. I’m just a woman, one of many Sarah’s heard about or met. I’ll be one face among many. She probably won’t take me seriously, if she bothers with me at all, and suddenly I’m annoyed at Matt’s reputation, at how many girls and women have come before me to the point where his sister won’t even give me the time of day because I’m just another floozy sleeping with her brother, up until he finds the next one.

  Which I’m not.

  But she doesn’t know that. And because of Matt’s reputation, she won’t believe Matt when he tells her that I’m different, I’m special, I’m more than the ones who came before.

  “That was the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he says, his eyes teasing but his words sincere.

  I feel myself blush at his words and his tone of voice and the way he’s looking at me—God, the way he looks at me kills me inside because it sets every piece of me, every fragment, on fire—so I force my eyes away from him and clear my throat. For some reason, I find myself unable to speak properly when he looks at me.

  “Will you tell me about her?�
�� I ask, because I need to change the subject, but not in an obvious way. Plus, I am interested in Sarah, in who she is as a person. From the little he has already shared, she’s someone I know I could bond with because she’s kickass, but bonding doesn’t take place unless I can offer something in return. And truth be told, I don’t think I’m as badass as she is, so I need to figure out what I can offer so I don’t look like an idiot in front of her.

  "There's really not much I can say," he says, "but I can tell you she's my older sister by two years and she's the most important thing to me in this world. More important than my ship. More important than the sea. More important than being a pirate." He grins, as though he's remembering something and shakes his head before returning his eyes to mine. "Words won't do my sister justice. You'll have to meet her and make your own judgment."

  I press my lips together and nod. Without warning, his hand cups my cheek and his thumb lightly treads on my bruise. He's done this before already, in the morning when he helped me get dressed. I'm not sure what to make of the fact that he's doing it again, but I like when he touches me, so I don’t think too hard on the subject.

  "It's getting better," he says.

  I can't help but roll my eyes. "You checked it a few hours ago," I tell him.

  "Yes, but I have an eye for this sort of thing," he says. He uses his fingers to tilt my chin up so he can get a better look at my throat, and I swallow. His eyes immediately home in on the gesture and I curse myself because it's such a tell and it's so obvious that I want to scream. "You will never ever be harmed again, as long as you are under my protection."

  I moisten my lips, and his eyes are drawn to that as well. They remain there, on my lips, and I'm not sure whether he intends to or not, but he moves closer to me so our clothes are touching.

  "You already said that," I say in a whisper. I don't know why I'm whispering, but I am, and I hope that I brushed my teeth well enough to the point where I don't have bad breath. Matt is so close to me, he'd be able to smell it, and it would be so embarrassing if I do.