by Bijou Hunter
Saskia claims what we feel is no more than lust. Considering she's never been an eighteen year old guy, she can't understand how well I know about pure, stupid lust. What I feel for this redheaded enigma is nothing like the sexual need I suffered for any hot girl when I was a horny teenager. This desire for her is all encompassing until I can't think about anything without a hint of Saskia included. I hear her voice even when she isn't speaking. I see her even when she isn't in the room. I've lost my damn mind over this woman, but she still believes we're suffering from ordinary lust.
Saskia rests sprawled on her back. Arms spread and legs wide open, she's been thoroughly fucked. I smile at her expression. Blissed out, she stares at the ceiling while my fingers tease a growing hickey on her right breast.
"You look happy," I whisper.
"I am."
Her smile invigorates me. "Why were you so angry earlier tonight? Is that what you're like when pumped up with adrenaline?"
Saskia curls her arms around one of mine and rolls over to look at me. "You didn't stay in the elevator."
"I was worried about you and wanted to help. That was no reason to be so pissed."
"You distract me," she says with a hint of irritation in her otherwise relaxed expression. "I lose my focus when you're around."
"You kicked ass tonight."
"Did I? He got off a shot that might have killed you or me or an innocent bystander. I also wanted him alive."
"What for? I'm fucking thrilled he's dead."
"Intel."
Caressing her soft hair spread across my chest, I think of Dennis Stein dead at my hands.
"When I escaped years ago, there were only two people in the small house. One was Dennis. The other was a woman named Liz Loucks. She tried to stop me when I ran out of the house, but I shoved her aside. I guess she banged her head or something because the police found her wandering around on the road looking for the sacrifice."
Saskia's gaze remains soft as I speak. In here with her, I don't mind recalling the past.
"The police interrogated her for hours about her accomplices and why she took me. Liz told them nothing. In the cabin, I heard her and Stein say I was a sacrifice to Bagadon. With the police though, she only hummed. She never asked for a lawyer or got upset. She only hummed. Then when she saw her chance, she killed herself. There's no reason to believe the idiot from tonight would have talked."
"I could have made him talk."
"Oh, really?" I ask, grinning.
Saskia holds my gaze and nods. "It's what I do."
My smile fades. "Torture?"
"I refer to my skills as extraction techniques."
"Torture doesn't work. Studies have shown that people will say whatever they have to when tortured. The information isn't reliable."
"Did you read that on the internet?" she says, sitting up against the headboard. "Then it must be true."
Joining Saskia against the headboard, I take her hand. "When those fuckers were slicing into me, I would have told them whatever they wanted. I begged them for something I could do to make it stop."
Expression tensing, Saskia tightens her grip on my hand. "Too many madmen or simple freaks think the way to gain intel is through butchery. If they cut off a few fingers or bash someone's face in, the target will tell you anything you want. However, the human mind responds to pain in a variety of ways. A man screaming in pain will likely not know what the truth is even if he desperately wants to tell it."
Before my eyes, Saskia pulls back a dark curtain and shows me her ugly past.
"I've walked into situations where drug lords or dictators wanted information, but they've tortured their targets for days, even weeks. The human mind is resilient yet complicated. Memories and fantasies intertwine. What is a dream? What is reality? They all twist into the unknowable when under stress. Think of it as trying to remember a name when you see someone at a party. If you have time to think, you can usually recall the name. If you're under too much pressure, your mind locks up and the name remains lost."
Saskia fingers caress mine absently. Her mind so focused on the past that she doesn't really see me. I shiver at the thought of her mother teaching a child such horrible skills.
"The key is to tear a person's body apart without destroying their mind. Most people want to give up early on, but they don't want to give up too soon. Most of us aren't martyrs or cowards, so it’s necessary to slowly peel away their need to refuse. It takes time and patience. Even more so when I walked into a situation where the target was already pulverized. Bringing them back to sanity enough to dig into their minds can be impossible. Compared to such lost causes, the man tonight would have been a cakewalk."
The indifference in her expression doesn't bother me as much as the pride in her voice. Imagining her entering a room with a man strapped to a chair, I see her coldly tearing him apart until he has nothing left to offer. Human life meant nothing to her mother, and I wonder if it means anything to Saskia either.
"You only left that life out of boredom?" I ask, my voice shaking.
Saskia hears the judgment in my words. When she looks at me, her face reveals emotions I don't understand. Is it possible I really don't know this mysterious woman and our feelings are no more than lust born out of shared loneliness?
The confusing emotions on her face shift into a cold mask. Saskia releases my hand and slides out of bed. "Everyone has darkness in them, but not everyone embraces it."
"You were a child when darkness touched you."
Saskia yanks on her robe and walks to the bathroom. "I embraced it long after Maven was dead, and I feel no guilt for my past. While I take a shower, I'd like you to leave. Now that all the other publicity events are canceled, we can return to Houston tomorrow."
The door shuts gently behind her as if Saskia refuses to admit she's upset. Her voice never wavers. Her cold expression never falters. Despite the hours of wild abandon in bed, she's once again closed off to me.
