Erasing Faith

by Julie Johnson

  For five minutes, I watched him in the pale morning light, the smell of autumn lingering in the air. I felt like I was intruding on a private moment, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Seeing him this way was captivating. A show of pure power, of sheer masculinity.

  There was beauty in it — beauty and brutality.

  The coffee in my mug went cold, totally forgotten as my eyes followed every lift of his arms, every crack of the axe. The sight took my breath away.

  Eventually, my good sense returned and I wanted to shake myself for spying on him. Cursing, I turned and crept back inside, careful to ease the screen shut slowly so as not to disturb him. Judging by the pile of split kindling, he’d been at it a while — judging by the mountain of yet uncut logs, he’d be at it a long while still. Not one to let an opportunity go to waste, I made quick work of turning on the spigot in the large copper tub.

  It took a few minutes, but the water at last began to run clear and hot. I fished the travel-sized body wash from my duffel, dumped a heaping capful into the bath, and watched, delighted, as the basin began to fill with bubbles. Nearly tripping in my eagerness to shed my clothes, in less than a minute, I’d kicked off my pajamas and sunken into the heavenly warmth of the water with a content sigh.

  I felt the wear and tear of the past few days begin to slide off my skin. The taut bands of emotion that had been squeezing my chest, slowly suffocating me, started to loosen for the first time since I’d left my parents’ house.

  Margot’s death, Wes’ presence, Szekely’s hitman — it all faded away, and for a few brief moments, I was a hollow, emotionless shell without a care in the world or a thought in my head.

  It was blissful.

  When the water lost its warmth, I was forced to open my eyes and emerge from the chilled tub. And of course — because my love life was just one long series of awkward moments — at the exact second I’d risen to my feet and begun to reach for the towel rack, trying desperately not to slip and fall on my face, Wes decided his time as a lumberjack was over. I heard the screen door screech as he stepped back inside the cabin and I lunged for the towel, but it was too late.

  He’d seen.

  In the tiny fraction of time before I managed to tug the pitiful excuse for a curtain in front of me and wrap a towel around my body, his ever-intent eyes had scanned my entire frame and locked on the ugly round scar, just below my left breast. Even after I’d covered myself, his gaze burned into the fabric, like he couldn’t stop seeing what lay beneath. I tried not to tremble as I stepped as gracefully as possible from the tub, my wet feet leaving damp footprints on the hardwood as I moved out of the bathroom area.

  No one had ever seen my scar. Not my family, not Conor, not my new friends back in New York.

  It was part of my past I didn’t share with anyone — the only physical wound left behind to mark the internal pain Wes had inflicted on me. Every time I’d looked into the mirror for the past three years and seen it, I’d also seen him staring back at me. Haunting me, taunting me.

  I lifted my chin and made sure my face was contorted in an indifferent expression as I stood there, waiting for him to either say something or walk back outside.

  He did neither.

  Instead, he just looked at me. His eyes lifted to meet mine and the emotions swimming in their depths were so strong, they nearly leveled me. He stood there, stripped of every defense. His walls were finally down and I could see it all — the sadness and the regret that shone so brightly in his eyes, like two burning beacons of pain.

  That look — it tore me apart inside. It made me want to scream at the top of my lungs, slap him across the face, and slam my lips down on his all at once.

  I didn’t.

  I pinched the fleshy part of my hand as I reminded myself that nothing was different after two days cooped up in a cabin with him. Even if his name really was Wes and he’d come back to protect me, it didn’t mean anything — didn’t change anything.

  I channeled every bit of searing, simmering anger I could muster into my gaze and stared back at him.

  I had to stay angry. There was no other option. Because if I let go of my rage…

  Well, I’d be right back where I’d started: in love with the ghost of a man, who cared nothing for me.

  He was just as hazardous as he’d ever been — to my health. To my head. To my heart.

  So, as far as I was concerned, he didn’t have a right to regret his actions — not now. Not after all this time, when it was too late. He didn’t get stare at me like he’d do anything to erase the past.

