by Knox, Abby
I shouldn’t write these things, but you bring it out of me. Everything about you touches me. Simply knowing you were here and that you touched my pillow arouses me.
You are so good and so bad for me. You have me turning in circles.
Don’t be alarmed. I have no intention of taking holy orders, but I will discuss our situation with Catherine for advice. I want her to help me pray. For myself, for my soul, for you, and us. I fear there is much more danger in store for you in the coming days than you realize or that you are willing to reveal to me.
Stay safe, darling boy.
Betsy
* * *
Sweet Betsy,
Fuck that. There will be no space between us, not even when I’m so far away from you.
And I’m not in Europe. That’s as much as I can tell you.
The helicopter pilot did not introduce himself, but I could see he was a captain. He did not tell me where we were going, but it was clear we headed south.
Way south. As in, dense-mountains-and-rainforest south.
There are no other people on board the chopper, and only one duffel bag, which belongs to me. It could either mean this was a day trip, and the pilot and I will drop in, rendezvous with someone in charge, and head back home, or it means the pilot will be dropping me off and heading back out again, alone.
I have a pretty good idea which it is.
The forest canopy over which we are flying is an intense green and wild with mystery—no clearings or buildings for miles that I can see in any direction. I am far from the familiar comforts of the Mississippi Delta, that’s for sure.
Nobody, not even my handler at the military base, has given me much to go on. The military didn’t even require a physical exam before some special forces whisked me away. Thank god your letter arrived in time to soothe my anxiety before I boarded the chopper, even if what you’re proposing is unthinkable.
All I can see for miles around is a cluster of small, primitive buildings. We’re descending now. My best guess is Nicaragua.
I won’t lie, Betsy. I’m scared. For the first time in my life, I am unsure what is about to happen and have no idea how to escape if negotiations go sideways.
I have to stop writing now. I don’t know how I plan on sending this to you out here in the bush, but I’ll find a way.
Think of me, please. That’s the only thing that will get me through, knowing that you are at the other end of this assignment.
All my love,
Lionel
* * *
Lionel,
I’m surprised you’re taking my request for space seriously. As I haven’t heard from you in more than a week, I suspect maybe you’re experiencing some personal growth over there in Europe. Or wherever you are.
While I appreciate your consideration, you did not have to send your sister to babysit me.
After placing the letter in the outgoing mail, she and your company’s personal security officer started appearing everywhere I go. What do you call them? Bodyguards? I don’t know. All I know is I don’t like being babysat.
But more on that later.
First, I need you to know something that I hope will make this trip easier for you.
I have been hiding a secret. I saw you before you saw me. That day at my baby sister’s coming-out ball? I spotted you. Even as Jimmy Boudreaux danced with me, I saw you. I knew you.
You were as tall as I’d heard you were. Are you kidding me? Everyone in New Orleans knows who you are. Your three-piece suit was exquisitely tailored to your broad shoulders. Your light brown hair was close-cropped, like a military man.
You looked grumpy, like you would rather be any other place than there, or like you were scouting for something…or somebody.
And as I danced with my friend—yes, my friend—I secretly hoped you were scouting for me.
And then I remember the second you and I made eye contact. Jimmy was telling me a funny joke, and I was laughing. But over his shoulder, there you were. It was like lightning in my chest, the way your eyes burned into mine.
And then poor Jimmy revealed to me he was going to ask out his longtime crush, Charlene. I was so excited to know this, so I hugged him. He hugged me back. A little too much for your liking, I guess. And you attacked.
I want you to know Jimmy forgives you. I hope you two will be able to make amends because he could potentially be a great friend to you. He and Charlene are lovely people.
But back to this babysitter you sent. Jane’s presence pricks up the hairs on my arms, Lionel. The security detail from your company showing up from time to time in public is one thing. But Jane is another thing entirely. So much so, that I don’t think the security has anything to do with her.
“Lionel sent me to look after you while he is away,” she said.
Or is this your way of telling me you don’t intend to put any space between us? Sending me a chaperone to keep an eye on me? Do you not trust me?
If only your supernatural powers could somehow send me a message across the ocean, so I would know what you’re thinking.
* * *
Dearest Betsy,
I spent the day hacking through the jungle for any signs of humanity, or any signs of what the hell I’m doing here.
I am entirely alone. I received terse instructions from the pilot: “The leaders in this region have not declared loyalty to the Sandinistas, but neither are they on board with the Contras. We wouldn’t care, but they have firepower, good hideouts, and some have special abilities. We have one last chance to turn them over to our way of thinking. The president is relying on you to broker a deal, and if necessary, use your…special condition to persuade them. I’ll be back in one hour. If you’re alive, then you can go home.”
