I rush past him and duck inside. I relieve myself and breathe as the black and white tile give off a clean retro vibe. The crimson accents add to the luster.
I flush, wash my hands, and stare at my reflection in the mirror. Dark circles weigh heavily under my eyes. I am thin—too thin—and look haggard and worn.
Stepping out of the bathroom, I stay continuously in motion, returning to his desk, and my study of this man. I stare at his starched white shirt and black trousers. His sleeves are rolled and he wears several bracelets. The red string with a gold clasp pulls me in as he tugs the glasses from his face and drops them on the coffee table. He rubs his eyes, heavy with equal parts exhaustion and elation.
“Would you like some water, soda, coffee?”
Again, I nod.
“Say it,” he tenderly whispers. “Use your voice, Ellison.”
“Wa—ter.”
He softly smiles and takes a bottle from the mini-fridge. Walking over, he opens the cap when I note the tattoos covering his knuckles.
Letters.
Words.
He sets the bottle on the desk. “I ain’t gonna hurt you, darlin’.”
Ain’t.
I bravely extend my shaking hand and take the bottle. His calloused fingers run over mine. “Th—ank y—ou.”
“My pleasure.”
He smiles and sits on the edge of his desk as I vaguely recognize his face from somewhere. He’s middle-aged, well defined by the years, but there is something I cannot put my finger on. I can’t remember as the irritation rises in my gut, and I spill the water at my mouth with the onslaught of a tremor. I soak my clothes.
“Sorr—y.”
He rushes to the cabinets behind his desk and brings a towel and a fresh white t-shirt. He approaches and says, “Trust me. I got you. I do this a lot.”
I want to ask if he means working with girls who are so frozen that they can’t speak, but I know I’ll never get that sentence out. I allow his blotting my face as he helps me take a sip.
“Trust me,” he repeats, laying his hands on my shoulders and spinning me around to face the bookcase. His fingers quickly lift the soaked shirt as I cover my bare breasts. I hear the shift in his breathing at the sight of the scars covering my back.
He gently persuades my body to face his and backs away. I blink as he methodically undoes his dress shirt and drops it on the desk. Twisting out of the white tank top, he flurries around to show me the multitude of scars concealed by ink upon his back. He glances over his shoulder with a sharpened jawline and commands, “Touch them.”
I tilt my head, understanding I’m not alone. Someone hurt him...a lot. My fingertips graze over the bumpy reminders filling his back, and I trace over the thick letters in scrolling ink on his shoulder blades and the smaller ones on either side of the angel wings.
“Lu—cas,” I proudly say as he turns to me. His grin is unmistakably proud.
“My son...”
My eyes scan over his torso and arms, covered in ink, and telling the story of his life. He grabs his shirt, and I snatch it from his hands. Revealing my breasts and the scars of the past they hold, I rapidly slip into it. The fabric smells of this man...this man I don’t know, but I trust.
He will not let anyone harm me. He will not allow the monster to return. Not on his watch.
After dropping the tank top onto his body, he moves to his desk chair and opens the drawer. He jots down a few words with his left hand and glances up to ask, “Can you write?”
I smile, taking the pencil from his hand and writing on an empty notepad, “I can write and type.”
He reads my words and smiles. “I need your help if I’m going to catch Sisyphus Mott.”
I eagerly nod as he powers up his computer and rises from the chair. He waves his hand for me to sit. I do, and he lowers down to name the file when he blinks. I’m mesmerized by the emerald color of his eyes. “Tell me everything. Can you do that?”
“Y—es.”
“Leave nothing out, Ellison. I don’t care how long it takes. My wife will bring dinner if I ask her to.”
My eyes bloom with tears because, for the first time, I have someone willing to listen to me. Someone willing to believe me. I’m no longer—the daughter who killed her sister in a blaze—but a survivor.
Unplugging his tablet, he grabs a pack of smokes and a lighter from the drawer. He smacks the box against his hand and lights one. He notes my scrutiny and asks, “… Would you like one?”