  Because, every second he looked at me like that, it was a little harder to remember that he’d ruined my life. That I hated him.

  Every second he looked at me like that…. I wanted to be back in his arms, letting the rest of the world disappear.

  His mouth finally opened but I turned away before a single word made it past his lips.

  “Please,” I whispered, my voice stark as my eyes dropped to the floor. “A little privacy.”

  The screen slammed shut a moment later and I pressed my eyes closed, feeling more confused than ever.

  ***

  “So, here’s the thing,” I called, stepping outside onto the porch and planting my hands on my hips.

  Wes turned his head over his shoulder to look at me, an eyebrow arched in question. If he was surprised by my change in demeanor from the shaky, silent girl I’d been less than an hour before, he showed no signs of it.

  “I need to get out of this damn cabin,” I continued, walking forward and settling in on the stoop two steps above his, making sure to leave a careful amount of distance between us. “I’m beginning to understand the term cabin fever all too well.”

  Wes snorted. “Well, you clearly don’t understand the terms hiding out or safe house.”

  I narrowed my eyes on the back of his head. “Oh, come on. I need to get out of here and I’ll do just about anything to make it happen. Hell, I’ll wear a disguise — even ugly myself up a little.”

  He turned to face me, his lips twisted in amusement. “Ugly yourself up?”

  “Yep. You’re ugly enough as it is, so no need for you to partake,” I said sweetly.

  His crooked grin came out in full force and I ignored the way my stomach flipped at the sight.

  “Thanks, Red.”

  “Anytime.” I cracked a smile. “So, is there a diner around here? I could go for pancakes. Oh! Or a burger. Fries. Maybe even a milkshake…. Really, anything that doesn’t come from a can or taste like sawdust would be spectacular.”

  He stared at me, unblinking.

  “What?” I asked, a little defensive.

  “You’re joking, right?” His voice was incredulous.

  “When it comes to food, I don’t joke around.” I widened my eyes. “Seriously, I’m starving.”

  He was silent.

  “Please?” I said, putting on my best puppy-dog pout.

  His eyes narrowed.

  I jutted out my bottom lip.

  “Fine,” he muttered. “There’s a diner a few miles from here.”

  I squealed happily.

  “One burger. One hour.” His voice was firm. “We’ll be in and out. No arguments.”

  The urge to throw my hands in the air and do a victory dance was strong, but I managed to resist. With the promise of real, warm food, nothing could dampen my spirits — not even being forced to wrap my arms around Wes’ torso so I wouldn’t fall off the back of his bike as we sped down the dirt road back toward civilization.

  ***

  “Ohmuhgawd.”

  I moaned unintelligibly around the colossal bite of burger filling my mouth. Wes was silent as he watched me devour my meal, both eyebrows high on his forehead.

  If I hadn’t been so goddamn hungry, I would’ve been a little embarrassed by my gluttony. I made a forcible effort to swallow before I spoke again, sipping my soda and leaning back against the faux-leather booth with my hands resting on my now-bloated stomach.


  “So good,” I murmured, staring at my empty plate. I’d singlehandedly destroyed the mountain of French fries and quarter-pounder the waitress had delivered fifteen minutes ago.

  He continued to stare at me in silence, his eyes roaming my face.

  “What?” I asked, my voice abrupt. My heart was beating a little too fast in my chest — I told myself it was from my impending food-coma, nothing more. “Is there a reason you’re staring at me?”

  “Besides the fact that you just ate me under the table?” His lips twisted as he reached out and slowly handed me a napkin from the plastic dispenser. “You have ketchup on your face,” he said softly.

  My cheeks flamed. “Oh,” I whispered, taking the napkin and feeling foolish.

  “Are you done?”

  I nodded. “I just want to use the bathroom.”

  “Fine, be quick.” He looked over his shoulder at the empty diner and I fought the urge to roll my eyes. We’d been here an hour and the place hadn’t seen a single other customer. We were so far off the beaten track, I was surprised the place was even in business.

  Not that I was complaining — the food had been phenomenal after two days of saltines.

