by Marata Eros
I drop my hand, lace my fingers together, and cup the back of my head, waiting for my stop.
I note there's only one other passenger, but his dark blond head is bent, facing the same direction I am. He couldn't have made the noise.
A nagging feeling uncoils inside me, then my stomach growls. God. Usually I eat at the store.
But I couldn’t even catch a breath before I had to be back at the train for my departure time. Didn't even have a sec to put in a ticket for the cook.
Dammit. I guess I'll have to grab a gut bomb on the way to my apartment.
The train smoothly jerks to a stop, my body flowing forward slightly as the momentum ceases.
I stand, turning to retrieve my slim Euro-styled backpack from the seat beside me. I slide the black pack over my shoulders, and the body of it settles between my shoulder blades. I roll my shoulders a little, and the body of it shifts to perfection.
Pulling one earbud out, I move to the sliding doors and wait for all the safety bullshit to enact so I can exit.
I knot my almost kinky blond hair onto the top of my head and deftly extract the clawed hair thingie off the strap of my pack. I latch it onto the whole mess, and a stubborn piece of hair bounces out as the soft whoosh of the doors sounds behind me.
I bring my nose up and suck in some Kent air. Exhaust, food, and the smell of rain mingle in a tantalizing scent-trigger that's meant home for the last six years.
I hear the question but don't immediately react. My first language is still English. Doesn't matter that I usually listen to French instead of music, read French books, listen to French TV.
I'm still American. And I am not advanced enough in French to have what my professor calls “passive listening.” That's where a person knows what someone else is saying, even if they're not paying attention.
I turn to the person who asked the question. The words I heard seconds before float and translate like loose alphabet soup in my mind. “Do you speak another language besides French and English?”
That's strange as hell.
I face the other passenger, frowning. At least, I think he's the other passenger. But now that I'm looking at his face, I realize he's a classmate from Green River College.
My heart rate accelerates. “Hi,” I say in slightly breathless French, because that's the language he used for his weird question.
His smile is wide and instant. “Salut,” he replies in casual French.
I'm definitely confused. I do a quick scan of my surroundings. No people. Of course there's not. It's nearly ten o'clock on Sunday night. Gloom encroaches from all corners of the cement-and-glass depot.
Before I can question why a fellow student happens to be on the same train as me, he lifts his chin in what appears to be a silent greeting, looking at a point behind me.
My stomach turns, and the fine hairs at my nape lift. My instincts kick in, and I sink to my haunches. I feel the breeze over my head and roll, then leap to my feet and crouch.
I've never felt threatened before. I'm not one of those chicks who dig in my purse for my keys all the way to the car then get clobbered because I'm not aware of my surroundings.
French is not the only thing I studied, and I've never been so happy I put my hair up before I stepped off the train. It's long and would have impeded me or aided the two that face me now.
“You can make this hard or simple,” my fellow student says in curt French.
The other man, who gets nothing but an eye flick from me, is a criminal. The eyes that stare back at me are hard. Eager.
I swallow, keeping my hands loose, my knees relaxed and bent.
“Take this cunt,” the student from my class says in French.
Fear squeezes my throat, but I reply in English, “I'm not a cunt.” Enough of what makes me who I am, remains. “I have a cunt,” I enunciate in clipped tones, “but I'm not one.”
Felon boy gives a derisive snort. “She will need breaking, like a horse.”
Adrenaline singes my fingertips and toes like a brushfire gone wild. I consider running and know they can take me. Fuck it. I raise my nondominant hand and flip off the greasy guy.
He issues a predictable roar, charging forward.
Amateur. I sink hard where I stand, all the aches and pains vanishing with the wash of sudden adrenaline.
His arms are wide and try to scoop me like a klutzy bear.
I take the tip of my clog and hook his nutsack. He falls like a lump, cursing in bellowing French.
Uh-huh.
I smoothly pivot. The student is different. He sprints along my periphery. I catch the glint of a needle.
Hell no.
I leap backward, nearly trip on dipshit there writhing on the ground, and fling my pack forward by tossing my arms straight in front of me. The backpack breaks from my body without obstruction.
He bats it away.
But the pack is heavyish. A glass water bottle, extra shoes, and my solid French textbook weigh it down like a sack of boulders. The pack catches on his wrist and inadvertently jerks back the hand that holds the needle.
He wants to give me something. And it's not a roofie we're talking about.
I spin on my toes, weighted by my footwear. Bare feet are the preferred dojo wear. Here on the street, I'm having to move with the encumbrance of the exact wrong kind of shoes in addition to clothes that aren't fitted enough for safety.
I sprint and hear his footsteps pound after me. My heavy clogs sound like a trotting horse on the cement.
Holy shit, he's gaining.
A lone figure is walking toward us at the end of the depot, and I pick up the pace.
Probably won't meet two weirdos in one night.
I only have time to notice he doesn't look like he's from Kent. Hell, he doesn't look American.
But he's not the dude whose bad breath is touchable and breathing down my neck. “Help!” I bellow as my lungs burn and my clogs slap the unforgiving concrete.
I almost run into him, and he grabs my shoulders, steadying me.