Dressing quickly, I leave as she wants. I ought to feel worse about giving up so easily or upset about her closing the door on her feelings. Yet after her prideful speech on the wonders of torturing someone, her indifference feels like a relief.
22
~ Saskia ~
Pieces of a Puzzle
The flight back to Houston is a tense one. Brad says nothing to anyone. Nell and Ruth whisper heatedly, arguing over something. Minka is positively miserable and takes a seat away from everyone. By the time the plane takes off, the bad mood onboard is oppressive.
A few hours into the flight, Marx decides to take the seat next to mine. I continue flipping through my catalogues while he settles in for a long time. He's clearly nervous to talk to me. Though I hope he'll chicken out and go away, he smiles at me instead.
"You don't like me very much, do you?"
"I have no feelings towards you whatsoever."
"I probably come on too strong. This entire experience with Brad and the book has been overwhelming. Sorry if I annoyed you."
Glancing back, I notice Ruth and Nell watching us from two rows over. I decide to prove I'm nice by tolerating Marx.
"I'm sure you did a professional job on the book."
"You still haven't read it?"
"If Brad wants to share something about his past, he can tell me himself."
Marx studies me with his pale blue eyes. I check my phone while he does his thinking.
"I think you have an interesting story to tell," he finally says.
"I'm sure you do."
"A book could be written in such a way that it would tell your story without giving away personal info about you."
"Unlikely. What would be the point of telling my story anyway?"
"You could explain how you got into your line of work. I'm sure you have a lot of great stories."
Thinking of how I shared too much with Brad and he's now avoiding me, I have no interest in telling more stories.
"I doubt there's a way to write about my life wi
thout giving away info about me and the people in the stories. If you put too much info, bad people might come looking for us."
Marx gives me a confident smile. "I'm sure we could fudge some things."
"If you're planning to lie about the details, the book would be fiction. If so, why not write whatever you want and leave me out of it?"
Frowning, Marx glances around. I don't know what he's looking for, but he returns his gaze to me and says, "I prefer writing about real people."
Even having no interest in this man, I realize Marx might provide me with info to help me protect Brad.
"You did research into Brad's case before writing the book, yes?"
"Sure. I talked to the detectives in charge. Retraced the crime and took pictures of everything."
"The man I shot at the hotel had been off the grid for decades. The man and woman who died when Brad escaped were both essentially homeless for years before their deaths. Did you find anything that connected the first two?"
"No."
"Two people with no clear signs of income managed to pull off the abduction. How did the man from last night afford to pay for his room?"
"He might be a criminal and stole the money."
I think about the man I killed the night before. His clothes were brand new. He had recently gotten his hair trimmed. Yet his skin looked battered like a man surviving on the streets through too many harsh seasons.
"People who live off the grid don't have the means to travel to a big city and pay for an expensive hotel. I find it difficult to believe a member of the cult was homeless in New York, saw Brad was doing local interviews, and decided to steal money to get a room so he could destroy the half demon guy from a decade old TV show."
"So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying there's a missing link. How did the man even know Brad would be in town for the interviews? Was this information publicly posted somewhere? I suggest you use your investigative skills to figure out the answers to these questions. Imagine if you track down the cult and figure out how they're funded, you'd have your second book. It'd probably sell more than the first one."
Marx considers my idea for too long for a man desperate for a follow-up idea.
"Are your people tracking down leads?" he asks.
"Yes, but the old info isn't leading anywhere. We also don't have a lot of new stuff to follow. If you get anything, let us know."
"I will."
After we've finished lying to each other, Marx returns to his seat and puts on headphones. I slide my phone from my pocket and casually type a message to Rafael back in Houston.
"Find everything you can on Marx Hearton. Consider him a hostile."
I allow Marx to settle into his usual routine before I change seats and join Minka.
"How do you think the biter from the hotel found us?" I ask her.
"Someone told him. Duh." When I frown at her tone, she frowns back at me. "Give up. I'm not losing this staring contest."
"What's wrong with you?"
"I don't like flying."
"I'm sorry."
Minka grudgingly smiles. "Troy always teases me for being a wuss. Thank you for being nice."
"I'm getting better at faking compassion."
"Lying to protect my feelings is the kindest thing anyone's ever done for me."
"That's sad."
"I know, so what's up?"
I type on my phone how Marx gives me a bad feeling. After reading the message, Minka nods.
"Young people always give me a bad feeling."
"Rafael is checking up on him. I don't know why we didn't think to do that before."
"Because he's a fifteen year old hipster dork."
"I know you're attempting humor, but I don't understand half of what you just said."
Minka lifts an eyebrow. "You know English without actually knowing it, right?"
"If the hipster is feeding the cult info, we can assume they'll attack again soon."
"If they want to kill Brad, it shouldn't be too hard. I think we might be past the point of worrying about warning shots."
Thinking back to the man in the hotel, I nod. "I don't care how many we bury. This ends with everyone of them dead or in prison."
"Prison sounds like testifying in court. I think if I put my hand on the Bible, a fire might break out."
