by A. C. Bextor
Abram nods, eyeing the picture in my hand.
The woman inside the photo has long, dark hair and stunning brown eyes. Her skin is tanned from the sun, but also because of her heritage. In this picture, Belle’s no more than twenty, pushing me toward twenty-eight.
We’re standing in an old and abandoned barn. Rusty pitchforks, hay, and iron tools hang in the background. She’s on her tiptoes atop a wooden crate with one arm slung around my bare shoulders. She’s laughing at something I’d complained about, as she always took fun in doing.
At age thirteen, Isabelle’s family moved to the United States from Juarez, Mexico. Her father served as a modern day slave to the house of Rainier, located about fifty miles from here. The king to his own castle being Carl Rainier, a dirty fuck who once had ties to the Mexican cartel. His house was one link of thousands strategically scattered throughout the United States.
Isabelle and I met at a bar. She’d been trying to pass herself off as twenty-one, though she didn’t look a day over sixteen. I knew the bartender, and when I told him she was with me, he frowned, but served her what she’d ordered.
We talked, I took her home, and that was the end of it. Until the following summer when I ran into her at the lake. The friends I had at the time were renting a cabin.
“What I’m askin’ stays between us,” I insist, holding the picture between my fingers. “This means, if you refuse to help, deal’s the same. No one knows we were here.”
Before continuing, I need confirmation that Abram will keep his Russian mouth shut, for a couple of reasons.
First, if Isabelle can’t be found, I don’t want the club brothers to know what my interest in her was. Who cares what those rambling sissies would say, but I don’t want any of them attempting to help find her.
Second, if she can be found, it’ll be my decision to consider my approach, if I decide to approach at all.
“You have my word, Leglas. However, Vlad has a way of finding out what I’m up to.”
“Then you’ll need to try hard not to let him get suspicious.”
“This is so important?”
Without hesitation, I assure, “This is.”
Abram sits back in his chair to study the photo I’ve handed over.
At first glance, he tilts his head to the side. Taking in Isabelle, he narrows his eyes in contemplation.
“She’s very beautiful,” he compliments. “Impressively so.”
She is, but I don’t concur.
“Is she family of yours?” he asks. “A cousin or a sister?”
I shake my head, keeping to myself how close the two of us once were.
“Perhaps a friend?” he guesses next. Laying the photo on the table, faceup for both of us to see, Abram voices his confusion. “Forgive me, Leglas, but unless you’re willing to share, I don’t think I can help.”
“I need you to find her.”
At this, Abram startles. “How is she lost?”
“Eleven years ago, I knew her and her family. She and I…” I trail off, unsure how much to share. “She’s not lost, exactly. But that doesn’t mean I’m not askin’ you to find her.”
“Continue,” he urges, genuinely curious.
“She was a woman I used to see.”
“Interesting,” he notes.
“She and I weren’t together long, but life was good when we were.”
I’ve probably said too much, leading Abram to understand that my time with Isabelle was the most real in my life. When I met Belle, I was on the precipice of committing crimes because I was bored and heading toward the streets. I had no motivation to do anything with the money I’d earned except drink it down and smoke it away.
My life changed the day we met. And fair or not to the other women, they’ve all been left in comparison to her.
Even, and especially, Cricket.
Giving Abram what I have, I continue with her story. “When Isabelle was twenty-one, her father was shot in the head as punishment for being witness to something he shouldn’t have seen.”
“That’s a shame,” Abram empathizes.
“She was twenty-two when she testified against the man who did it.”
Abram grimaces. “To do that was risky.”
“It was. She was moved to witness protection for her part in bringing down an entire ring of cartel members.”
Abram whistles low and questions, “What’s her name?”
Pointing to the photo, I tell him, “The woman there was named Isabelle Starling.”
“And her name now?”
“I have no idea.”
Abram’s expression turns grave. “What do you intend to do once I’ve found her?”