  I slid out of the booth and headed for the bathroom. It was a dingy little closet with poor lighting and dirty walls, but even so, it still beat peeing in the cabin. I relieved myself in peace for the first time in days and also got my first horrific glimpse in a mirror since this ordeal started.

  Pulling off the atrocious baseball cap Wes had insisted I wear, I saw my face was drawn with grief and tension. There were shadows under my eyes, as though I hadn’t slept in ages, and there wasn’t a stitch of makeup to be found on my features. I made quick work of applying a touch of lipstick and a swipe of mascara, feeling instantly more like myself. I pointedly ignored the snarky portion of my brain that questioned whether my desire to clean up had little to do with me and a whole lot to do with the man who’d just seen my face covered in condiments.

  Before leaving the bathroom, I pulled my gun from my purse and made sure it was still loaded. I was surprised to find it was — Wes hadn’t taken my bullets, as I’d suspected he might. Checking that the safety was still on, I slipped the pistol back into my bag and strolled out of the bathroom.

  I froze a few feet from the table, eyes widening at the sight before me.

  Wes was standing beside our booth, wiping down every surface we’d touched — from the utensils to the salt and pepper shakers — with a damp, disposable cleaning cloth.

  “And here I always thought Mr. Clean was bald,” I sassed, giggling at the sight.

  He glanced over his shoulder at me, but didn’t stop cleaning.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Seriously, what are you doing?”

  He sighed audibly. “When I’m on a job, when I don’t want to be found… There’s a reason I pick places like this, with no security cameras. It’s the same reason I pay with cash and don’t chitchat with the waitresses. I don’t leave any traces.”

  “Makes sense,” I murmured, looking away from him. My eyes were suddenly tingling for no apparent reason.

  I don’t leave any traces.

  Oh, but he did.

  He might’ve wiped down every crime scene and removed all remnants of his DNA… Hell, he could’ve scrubbed every goddamn surface in Budapest. But the fingerprints he’d left all over my heart couldn’t ever be removed. They were invisible scars, reshaping my soul like a sculptor’s hands would the most malleable clay. Scored so deeply beneath the skin, he couldn’t have undone the damage even if he’d tried.

  I stood, unmoving, as he brushed past me on the way to the bathroom I’d just used. He returned a moment later, dropped a few bills on the tabletop, and turned to me.

  “Time to go,” he said, his hand finding the small of my back as he guided me out the door. He pulled the baseball cap down over his face as we walked past the waitress who’d served us, and I nodded goodbye with my own brim-shielded face averted.

  I made sure not to touch the door handles when we stepped outside and climbed back onto his bike. The meal I’d just consumed turned to stone inside my stomach as I wrapped my arms around his torso and tried very hard not to cry.

  Chapter Fifty-Two: FAITH

  TRUTHS AND LIES

  After our outing to the diner, another day slipped away with very little of interest to report.

  With nothing to do, I grew so bored and stir-crazy, I would’ve welcomed the arrival of some heavily-armed assassins, if only to liven things up. Even arguing with Wes had lost its charm — we barely spoke as day faded into night, then day again.

  As time went by, we developed an unspoken routine of sorts. Wes hated being stuck in the cabin so he’d disappear outside for most of the day, doing manly things like keeping watch and chopping logs and God only knew what else, which suited me just fine. I spent my time inside listening to an iPod that was quickly running out of battery, sketching on gum wrappers I found in the bottom of my purse, cleaning things that were already immaculate, and playing thousands of rounds of cards.

  A single day of solitude and solitaire, and I’d been driven half-mad.

  Which was, perhaps, the only explanation for why I thought it was a good idea to grab the whiskey from the cabinet, shove some matches in my pocket, and pull the quilt from the bed, as I headed out into the dusky twilight. Wes was nowhere in sight and, thus, couldn’t thwart my plans, which brought a smile to my lips for the first time all day.

