Devil's Bargain

by Natasha Knight

  I get out of the bed and go into the bathroom, splash cold water on my face. I look at my neck, at the bluish marks there. The big print of his hand.

  Strange that I sleep so heavily here. Safe in his arms even though it’s his hands that left these bruises.

  I switch on the shower and step beneath the flow, making a note to buy conditioner because he doesn’t have any. I use his shampoo, inhaling the scent of him, and scrub my body. When I’m finished, I switch off the shower and wrap a thick towel around myself.

  Digging my wide-tooth comb out of my bag, I sit on the edge of the tub to comb through the tangles of my hair. Dark strands fall to the floor as I pull the comb through.

  That’s going to bother him. I lose a lot of hair every day. I also leave clothes lying around and don’t always put the cap back on the toothpaste.

  The order and almost clinical sparseness of his penthouse will be marred.

  Messy.

  When I can pull the comb through my hair without it catching, I get up, find my toothbrush on the counter—note that his electric one is in its holder. I pick mine up, smear his toothpaste on my brush and brush my teeth as I pad barefoot through the bedroom.

  But as soon as I walk out into the hallway, I stop because I’m not alone.

  There’s a man at the elevator.

  I’m at the far end of the hall and his only acknowledgement to me is a nod. He quickly shifts his gaze away maybe because I’m wrapped in a towel.

  I swallow the toothpaste and steel my spine, holding my towel tight to me as I make my way inside.

  “Where’s Hawk?” I ask.

  The man looks at me and he’s the same one from yesterday, the one who stood outside my house. The one who’d offered me the ride yesterday morning that I’d refused.

  “I’m to look after you. I’ll take you where you need to go.”

  “I don’t need that. I have a car.”

  He doesn’t budge.

  “You can go,” I try again.

  He looks me square in the eyes and there’s a hardness to him. I wonder if he got in trouble last time. “I’m to look after you, Miss.”

  “Where’s Hawk?”

  “He had business to take care of.”

  I wonder if that business had to do with what I overheard last night. Back into the bedroom, I grab my phone type a text to Hawk.

  “I don’t need a babysitter.”

  I get a reply right away. “Brian will drive you anywhere you need to go. My terms, remember?”

  Yes, I remember.

  I log into my banking app and it takes me a minute to read the number there. I’ve never had this much money in my bank account. Ever.

  Fifty percent up front. Fifty afterward. That was the agreement and he’s kept his end of it. Maybe that’s why Brian’s here. To keep me from taking this money and running out on him.

  I have a feeling I wouldn’t get very far if I tried that. Besides, I need this time. This month.

  Is it naïve to think that if I stay here, in this penthouse, that if or when Liza tells Sean about me, maybe he’ll think I’m gone—that I took off—and I can slip back into my life once the month is up?

  And with Hawk, I think I’m safe even as that image of him last night, that of the raging beast, flashes in my memory.

  Who’s going to keep you safe from Hawk?

  I’m about to go back into the bedroom to get dressed, thinking I’ll wear the jeans and top I’d quickly shoved into my tote last night when the elevator dings, announcing someone’s arrival.

  The doors slide open and a woman steps out, giving me a once over. Two men follow her, each pushing a rack into the penthouse.

  “Put them there,” she tells them.

  “What’s this?” I ask when she introduces herself as she tugs the cloth covering the first rack off.

  I forget her name as soon as she says it when I get a look at what’s on those racks.

  Clothes. Not just any clothes.

  Two racks full of designer clothes.

  Casual and formal wear, dresses and jeans and tops and boxes and boxes of shoes.

  “I think he got your size right. A four?”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Mr. MacLeod ordered the clothes. He said if you don’t like something, you’re to send it back.”

  What did he do?

  She must think I’m an idiot when I stand there staring at the racks.

  “I can help you get dressed if you like,” she says.

  “I don’t need help getting dressed, thank you.” I look at the clothes. “These are for me?”

  She nods.

  I walk to one of the racks and run my fingers along the fine fabrics, and gawk and a price tags that I can see.

  “I don’t...Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Miss. Take your time. Look through everything. If anything doesn’t fit, or you don’t like something, let me know. And if there’s anything else you require, let me know that too.”

  She hands me a business card.

  I take it absently.

  “I don’t need all these clothes,” I say, confirming what I’m sure is her opinion of my idiocy.

  “I’m here all day and when I’m not, there will be someone in the shop to help you. We’ll be back later to put the things you want to keep in the closet. Two more racks will be brought up later today. Take your time deciding.”

  She doesn’t wait for me to say anything else before, with a wave of her hand, the men march back onto the elevator and she follows. They’re gone and I’m left staring at the racks, with Brian, my babysitter, hovering in my periphery.

  I walk back into the bedroom and close the door.

  I feel like a whore. A prostitute.

  The money’s in my bank account and another sort of payment is out in the living. Racks of designer clothes I’d never buy even if I could afford them.

  My cell phone rings, interrupting my thoughts. Deirdre’s name pops up and I swipe the screen to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi honey,” comes her warm, grandmotherly voice. “I’m sorry to call so early.”