“I don’t know yet,” I admit freely.
Abram is taken aback in surprise. “Leglas.”
“Save your sage advice,” I tell him. “And just agree to help or not.”
“Love is undying,” he notes, to my dismay. I grind my teeth and narrow my eyes, but this doesn’t deter him from continuing. “Love is the most fragile of emotions. The most beautiful for a woman, the most dangerous for a man.”
Christ, and here we fucking go.
I’ve often wondered why Vlad puts up with this old man’s brand of romantic bullshit. Then again, I’ve also wondered why he was the first I thought of to call for help. Take the good, take the bad, I guess.
“I want to know where she ended up,” I tell him. “And if she’s safe. Happy.”
“Then you want to know if she is, in fact, loved.”
Hell and damn.
Abram tucks the only picture I have of her into his suit pocket and stands.
“You gonna do this for me?”
“I’m going to try.”
Thank fuck.
“However, I have one question.”
“Shoot.”
“Cricket—”
I tense. “Not your business.”
Abram’s eyes fire with annoyance. “I hear she’s doing well and will be back with her family very soon.”
“She is, and she will be.”
Though, I’m unsure of how well she’ll adjust to being back. Those women can be a lot to take when all is right in the world. Throw in being marked by a tragic circumstance out of their control and who the fuck knows?
I’ll leave her to heal, letting Gypsy guide the way just as Elevent strongly suggested. And that’ll suck. But Cricket and I will figure out what we are to each other, if anything.
All in due time.
“Your friend will survive what’s been done to her, if only because she has so many who care for her well-being.”
Abram, living in another world, wouldn’t understand our ways.
Reminding him of who we are, I correct, “She’ll survive because we’ll give her no other choice.”
At this, the older man smiles. Knowingly, he comments, “You know, you and Vlad share a lot in common, believe it or not.”
Not even remotely possible.
“That so?”
“Oh, yes.”
Getting him gone before he attempts yet another stab at my emotions, I dismiss him with, “You’ll be in touch.”
“I’ll be in touch,” he assures.
“No one knows.”
Shaking his head before downing the last of his drink, he confirms, “You have my word.”
This is exactly what I was counting on.
Four days have passed. Maybe five. I’ve lost count.
When you make your way from here, you will not be the same person you were when you left.
I didn’t understand Agatha’s advice, but to be fair, at the time, I had no way to understand what she was saying. That morning, I’d been lulled into a false ruse of contentment.
There I was, sitting around a small table in a large, industrial-sized kitchen. I was chatting with a woman who reminded me of my mom, of home. The smell of fresh bread and the sounds of everyday silence enveloped me in a mirage of peace.
You’ll struggle with being hom
e. Maybe this is just an old woman talking crazy, but still an old woman who’s been around a good long while.
Four days. Maybe five. How could I have lost track?
My loss of space and time isn’t for lack of sleep. God knows I’ve had enough of that.
I lied the morning I got back. I faked the degree of pain in my face and feet to the point of deathly doom. I couldn’t bear to take in the sad faces of those who met me at the door, and I definitely couldn’t bear to listen to their apologetic murmurs as I made my way inside.
Elevent immediately noticed my anxiousness. Once he told the others to go, holding me to him as if I’d disappear, I voiced my conditions.
I wanted to go back to my own room, which meant my things needed to be collected from Leglas’s, and I didn’t want to be disturbed by anyone. At all.
I don’t want to hear what they had to say. No words of reassurance could calm the anger I was smothering beneath. No compliments could soothe how badly my insides were crawling.
Each day that’s passed has grown longer than the one before. Each meal brought in by one of the new prospects, Max or Blaze, has been left mostly untouched.
I’m angry. I’m sad. And so fucking alone.
Mia had been the first to visit. The hurt in her eyes as she took in my face was palpable. I should’ve told her I looked worse than I felt.
The next day it was Sunny.
The third, Vante.