I'm no shrimp. I have junk in the trunk and stand five foot nine in my stocking feet. Every pound on me counts, and this man outweighs me by seventy and towers over me. Six three if he's an inch, I immediately assess.
His eyes are blacker than the night that bites the edges of our shared space.
“Shepard,” the asshole behind me says.
My stomach bottoms out. Oh no—two weirdos after all.
“Yes.” The man that has a vise grip on my shoulders answers.
“She is the newest cherry.”
What. The. Hell.
“I am aware, Hugo.” Perfect English, hint of French accent.
Maybe my French plans aren't so great after all.
I can kick this new guy in the nuts. There must be some tell in my body, because the guy swivels just as I move to bring my knee up.
“No, my skittish colt.” His cultured dulcet notes roll off his tongue, and I'm afraid.
Damn, I am.
His grip tightens, and I fight to keep from mewling like a kitten in a trap.
Hugo says, “It is our pluck, Shepard. You are here to help, or step out of the way.”
Shepard turns me to face Hugo, my classmate-who-isn't.
I notice the felon's gotten up and is shaking his head from all the fun we just had. But he's moving our way, and I've completely lost the element of surprise.
“Let me go,” I seethe in French.
Shepard doesn't do what I ask.
“She speaks French,” Shepard says from my shoulder in clear surprise.
Hugo's brows come together, and he flicks his long bangs out of his face. “I have been on this acquisition for a year. She has aptitude for language, she is a virgin—we have very few Americans in the basket. Mon Dieu”—Hugo holds out his hand—“join us, Shepard. Roi is no more, and a new face now leads la famille.”'
How does this jerk know if I've had sex or not? I feel a blush rise from my toes. But since my life st
ill hangs in the balance, I'll just ignore my embarrassment for the moment.
Shepard pushes me aside, and Hugo smiles with an expression of satisfied calculation.
The barrel of a gun rises beside my face, and I flinch.
Hugo holds his hands out. “Non!”
My eyes sweep the area, and no one is here except Hugo—the loser whose balls I abused—and this guy with the weird name who is holding me.
With a gun in his hand.
Fire breaks from the end of the barrel, and a soft thump sounds as the impact from the bullet dives into Hugo's torso.
He staggers backward. A patch of red blooms on his chest like a flower opening to the sun.
Oh, shit.
I start to take off, and Shepard hits my vagus nerve with the butt of the gun he just shot.
His hand captures my shirt, easing the fall.
I must black out because when I wake, the gun is on the ground by me and Shepard is beating the guy I kicked in the nuts. He's super thorough about it, pounding the shit out of him.
I blink and reach for the gun.
And Shepard kicks it just out of reach.
I blink again.
When I wake next, I'm not at the depot. I'm in a place I don't know. Cold sinks its teeth into my bones as I survey my unfamiliar environment.
My backpack sits on a chair not too far from where I find myself lying on a couch. My neck and head hurt like hell, but my eyes move to my pack, where my whole life is. My ID, my wallet, my keys—everything.
Inhaling deeply, I sort of tip and roll myself off the couch and land in an ungraceful pile on the floor. The rough landing jars my head, and my eyeballs feel as if they're going to fall out of my skull.
I take more deep breaths. Zen ones.
I hiccup back my humor—there's no space in my brain for that. I can't afford it. I have to pee pretty bad and chance a glance at the windows, trying to gauge the time. Orient myself.
Solid-wood slatted shades are closed to the outside. A soft darkness fills the space. Okay. I crawl toward my pack. I'm getting out of wherever I am.
I know I'm not with Hugo because the memory of his death fills my skull. And the other guy got a taste of Shepard. I didn't see his end, but I don't even bother to guess.
I know.
There's a certain finish that this Shepard dude seemed to bring.
Finally I get to the chair that holds my pack. I wrap my shaking fingers around the straps and drag it to me. It's empty. Just a shell remains.
Fuck. The first angry tear drains out of my eye.
“Do not,” a disembodied voice says from behind me.
I know that voice. Unforgettable. Shifting my body, I clutch the backpack against my chest while wet rage streams down my face. “I won't say anything, just let me go,” I state in a low, controlled voice.
I've never meant something more. If Shepard knew what I'd lived, he'd believe me.
He shakes his head, and I see him clearly for the first time. Without adrenaline. Without fear clouding the forward part of my brain.
Shepard is a beautiful man.
Deadly.
“Who are you?” I ask in a whisper, my palms damp.
He spreads his elegant and powerful hands away from his body. “The man who saved you.”
A terrible truth.
FIVE
Shepard
My eyes dispassionately linger over the cherry.
I cannot help my automatic assessment. She is tall but not to the point of oddity. And exotic—even for an American. The countrymen—and women—of the United States are so diverse at this point that true exoticism is lost.
But not so with her.
La famille thought to recruit me by setting up a meeting wherein I was placed in the position of acquisition of this cherry.
Not badly thought out, as plans go.
However poorly executed. On many occasions, I have made my stance known.
Roi, French for “king,” is no longer. A bullet from an American lawman ended his wretched existence forever, a fact that makes me most glad. Most.
The cherry and I stare at each other, her fetching slate-gray eyes glaring hard into my own.