"I'm fine with dead."
Minka smiles, but remains edgy for the rest of the flight. I sit next to her silently for the final two hours. She watches videos while I read books. My mind is on Brad though.
Feeling him even several seats away, I lean into the aisle so I can catch a glimpse of the top of his blond head. Even such a small thing soothes me, but my chest hurts remembering the expression on his face last night.
23
~ Saskia ~
Motherly Affections
The Sloane house feels different now. The hominess I once enjoyed makes me feel like an interloper. Why am I still here? I might as well switch with Minka and let her be the on-site operator. Did I really expect a lust-based relationship with Brad to become something more?
Troy kept watch over the house during our trip, so we find it untouched upon our return. After unpacking, I walk the perimeter because I don't know what else to do with myself now that I'm avoiding Brad for real.
Is he avoiding me? He's certainly keeping his distance. I linger near the kitchen when I see him getting a snack. He sees me too and smiles tightly before walking out a side door with the dogs. I don't know what else I expected when I shared my past. This is how it was always going to end.
Ruth remains in the kitchen, cutting vegetables for dinner. I know she isn't keen on me, and I'm not sure why I care anymore. I do though, so I stand near the island.
"What are you making?" I ask, stepping closer.
"Sweet potato and carrot casserole," she says gruffly before glancing at me. Our gazes meet for a second or two. "Why don't you help me?"
I take the knife she hands me and begin slicing the carrots.
"You have nice knife skills," she murmurs.
"You have no idea."
Ruth smiles at me. "I didn't like you much when you first showed up here. Probably didn't hide the fact either. I'm wary of new people especially ones I can’t read well."
"I hadn't really noticed."
"You lie better than I do."
I smile grudgingly while finishing with another two carrots. Ruth takes the ones I've chopped and adds them to her pot.
"In your line of work," Ruth says without looking at me, "I would think hiding yourself in plain sight is an asset rather than a negative."
"Yes."
"So maybe I was wrong about you."
Remaining silent, I fear saying something that might make her change her mind. Ruth stops working on her sweet potatoes and takes my shoulders so I'll look at her. Her gray eyes study me, and I feel like a naughty child under her gaze.
"Just promise me one thing," she says, still holding my shoulders, "You won't play with my boy. You won't use him for money or because you think it's fun to twist up a man's heart. Brad is a grown man, but he isn't jaded like most men his age. If you hurt him, I'll find a way to hurt you."
Rather than finding her threat silly, I want her to trust me. Ruth raised Brad and cared for him when he was scared and sick. She kept him safe all these years. Kept him sane too. Many men turned mean after suffering like Brad had with the cult freaks.
"Do you promise you aren't planning to hurt my son?" Ruth asks.
If I speak, I fear my voice will break and betray my cool exterior. Holding her gaze, I only nod. Ruth smiles warmly at my response and releases my shoulders. We return to cutting vegetables.
"My mother was an excellent cook," Ruth says. "She couldn't clean for shit, and she hated entertaining, but the woman cooked like a dream. Taught me everything she knew too. I always wished I'd have a daughter to teach or Brad might take an interest in cooking. Never happened, of course."
"I don't know mu
ch about cooking."
"Well as long as you're around, I could show you a lot of nifty recipes."
Remembering Brad's expression when I got too honest in the hotel room, I feel wrong remaining in this home. My mind quickly brushes aside that memory, replacing it with a one from our dinner together in New York. That night, the world didn't exist outside of us.
Ruth's cooking lesson won't fix what's broken between Brad and me, but her approval feels good anyway.
"What does Brad like to eat?" I ask.
"Potatoes," Ruth says, grinning. "He'll eat them at every meal of the day. The boy loves his starch."
I smile at her tone. Ruth loves her son in a way I can't truly understand. I know in theory about the strong bond between parent and child. I've never felt such a bond though, not even with Sela.
"How did you feel about Brad writing the book?"
Ruth's smile fades. "I thought he was taking his therapy too seriously."
"How did he find Marx?"
Stirring more raw vegetables into the giant pot, Ruth shakes her head. "It was the other way around. Marx contacted Brad repeatedly about writing a book. He claimed to have done a lot of research already and felt Brad's story was an important one to share. At first, Brad said no. He said no quite a few times but eventually changed his mind."
"Did his therapist talk him into it?"
"No, I don't think so. Brad had been seeing Lawrence for a long time and felt guilty for not improving more. I think he was lonely too and thought he could force himself to change. So one day, he came to me and said he was meeting with Marx. Next thing I knew, they were working on the book. I kept waiting for him to change his mind, but you know how that turned out."
I finish with the carrots and begin working on an onion. "What do you think about Marx?"
"He's eager. Hungry, I guess. He wrote two other books that didn't sell much. I think he went looking for a celebrity-type story and focused on Brad."
"Do you think he's trustworthy?"
"How do you mean?"
"Would he share your private details with the press?"
Ruth considers my words. Until I say the words, she trusted Marx completely. With my single question, she's ready to change her mind.