Never did Leglas or Gypsy make any attempts at all.
So, for the last four days, maybe five, I’ve sat alone in this room. Most of the time I’ve been in bed, staring up at the ceiling, wishing those who loved me better understood.
I’m not a child, yet I’m treated with kid gloves. I’m not a lost soul seeking guidance or approval.
I’m my own person.
You’ll want to turn your back on your family’s hurt because soon you’ll be angry at your own.
Damn, but I miss Nikolas and Agatha more than I thought possible.
“Sweetheart, please,” Mom begs, sitting in the chair near my bed. “You must eat something.”
“I’m not hungry,” I reply with my eyes closed, my arm covering them both.
Mom and Pop had gotten back the day before yesterday. During dinner drop-off, Max stood at the door staring at his feet. I could see he was torn about whether to share this with me or not. He decided to mention they’d arrived hours before. He said this in passing, inching his way out for escape.
My guess it was Elevent who cut Mom off at the pass. Neither she nor Pop have barged into my room uninvited.
Until today.
“You’ll feel better after your shower,” Mom presses next.
“I’m not showering,” I exasperate. “Mom, please. Just go.”
“He’s here, you know,” she states plainly, and I wince. “Your Gypsy is home. He’s been patient, but he’s not going to wait much longer.”
Your Gypsy. Right. To laugh at the irony of her statement would take too much energy.
Angry and bitter, I shift in the bed to sit up. Mom takes in my face and sits back in her chair. No one has gotten a good look, being as I’ve kept mostly in the dark. I almost smile, satisfied to have shocked her. Had my ‘people’, as Nikolas referred to them, given me the space that I’d asked for, they wouldn’t have to see what’s been done.
Lucky for them, a full week has passed, and I’m well on my way to healing.
“I don’t care who’s here, Mom,” I snap. “I want to be alone.”
“You don’t,” she denies.
A burst of anger snaps inside, and I hold my arms to my sides. “Yes! Actually, I do!”
At my raised voice, the door opens and Mom starts to her feet. As if she knew exactly who and what was coming, she steps away and turns toward Gypsy barreling his way inside.
At her lack of surprise and his steely-eyed determination, I realize I’ve been set up.
All the breath I’d somehow managed to take in rushes out like flames from a dragon. All the composure I somehow managed to keep is lost in a whirl of frustration.
He hasn’t changed in the weeks since I’ve seen him. Just like then, he’s wearing an old pair of blue jeans and a white tee. His hair is disheveled, standing on end. His eyes are red, tired, with dark bags drawn under each. His skin has lost some color.
As if I’m not in the room, Gypsy rattles off to Mom in rapid-fire Spanish.
I came to Mom and Pop later in my life, and not a good time during it. I never learned Mom’s native language because she always spoke so I could understand. But Gypsy knows, and he’s using this to my dismay now to spite.
Jerk.
Mom shakes her head, continuing to rattle back to him, her voice inching its way toward panic. His flaring temper adds to my own.
Before I can utter a single word to throw them both out and leave me to my misery, my bed sheets are ripped from my body and I’m sent flying through the air.
Through the goddamn air.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shriek, kicking my legs, fighting Gypsy as he cradles me in his arms like a child. With one hand at my back, his arm hooked under my knees, he shakes me roughly to keep me quiet.
“Damn it, Mom!” he roars loudly. “Do it now!”
Ever the obedient woman to the men in her life, Mom rushes toward my bathroom door, her round body rocking with her quickened pace. The shower flips on and my deep state of panic turns to sheer lunacy as I continue to fight Gypsy’s hold.
“Chair!” he calls after her next.
“You are not doing this!” I scream, flailing in his arms and demanding, “Put me down!”
Too late. I see my mistake clearly.
I should’ve eaten what was brought in every day. I should’ve known either Leglas or Gypsy would get to this point of interference.
Home can be messy. Those who live there can be dramatic.