I shake my head and watch as he meticulously folds the blanket, with the cigarette between his lips, and straightens up the area. He gets comfortable on the leather sofa, stretching out his legs. I notice something odd—he’s barefooted.
Dress shirt, slacks, bare feet?
I scratch my head, befuddled.
Why can’t I remember?
I scout around the room and spot his boots sitting by the door, and immediately, I acknowledge the picture of his lovely wife. I imagine the kids are barefoot all the time.
Word after word, I peck out the story as I remember it from the time I was four until this moment. I’m careful, going back and forth through the paragraphs, as the memories rush in like waves. I spare nothing, crying through the graphic detail during the years of abuse at the hands of a madman.
I often check to make sure the man I’m thinking of as my savior is still present. He smokes a lot, and occasionally, he pulls his hair. He has deep issues.
I know, because I do too.
And our trust blossoms without a sound. There are no words that can give what the passage of time does. Every minute he remains truthful and transparent, I trust in his ability to care for me more and more.
When I’m at a loss for words, I peer at the giant cork board before me, and the girls still missing. My sheet sits on his desk. Above the lost, smiling pictures of winners hang. They’re rebuilding and hopeful. They’re beautiful. They’re more than survivors; they’re champions.
I want to be beautiful in my insanity.
I type all day, through four bottles of water and a salami sandwich he shares from his fridge. I glance at the clock. It’s nine at night when I finish. I’ve been typing for over twelve hours. He’s going to be late for dinner.
I blink over to see him grinning and texting as I back away from the desk and take a loose thumbtack from the bowl. I put the tack between my teeth and grab the printout with my name and picture before climbing up onto the desk.
Without even a glance, he warns, “Don’t you dare fall, Ellison.”
“I won—t.” I realize how I say the words broken with despair and how it sounds more like, “I won.”
Knowing the battle is over, I proudly smile. I am steering my life now, not my parents or the monster driving my mental collapse. I must believe I can be just like these other girls—a real success story. I must reach out and grab life by the balls.
His main office door opens, drawing my attention, and causing my spin on the desk. His long platinum hair shines like golden threads as my savior calmly says, “He’s okay, I promise.”
The stranger glances up and grins. “Well, hello, you… Nice to see you’re finally awake. I brought pizza.”
“She’s still not talking very well,” my savior informs, sitting up and grabbing the ball cap from the end table. He slicks back his curls and slips it on his head backwards. “We’re going to get him.”
“We’ve got a team ready whenever you are…”
“I need to read through the princess’ notes.”
I tilt my head to one side and the other as I suddenly remember the dream into The Darkland and these men. I point and burst, “Sig and Twig! You’re Sig and Twig!”
We come as a pair or not at all.
Sig gives a frantic side-eyed glance to Twig. “Cancel that not speaking bit.”
“Gotcha, boss.”
“You need to get down from there before you fall!” Sig warns as his phone rings on the coffee table. “It’s Dandy,” he says to Twig and waves in
my direction. “Can you go get the damsel out of distress?”
“Sure thing.”
I stare as my prince walks over and gives a sweet grin. His crystal blue eyes are like pure ocean water. “Twig.”
“My name isn’t Twig,” he snickers.
“Elli—son,” I whisper as he reaches to help me. I spread my arms—my wings unfolding—and fall into his embrace. He’s older than me, at least twice my age, just like I dreamed. “What…is your…name?”
“I’m Cruz,” he answers with a smirk. “And you smell like my boy. It’s a little distracting.”
He holds my body to him for a little longer than I expect. “Were you…there?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he coyly admits. “I’ve been searching for you for a long time. When we got the files from Littleton, we were hot on your tail. I’m sorry we couldn’t rescue you sooner.”
“I’ve been looking for you,” I slowly whisper and blush. “When did he…get away?”
“We think Sisyphus managed to escape during the party. There was a significant amount of blood, but he has enough friends to help make his ass disappear.” He notices my pout and consoles, “But don’t you worry about this right now. We will find him. Will you eat?”
“Yes,” I reply as he takes my hand and leads me to the sofa. “Pizza.”