  “No, it’s fine. What’s up?”

  “Well, the little munchkin’s pinkeye has cleared up but as with everything else with the germ-magnet, guess who’s got pinkeye now?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “You guessed it. Me. Except that mine’s come with a full on cold, too. I don’t think I’ll be able to come in this morning, hon. That’s why I was calling so early.”

  “Oh, it’s all right, Deirdre. Don’t even worry about it. I was planning on going in today anyway,” I say, even though I wasn’t. “You just stay home and get better.”

  “Thank you so much, honey. I really appreciate that.”

  “It’s no problem, Deirdre. Feel better.”

  We hang up and I think about those racks of clothes out there and the fact that I run a second-hand clothing shop where fifty-percent of the profits are donated to the local shelter. How would it look if I walked in there in brand new D&G dress and Jimmy Choo heels?

  That’s not even me.

  I give a shake of my head, find my jeans and top that I’d stuck into my tote yesterday and put them on. I then towel dry my hair, braiding it into a fishtail down one side.

  When I’m back in the living room, my babysitter’s eyebrows go up. I’m sure he’s wondering who’d be stupid enough to put on these old things when they have access to what’s on those racks.

  “I need to go to work,” I tell him.

  He nods and turns to insert a key into a slot on the panel beside the elevator and soon, the numbers on the display start climbing as it comes to the top floor.

  I hold my tote on my shoulder and look straight ahead.

  I just have to remember whatever Hawk is doing, it’s for him, not me. This is his norm, and this is how he wants his women to look because whether I like it or not, I am a part of his stable now.

  I think about the money again. About why I’m doing this. I thin
k about the possibility that I may need to disappear again.

  But how long will I run from Sean Boyd?

  Forever, I think. He told me as much on the last night I saw him. I’ll never forget his words.

  “Keep one eye over your shoulder, Little Bitch Whore, because I will hunt you for the rest of your life. Again and again, I will come after you. Just when you think you’re safe, I’ll be there to remind you that you’re not. That you never will be safe. I’ll remind you again and again and…”

  He’d trailed off then. Or I didn’t hear any more because it hurt too much, what he was doing.

  Pain overrides everything. It blocks out even your own thoughts. In a way, it’s a blessing.

  When we get to the lobby, I ask the man to wait when I see a coffee shop and stop for a to-go cup. I take out my wallet to pay but an older woman, I guess the manager, steps between me and the girl and pushes my money away.

  “It’s taken care of, Miss,” she says. “Anything you need.”

  Of course, it is.

  I’m his whore. And they all know it. The woman with the designer clothes. The man who is standing a few feet from me. This woman.

  “Thank you,” I say awkwardly, knowing it’s no use arguing.

  I put my money back in my wallet and take the cup, too distracted to even add cream or sugar before heading outside where the sedan that once brought me here carries me to the shop.

  Sundays aren’t usually that busy at the shop so being there today will give me a chance to take inventory.

  On Monday I’ll walk over to the homeless shelter a few blocks away and hand them a check for fifty-percent of what the shop took in minus what I’d given Liza. It’s not usually that much, but people don’t realize how little you need to live if you really are using it just to live. To eat. To have a warm, and hopefully safe, bed.

  Although now, I can give them the whole of it. I will have a million dollars by the end of this month. The little bit the shop takes in monthly won’t be as necessary.

  When I arrive at the shop, I take one of the silk scarves in the window and tie it around my neck. The bruises aren’t bad, but I don’t want anyone seeing them.

  The driver spends the morning sitting in the car or climbing out for a smoke. He’s just out on the street like that. He must be bored to tears.

  When I walk down to a small sandwich shop, he follows me.

  “I’m just getting a sandwich,” I tell him. “I’m not going to run away.”

  “Just doing my job.”

  “Fine. Suit yourself.” I order my sandwich but when I try to pay, he steps forward and hands the woman a credit card.

  “I can buy my own sandwich.”

  He ignores me and the woman who has always taken my order looks at me uncertainly.

  “Anything she wants goes on this card,” he says to her.

  “That’s not—” I start.

  “This card,” he interrupts.

  The woman takes it, looks at the name and runs it, stealing glances at me. The two working in the back making the sandwiches are also there, peering out at me, at the commotion.

  I’ve lost my appetite by the time I get the sandwich and walk back to the shop. I take out my phone and instead of calling Hawk, I send him a text:

  “I can buy my own sandwich. Not everyone needs to know I’m your whore.”

  I hit send.

  Not a moment later, I get one back.

  “I like to take care of what’s mine.”

  He likes saying that. Reminding me.

  “You’d never know it from looking at my throat.”

  The phone rings not an instant later. It’s him.

  I decline the call and when I do, a text flashes across the screen: “Pick up.”

  “No.”

  “I said pick up.”

  It rings again and I decline again.

  “Store’s busy.” I text and before he sends another message, I switch off my phone and walk back to the shop. I unlock it and try to smile at the customers who enter a few minutes later.

  My babysitter lights up a cigarette and leans against the door of the car, scrolling through his phone.