Oh, Nikolas has no idea. I roll my eyes and suck in a badly needed breath.
Being weak has left me powerless. I’m a rag doll that’s been torn from the mitts of her owner and tossed into the teeth of a rabid dog.
“You’re an asshole,” I breathe the words, looking up to the ceiling.
“Want me to shut your fuckin’ mouth for you?” Gypsy sneers, staring down and piercing me with an infuriated glare.
Oh, he’s mad? Well, so am I.
Mom passes us on the way out of the bathroom, not chancing a look in my direction. Good thing, too. She’s just as much a part of this, if not more, than her precious son.
At least Gypsy didn’t ruin my day under false pretenses. He didn’t try to comfort me with bullshit before forcing me from the bed.
Mom did.
Mentally, I mark her off a call on Christmas. A card on her birthday. Possibly ever knowing the name of my firstborn son.
The air in the bathroom is thick with steam, the faint smell of my soaps filling the space around us.
“Haven’t fuckin’ eaten,” Gypsy rashes out in ire. “Haven’t fuckin’ showered,” he grinds out next.
He’s right on both counts, but whatever.
Tossing me around as if I were still that sad little rag doll, Gypsy plants my ass to the bathroom basin. I jump at its coolness against my exposed thighs. He ignores my discomfort, bending at his waist. There, he slaps my right ankle. Not hard, but hurriedly. Not exactly gentle, but still with care. He surveys the dirty bandages with an expression of defeat. Mostly, the wounds have healed, though still both are sore.
“Why are you doing this?” I question, my broken voice echoing about the room.
Gypsy doesn’t answer because Mom steps in, holding a large, folded up plastic chair. The kind you’re burdened with when you get too old to stand, or too injured to make it through a shower without the aid for balance.
Someone, please, make this stop.
Releasing my foot, Gypsy tosses the bandage from the bottom of my foot to the floor, while Mom adjusts the chair inside the shower.
> Voices in the other room call out my name, and Mom, being a mom-in-charge, moves fast, shooing them away.
If there was one time a girl needed her posse, the time is now. But my friends are scared of Mom. No doubt Mia probably agrees with what Gypsy’s doing. Sunny will side with Mia, following what she thinks is best.
Traitors. The both of them.
When a vicious bite of pain slices up my calf as Gypsy removes the last bandage, I pull my leg back and hiss, “I’ll do it!”
I wince at the echo of pain, thinking maybe my feet are still worse than I thought.
Mom reenters the bathroom, her expression no longer frantic, but relaxed. She gazes down at her son looking over my wounds with care. She admires his work, his medical training and expertise a doting parent’s pride.
“In,” Gypsy instructs, standing and putting his hands to his hips.
“Excuse me?”
Lifting his chin toward the shower curtain, he points. Mom steps close, and he raises his other hand between us, stopping her from speaking.
“You go in alone or we do this together,” he advises, curtly. “Don’t give a shit which you decide, but you got about three seconds to start movin’ or I do it for you.”
Looking down, I close my eyes and count to three. Then, turning toward Mom, I lose her attention as her focus falls to the floor.
No help there, then.
“Don’t look at her,” Gypsy bites out.
I glare back at him at the same time she rushes from the bathroom. Openmouthed, I stare at the spot she left as my body is lifted from the basin and tossed into the hot shower.
“Oh my God!” I cry out, my face smothered in water, my clothes drenched beneath the shower’s head.
Gypsy steps in behind me, adding gentle pressure to my shoulders and forcing me to sit. Going about his mission, he bends forward, roughly sweeping my wet hair from my face.
“Three things,” he starts, and I bite my lip to keep from cursing. “One. I’m taking these goddamn clothes off.”
Looking down, I frown. I’ve been in Leglas’s shirt for days, my favorite one. The faded gray tee with a few tears here and there for added comfort.
“Two,” Gypsy clips, and I glare up. “This shower isn’t what it should be.”