“Ya,” Sig says, still on the phone. “And the damn deli better have made it right. Alright, babe, I’ll be home in a bit. Are you sure?” He glances at Twig, err Cruz, handing me a piece of pizza. “Okay, I’ll bring Cruz and Ellison home. I love you. Be safe, Angel.”
My eyes dart between the two as I try to comprehend the new climate of my life. I am warm, safe, and being given pizza. Sig drops his phone on the table, tosses the hat to Cruz, and runs his fingers through his hair.
Sitting on the floor by my feet, Cruz quizzes, “Not letting her out of your sight, huh?”
“Not a fuckin’ chance in hell.” He cracks his knuckles as the phone rings again. “Shit! I just want a damn piece of the pie.”
“Duty calls.”
“Ya. And when it rains…” He grimaces and answers, “Raniero.”
Laying my hand on his shoulder, I whisper, “Thank you, Cruz.”
“You’re welcome, babygirl.” My dreamy prince winks, and I smile, lowering to sit beside him on the floor. My pajama-covered leg brushes against his ripped denim, and I shiver with excitement.
Happily ever afters must exist for girls like me.
And that hope keeps my butterfly chasing forever.
The main door swings violently, and my eyes open wide at the sight of two men. One I know is as crazy as me. His grungy clothes, leather jacket, and dirty blonde hair send a swarm of butterflies through my gut as the kaleidoscope shifts in an array of colors. And the other—in the custom-tailored sport coat and stalking stare—leaves me breathless.
“What the fuck took you so long, Nicky?”
“Cristos is always late,” the Master smarts off, sending a shiver up my spine. “His art is madness, and therein lies his genius.”
I close my eyes and smile as I remember falling and clocks ticking and talking bees and intoxicating, dreamy men like these before me now.
I loved Twig. His ride was madness. No art needed because his talent was naturally organic and real.
I’ll meet you on the other side of tomorrow.
I glance at the man named Cruz, wondering as he’s stuffing folded pizza into his mouth if he can be my new religion. I lightly touch his fingers, resting on his thigh as I stutter, “What…is…your first name?”
“Deacon.”
Holy warrior, indeed.
Is it possible to miss a dream?
Is it possible to believe in a dream?
Is it possible for the dream to rush through my mind and bubble to the surface, only to be warmed by the sun?
Is it possible these things are all pre-written in the codex, layered in the synapse, and evolved by a strategic fate?
And is it possible that everything unplanned is just the nightmare to detour the trajectory?
Monsters alter the course, but the fairytale is already written, and the happy ending waits.
Whose side are you on?
Sweet like smooth dark chocolate with a bite of salt glistening on my tongue, my name tumbles from my lips, “Ellison Alicia Kingsley.” And everything begins again as I whisper, “You’re the key.”
Do what makes you happy.
Ms. Samuels Notes
THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING.
If you enjoy my work, please consider leaving a review and telling your friends.
I would like to thank all of the authors involved in The Sinister Fairytale Collection.
Until next time…
Walking in grace, forever yours…
k xx
Peace. Love. & Sal.
Thank you!
Have a beautiful day!
Join Kailee for water, wine, or whiskey at
KaileeReeseSamuels.com
The First Client
On January 1, 2020, you’re invited.
the PREQUEL is available now
new message from Hot Mama:
Meet me at Clint Ray’s Bar & Grill on Friday at 7 PM. It’s just outside of San Antonio. Don’t be late.
Don’t worry about clothes for the weekend. You won’t need them.
See you then, Sugar.
My hands trembled as I remembered the message for the thousandth time. I wiped the steam from the mirror and stared at my reflection. I wasn’t sure about any of this, but I needed to know who these people were and what made them tick.
If that meant kicking back a few beers at a bar and knocking boots with a horny older woman, I was okay with that. I was young, and they were paying. I was going to have a helluva good time.
In the little black book, I wrote her name down.
Trudy Diaz.
Deacon Cruz’s mother.
Deacon was the godson of Anna Ford.
And shit was about to get interesting.
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