  I watch the women absently as they chat and look through the rack of Halloween costumes for kids. They’re some of our biggest selling items. After a while, one of them comes to the register carrying an Ariel costume. She sets it on the counter.

  “I called the other day and Deirdre put a dress aside for me,” she says. “My name is Carol.”

  “Carol, that’s right. A princess dress for your daughter, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll go get it. It’s in the back.” I walk away from the counter and go into the back room to look through the things we’re holding for people. I find the dress, and I carry it into the shop, feeling the shift in the air the instant I open the door between the back room and the shop itself.

  The women are still at the counter and standing beside the door is Hawk. Beyond him, outside, a sedan is parked beside the one that brought me. It’s still running.

  My mouth goes dry when I meet his hard eyes.

  He folds his arms across his chest and raises his eyebrows.

  I clear my throat and walk to the counter.

  “Here it is,” I say.

  The woman picks it up. “It’s gorgeous. And I can sew this right up,” she says, touching the slight tear at the hem.

  “Oh, I didn’t see it. I’ll discount—”

  “No, it’s a few minutes work. Besides, I know how much you donate to the shelter,” she says with a warm smile. She takes out her wallet. “I used to come here back when Marjorie opened the shop. I know she’d be proud you’re keeping up her legacy.”

  “She was an amazing woman.”

  “So are you,” she says.

  Embarrassed, I turn to ring her up, make change and bag the items, not sure if Hawk heard any of that.

  When the women leave, he steps to the counter.

  “Where’s your bluster when I’m standing in front of you.”

  “I’m not a thing.”

  “You are mine to care for during these thirty days. Period. End of fucking story.”

  “I’m not a whore.” I feel my eyes fill up.

  “The only person throwing that word whore around is you.”

  “I can pay for my own coffee and my own sandwich and my own clothes.”

  “You switched off your phone,” he says.

  “I told you it was busy.”

  “That was busy?”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Why aren’t you wearing the clothes I had delivered?”

  “Look around you, Hawk.”

  He studies me.

  “I’ll wear what you want me to wear at the casino or when we’re out together, but I’m not wearing those things here. I have my own clothes.”

  “I’ve seen your clothes.”

  “Money and material things, they’re not everything, you know.”

  “I know how much I transferred into your bank account this morning.”

  “There are reasons people do things and you don’t know anything about mine.”

  “I may not know everything but I’m willing to bet your reasons have something to do with the fake driver’s license.”

  Shit. Why did I say that?

  “I’ll have the clothes swapped out for more appropriate ones,” he says.

  “I told you, I have my own.”

  “Is it that hard to let someone do something nice for you?”

  I stop at that, but then shake my head. “You’re doing it for you, not me. Let’s just be really honest about that.”

  “There are reasons people do things and you don’t know anything about mine,” he says, repeating my own sentence word for word.

  I bite the inside of my lip.

  “Let me see.” He gestures to the scarf.

  “It’s fine.”

  “Let me see.”

  He reaches over t
he counter this time and pulls the knot of the scarf loose. The silk falls away in his hand and he lifts my chin, turns it slightly, touches the marks. He turns my face back and looks at me.

  “It won’t happen again,” he says.

  “So you’ve said.” I pull out of his grasp.

  “Are you afraid of me?”

  His question surprises me and it takes me a long time to answer. “I don’t know what I am. I just know there are men worse than you out there.”

  His gaze on me is so intense I shift mine to the counter.

  I don’t know why I just said that. I mean, it’s true. As ridiculous as it sounds, I do feel safe with him. And some part of me wants to tell him why I took the deal. Wants to tell him why I use a fake name. Why Liza knowing I’m here scares the shit out of me.

  But I can’t do that.

  I can’t ever do that.

  When I look back up at him, he’s studying me curiously. I have to get better at hiding what I’m thinking.

  “That photograph you found, it’s old. Old things carry memories,” he says, surprising me.

  I don’t have a reply and we just stand there in an almost comfortable silence. But then the shop door opens and Axel walks in.

  Hawk straightens, turns to him.

  “We gotta go,” Axel says, giving me one glance.

  “Be right there. Wait for me outside.”

  Hawk shifts his gaze back to me and takes my jaw into his hand again. He draws me forward.

  “When I call, you pick up, understood?”

  “Understood.”

  14

  Hawk

  “There are reasons people do things and you don’t know anything about mine.”

  These are the words that go around and around in my head as I watch Melissa look through the new clothes on the racks in one of the spare bedrooms.

  I had all the designer stuff taken away, well, most of it. She still needs some evening dresses. In their place, the racks are stuffed with more casual clothes, still good brands, but not the best designer labels money can buy.

  “Better. Thank you,” Melissa says, picking out every pink item and shoving each into my arms. “No pink though.”

  I take the hangers, curious about this peculiarity, but she turns away, her attention back on the clothes.

  “You’re welcome.” My phone buzzes. I drop the clothes she handed me on the bed and step out to take it. It’s a file from Jack with more details on Sean Boyd and I’m starting to figure out why Melissa accepted my offer. What some of those reasons are that she thinks I know nothing about.