And that was all he said. After the chopper abandoned me, some local military police appeared and frog-marched me deeper into the jungle. They “escorted” me for about three more miles through the trees. Not even a trail to speak of. I’ve had to control the urge to shift as my temper threatens to get the better of me. But I worry that that would ruin the entire reason I’m here. No one has threatened me, but I will use my resources to defend myself, even if it causes the whole negotiation to shit the bed.
I shouldn’t even be writing this down, but fuck it. I didn’t sign a contract, and I’m not even a military man. And if they’re going to plop me in the middle of nowhere without backup, then my sense of duty is on shaky ground. I write this as I’m sitting here on a tree stump in the middle of the clearing. The soldiers have left, but I can still smell them. They’re in the trees, watching. Their rifles are pointed at me; I know it. Perhaps they know what I am, and that’s why they’re keeping their distance.
I have no idea how or when I’ll be able to send this letter. But it makes me feel better to write down the words and at least pretend you’re reading them.
I hope you are getting rest and not worrying about me too much. Eating well, too, and taking long walks. I want you in excellent health when I return because I miss you so bad I’m going to get you pregnant immediately. Propriety be damned.
I’ll write more later.
Love,
Lionel
Chapter Seven
Rosemary kept finding herself holding her breath as she continued to race through the stack of her parent’s messages, and had to remind herself to exhale. She read on:
* * *
Lionel,
I wish Jane would leave me alone for one day.
I am growing increasingly frustrated.
She has visited me every day for the three weeks you’ve been gone.
One would think that you would have warned me she was coming.
I wish I knew when you were returning; I look forward to being rid of her as much as I am looking forward to being back with you.
Yes, I know what I said about space, but three weeks is too much.
I don’t care about impropriety anymore.
However, I do hesitate to think about marryin
g into a family with Jane hanging around. She shows up outside of my classes.
Today, she was there when my economics class ended. The only reason I didn’t tell her off was that she handed me a letter. Your letter.
There was no return address, and the envelope was damaged. I asked Jane if she’d opened the letter, and her reply? “No comment.”
Who says that, Lionel? When you come home, you and I are going to have a chat with your sister because she’s starting to scare me way more than making me feel protected.
When I asked her why it looked like the letter had been opened and why she had it in her possession instead of mailed to me directly, she said that was “protocol for all letters to go through family first while on secret missions.” She used the plural like you’ve done this before. Have you?
I asked her if she’d heard from you already, and she was so cold with me. She said, “Of course. We’re family. You’re not.”
I hope I didn’t overstep, but I said to her, “Well, I’m his fiancée.” I know we’re not engaged, Lionel, but I just felt like asserting myself, so I hope that’s okay. And do you know what she said?
“Oh, honey. It’s okay. You’re a sweet kid. He thinks very highly of you. But he’s the most eligible bachelor in New Orleans. Maybe in the country. He’s mighty powerful. Rich beyond anyone can measure. You do know there is a long line of more suitable ladies ahead of you, do you not?”
Well, I was livid. I want her gone, Lionel.
And then, I read the letter.
So. You are most definitely not in Europe.
Something terrible is going on. And I feel like Jane knows way more than what she’s letting on.
Please, if you can, reply by sending a letter to my mailbox at school instead of my house.
Here’s the address…”
* * *
My sweet thing,
You won’t believe the day I’ve had.
After walking three miles, then waiting around in this clearing until sunset, I finally had an encounter with what I think is supposed to be my contact.
My fear eventually abated and turned to boredom. I was left alone for hours, sitting here on this tree stump, suffering in the heat with nothing but my canteen, which I am trying to use sparingly.
The sun was behind the trees when the following events took place. I was about to drift off to sleep when I heard a familiar noise.
I looked around and saw a feline shape step out of the darkness of the trees—not a man or a woman, but an enormous, shining, black jaguar.
The creature looked like it hadn’t eaten in days. Whiffing the air, I realized that this was no ordinary animal. It, too, was human—a shifter.
Now I understood my mission.
It turns out, the leader of this tiny region of bandits refused to negotiate at all with “Normals.”
That’s why the special forces chose me. Not for my negotiation skills. Not for my lifelong education at military academies. Not for my supernatural identity. But a combination of all three.
There are only three reasons a shifter shifts into his beast. He’s either hunting, out of control of his emotions, or going to fight. And I had never been in a physical fight with a feline shifter before, and I wasn’t going to start now. And yet, here I am.
I never told you this, but I did not receive combat training at the military academies I attended. Plenty of wilderness survival training, but not hand-to-hand combat. My shifter experiences have been mainly hunting-related. Fighting to the death to prove masculine dominance is new to me.