She has a sharp jaw, high cheekbones, and large eyes. Eyes that crackle their hate at me.
I begin to smile, and she crosses her arms.
Her best feature may be the huge knot of kinky golden curls raked into a makeshift bun at the crown of her head.
I cannot decide which part of her I like the best.
She is lush. Vital. Combative. A perfect cherry.
La famille chose well. But they should not have chosen in my backyard. They were merely being greedy.
And at nearly thirty-two, I understand greed. Intimately.
My message of tolerance has been delivered. I will not tolerate. The man who accompanied their low-level handler will run back to la famille and tattle, bearing tales of how the legendary Shepard has killed two of theirs.
Lowering my chin, I steeple my fingers beneath my jaw. I see exactly what they want in this one.
She is fire incarnate. Her intellect shines in eyes like a storm that threatens. Lush curves distract a male's eye, while a temper is blood smoldering under skin.
I like her.
Perhaps too much. Have I saved a cherry before Juliette? I know I have not.
Juliette reminded me of my mother. Now dead.
This female does not.
My mother was dark.
This young woman is light. If she smiled, I think she would be the angel so many religions around the world speak of. She has a lacy, light halo of hair and large, almond-shaped gray eyes. Smoke and gold. “Who are you?” I ask, turning her question back to her.
“I'm Marissa, as I'm sure you're aware. I expect to be released. And I want my things back.”
I did know. I was to meet la famille's representative and give the pat answer of non. Yet again. Instead I have killed their liaison and will be sought even harder.
Marissa stands, and I say nothing of the fine tremble I caused. A hit like the one I executed would make a man tremble. This female is finely fashioned. Too bad she has been fingered by my former organization.
Once marked, always marked.
“I am Shepard.”
She frowns, a wrinkle marring the lovely perfection between her eyes.
“That's a weird name.”
Not for my role, though I do not comment.
“You're not a chatty guy.”
“I speak when necessary.”
Marissa smirks. “I bet.” Her eyes drift around my sparse dwelling and come back to me. “Not a big decorator.”
I shake my head.
“Why did you kill that guy, Hugo?” she asks suddenly.
“He is a French mobster,” I reply in the most succinct way possible. They were not subtle in their acquisition attempt, so I see no reason to mince words.
Marissa laughs a guttural bark from her stomach.
My smile flashes to life again.
“What bullshit is that?”
My grin vanishes as fast as it appeared. “It is not bullshit.”
Marissa's eyes tighten, and her lovely, full lips pucker, then she rolls the bottom lip between her teeth, gnawing lightly.
My eyes track the gesture, uncomfortable tightness stretching my pants from the tiny, sultry maneuver. The gesture is unstudied, making it even more attractive.
I shift my weight. “Hugo is low on the totem pole but a useful scout for la famille.”
She snorts. “Was.”
I nod.
Her brow knots again. “A mobster—like mafia?”
I incline my head again.
Marissa slowly lowers herself on the couch. “Why do they want me? Why did he ask me if I knew other languages besides French and English?”
My jaw clenches, badly hiding my surprise. I did not know they were obtaining half-trained girls. And as old as this girl.
Roi would have never marked
a girl older than sixteen or seventeen. Why a girl well over—I search her thoroughly once again—twenty would be of interest escapes me.
Delegates typically have a taste for very young flesh.
“I do not know why they have marked you,” I admit and pace away from her for a moment. With a flick of my wrists, I jerk the slatted blinds to half-mast. Bright sunlight streams inside in swordlike swaths of heat.
Marissa squints with the sudden illumination.
“You are too old, and training would be difficult, if not impossible. You are exotic—and a virgin?” My eyebrow rises in question.
Her rough exhale lifts a loose gold curl out of her face. “None of your fucking business.”
The heat of my temper fires off, and I find myself momentarily defaulting to my former role, making my hands into ready fists. “Your mouth is atrocious.”
She lifts a shoulder in cool dismissal, her eyes flicking to my hands.
I know a virgin when I see one. “You are untouched. La famille knew that fact through their own means. I know it by instinct.” I give a small hike of my chin.
“Right.” She rolls her pewter-colored eyes. “You're an arrogant man. Now, I won't lie, I am curious. But I want to leave more than I care.”
My patience is tenuous. “They will try for you again.”
Marissa stands, hooking a finger through her small black pack. “I want to go. Give me my things, and you don't have to deal with me anymore.”
Absolution, my mind whispers. “You stay with me and you might be safe.”
Indignation sweeps her features. “I can take care of myself.”
Am I that repugnant?
I think briefly of all the harm I've accomplished against others and clasp my hands from the tight fists—switching tactics. “Like you took care before Hugo nearly laid his hands on you?”
Silence.
“You are an impressive specimen.”
A disgusted exhale shoots out of her, and her molten mercury gaze slices my face with her emotions.
“But you are female, and la famille maintains no scruples with regard to the fairer sex.” I sweep my palm toward the kitchen countertop to indicate the things she arrived with.
Marissa moves cautiously past me and gives the pack a yank of the zipper and sweeps inside of it a large book, glass bottle, and keys with a fob.