  Dumping my armful of supplies, I began collecting rocks from the clearing. Once I had enough, I laid them in a circle on the dusty earth just off the side of the cabin, then turned for Wes’ woodpile. Within minutes, I’d stacked several logs in a pyramid and shoved some dry twigs in the space beneath them.

  My patience expired after a few unsuccessful attempts to light a fire with nothing but matches and grass. Twisting the cap on my Jameson bottle, I doused the logs with a splash and watched giddily as flames began to consume my makeshift fire-pit. The logs burned warm and bright as I spread my quilt on the lawn a short distance away and sprawled out on my stomach to watch them crack and hiss.

  As the sun set and full night descended, I fed the fire and took small sips of whiskey on alternating intervals, which sent an entirely different kind of flame burning down my throat and into my empty stomach. I knew it was cold — I could see my breath puffing in the darkness — but I felt perfectly warm.

  Whether from the fire or the liquor, I didn’t care much.

  Eventually, I flipped over onto my back and looked up at the stars until they blurred before my eyes.

  The last thing I thought before my lids slipped closed was that they were almost as beautiful out here as they’d been from a bridge in Budapest, with a boy’s arms wrapped around me and a future brighter than the moon painted in my mind.

  ***

  “Fuck. You have to be kidding me.”

  I knew that voice, but right now it sounded low and pissed off, grumbling in my direction like a freight train. I felt fingertips against my cheeks, patting my skin lightly, but like a stubborn child refusing to wake, I turned my head so they couldn’t bother me anymore.

  “Perfect. Just perfect.” The voice was back, angrier than ever. “As if you weren’t already the biggest pain in the fucking ass in history, now you’re a drunk pain in the fucking ass.”

  I made a light sound of protest.

  “Open your eyes, Red.” His fingers traced my jawline lightly, and it felt good — so, so good. “Come on, time to wake up.”

  I leaned my head into his touch so my cheek rested in his palm and listened to the breath hiss between his lips in a sharp exhale. He muttered a few words I couldn’t make out under his breath, and suddenly, his hands disappeared from my face altogether.

  Some small, sober part of my brain was screaming that it was a good thing he’d backed off, but mostly I felt the loss of his touch like a physical blow. I wanted it back.

  I opened my mouth to say
so, but was cut off when he spoke again. This time, there was no anger in his voice — it was soft, coaxing.

  “Faith.”

  My eyes cracked open.

  His face was inches from mine, illuminated by the firelight. We were so close, I could’ve counted his eyelashes, if I’d been clearheaded enough to count anything. His gaze burned into mine, hotter than the fire mere feet away, and all I could think was that he was absolutely, unquestionably the most gorgeous human being ever to walk this earth.

  “You’re beautiful,” I told him, my voice sounding slurred even to my own ears.

  His crooked smile appeared. “And you’re piss-drunk.”

  “Nuh-uh,” I said, grinning goofily. “Am not.”

  “Whatever you say.” He shook his head slightly, but his voice was amused. “Can you walk?”

  I blew out an incredulous puff of air. “Totally.”

  He pulled back and watched from a few feet away as I struggled to sit upright. As soon as my torso went perpendicular to the ground, the world around me began to spin dizzily. I could feel my body swaying in place, until two solid hands landed on my shoulders and steadied me.

  “Totally,” he agreed wryly.

  I tried — and failed — to narrow my eyes at him. “Are you mocking me?”

  “Never.” His grin was back. “Can you put your arms around my neck, at least?”

  “Why?”

  “Time to put you to bed.”

  “Ohhh, how presumptuous of you.” I giggled and draped my arms over his shoulders.

  He laughed. “I’m not sure who you’re going to be angrier at in the morning — me, for witnessing this, or yourself, for downing a half-bottle of Jameson.”

  Before I could retort, his arms looped under my knees and around my back, as he lifted me from the ground. My head immediately fell into the hollow of his throat. I focused my spinning eyes on the vein in his jugular, watching it thrum with each beat of his heart.

  “I won’t be mad,” I protested, snuggling into his chest and pressing my nose against his warm skin.

  “I very much doubt that.” The rumble of his laugh vibrated my entire body.