It felt wrong to wrestle with another big cat. I can rip the throats out of my prey, I can do battle with a bloody wolf shifter, yet this? My heart wasn’t in it.
The half-man, half-jaguar could sense it. Finally, after subduing me with a bite to my shoulder that cut to the bone, the creature shifted.
He was offended that our government had not come to him with a monetary incentive to join the Contras. Livid. Insulted. He was bigger, fiercer, and more dominant than I had been prepared for. He told me I was not a worthy opponent and that our government had deeply insulted him.
Then, his soldiers appeared out of the jungle. He growled orders at them, and they marched me into the wilderness. Again. I was outnumbered, outweaponed, exhausted by the sun and the heat, and dehydrated. Even if I were mad enough to shift again, I wouldn’t have had the strength to overpower men with that kind of firepower.
My government had left me to twist in the wind. I was just another “try”—they threw me at the wall to see if I would stick. And now? I’m expendable.
I realize as I write this, I should never send it. It will no doubt terrify you. But if this reaches you before I get out of here, maybe you can help spread the word.
If I die, don’t let them forget my name.
The trek through the jungle took hours, maybe even days. I’m not sure. I was so thirsty, hungry, and exhausted that I could not make sense of time.
Eventually, we came to a concrete structure. I could tell right away what it was. This is my prison. This is where they will keep me until they get what they want.
I don’t care anymore what they want. All I care about is getting this letter to you.
It’s not been a day and a half since they locked me in this concrete box, and to be honest, I don’t think the guards are any better off than I am.
That is their weakness.
My focus now is befriending one of the guards and convincing him to mail this letter to you.
As you know, Betsy, there is no stopping Lionel once he sets his mind to something.
I may be battered and broken, but I have a mat on the floor. There is a steel door with a slot where they push food through. And there is a window, high up near the 16-foot ceiling, with bars on it.
It looks like I’m going to be here for a while.
I’m going to go to sleep now and dream of you, Betsy.
All my love,
Lionel
* * *
Dearest love,
I’m feeling much better this morning. Last night I dreamed of the first time I kissed you.
I had climbed the drainpipe and tapped on your window, even after you’d made it clear in your letter that it would be open.
I remember you wore a pink, gauzy nightgown with ruffles and lace, and I could see right through it in the moonlight.
Propriety told me to look away and try again some other time, but you reached out and touched my face. You kissed me first.
When our lips came together, all the things that didn’t matter fell away. Our age difference. Status. This beastly curse that I live with. None of it mattered. Everything that had meaning to other people in the world boiled off and disappeared like steam, and what was left at the bottom was this magical electricity between you and me.
I feel so alive this morning that I’m not even hungry for this slop they call food that they slid through the door. It could be rice, could be cornmeal. All I know is, it isn’t food I’m going to eat.
But I did have a conversation with my jailer.
Thank god for Spanish lessons.
“Excuse me, friend. I have a letter,” I said to him. “It’s crucial. It’s for my girlfriend. Can you possibly help me?”
The guard replied, “Are you crazy, mister? Do you know where you are?”
Sometimes, in business, it helps to play dumb and pretend you don’t realize the enemy has backed you into a corner, Betsy.
I answered him, “Well, since I can’t see outside, I wouldn’t know. Why don’t you come in here and explain things to me?”
“Your sense of humor is better than your fighting,” the voice said.
It wasn’t the jaguar I had fought who I was speaking to, but it was clearly someone who had seen the fight.
“You’re right. I’m not a fighter. I’m a lover. This is why I need someone to send this letter to my girl. Please.”
Betsy, I waited interminably for the man to give me an answer.
/> Finally, he said, “I’m sorry, amigo. I can’t do that for you.”
And then, I said something that truly confused him. I said, “Why don’t you go get your food and come back and eat with me? What else do you have to do out there?”
He replied, “Are you crazy? I’m not coming in there with you. You’ll rip my throat out, white panther.”
Of course, I would not do that to him. I’m not a monster. Well, I am, to a lot of people.
But I let him think I would because we all know that I could. So I assured him that the next time we have a meal, he should sit on his side of the door, and I should sit on my side of the door, and we would eat together in that way. And have a conversation. Because what else is there to do but be bored? I asked him.
Well, Betsy, I took it a step too far because he got angry with me. I don’t know if this strategy will work. He said, “I know what you’re doing,” and walked away.
I’ll write more later. If you are reading this, maybe it means my plan worked. Or perhaps I’m dead, and these letters are only adding to your grief. But you’re a strong woman, and I know you would rather have these letters than nothing.
Chapter Eight
“Ow!” Ash cried with a laugh, rubbing his shoulder where Rosemary had just swatted him.
She growled. “What were you thinking, kidnapping my father to get him to come to the wedding? No wonder he hates your guts.”
