When the Storm Ends

by Jillian Anselmi

  “No. This one is Paper White, this one is Lemon Chiffon, this—”

  “Never mind, I’ll just stand over here,” Brody says with a chuckle, backing away from the cans. The living area doesn’t get too much light, so I choose the Icy Lemonade to start.

  Realizing I don’t have anything here to open the can, I turn to Brody. “Um, do you have a screwdriver or something to open this with?”

  “Are you sayin’, you need me?”

  “No. I’m sayin’ I need a screwdriver,” I answer, mimicking his southern drawl.

  “I think you need me and don’t want to admit it,” he goads, his eyes twinkling. Damn those eyes.

  “Do you have one or not?”

  He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a pocketknife, and leans down, popping open the can with ease. “Anything else, darlin’?”

  Ignoring him, I pick up the wooden paint stick and stir, making sure it’s evenly mixed, then dig the paint tray out of another bag and pour the paint in. Grabbing two rollers, I push one into Brody’s chest. “You said you wanted to help, here you go.”

  “I can’t paint without some form of entertainment,” he murmurs, pulling out his iPhone. “I’ll put Pandora on. Wouldn’t want to hear you complain about too much country,” he says, his lips twitching, trying to hide his lingering smile.

  “Me, complain? Put on whatever you want, I’ll be too busy concentrating on painting,” I say, waving him off. Placing the roller in the tray, I move it around enough to cover it.

  The first song comes on, and of course, it’s country. I roll my eyes, grateful he can’t see me. Crashing thunder rumbles over the twang of the guitar and I stop for a second to listen. Brody catches me, shakes his head, and says, “You can’t fight it. Everyone loves country.” I shrug, not denying him, and turn back to the wall, tapping my feet as I paint to the rhythm of the song.

  With both of us tackling different walls, the entire apartment is painted within a few hours. The only thing left is the trim. Picking up a paint brush, I paint the corners, making sure the colors are evenly blended. Turning to get more paint, I smack Brody across the face with the paint brush. There’s a line of off-white over his nose and on his left cheek. His jaw drops and his mouth forms the shape of an O. His surprised expression is enough to send me over the edge and I burst out laughing. “Oh my God,” I snort, “I’m sorry.”

  “Not as sorry as you’re gonna be,” he says. He narrows his eyes, but his smile gives him away. Taking his paint brush, he swats it across my right cheek and my mouth drops open. Did he really just do that? Determined to get even, I swipe the brush down his arm. “Now, you’re gonna get it,” he chuckles, lunging at me.

  I’m doubled over in laughter and can’t focus, but I wrench my body so he misses. Sprinting across the room to the paint can, I try to dip it to prepare for his attack, but he catches me before I can defend myself, grabbing my waist. As he twists me, my foot slides across the floor in paint splatter and I tumble backward. Before I hit the ground, Brody catches me by the arms, laying me down gently.

  He hovers over me, his thin shirt barely containing the heat radiating off him. My arms are pinned over my head and I can’t move—I don’t want to move. My wrists tingle from where he’s holding me, an electric current running up my arms and through my body, and I want more—I need more.

  His warm breath tickles my cheek as we both try to control our breathing. A chill runs through me and my heart wants to beat of my chest. His lips are so close to mine, I can almost taste them. Staring into his darkening eyes, I want nothing more than for him to kiss me—kiss me and never stop.

  Without warning, Brody jumps up, bringing me with him. My body pressed flush against his, my hands on his chest, I splay my fingers and feel his rapid heartbeat, the quick pace matching mine. The desire to run my fingers across his bare chest is almost too hard to restrain.

  A smile teases the corner of his lips. “I think it’s time I go home,” he says, his tone cool and collected, but I know better. I don’t want him to leave, but I know he can’t stay.

  “I think you’re right,” I breathe, my voice a hoarse whisper. The back of his fingers graze the spot on my cheek where he painted me.

  “I’ll bring you back in the morning to help you clean up,” he murmurs, his eyes fixated on mine.

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Brody’s lips twitch before he says, “Yes, it is.” He backs up slowly, his gaze still pinned on me. As he turns on his heel toward the door, he murmurs, “I’ll be in the truck when you’re ready.” Picking up his shirt and phone before he leaves, Brody walks out without looking back once.

  A NOISE IN the darkness startles me awake. Not a crash, but a creak in the wood floor, maybe? The full moon shining directly through my window allows me to stare at the dimly lit ceiling for a moment, waiting to hear it again. Nothing. I only moved into the apartment a week ago and I’m still getting used to the sounds around me. This could be the house making normal everyday noises.

  I turn, settling back onto my pillow when I hear the creaking again, louder this time . . . like it’s right next to my bed. My head jerks toward the sound and I strain to find anything unusual in the dark room, but I see nothing. As my eyes adjust, something between the bed and door catches my attention. My body shakes with fear—fear that Armond found me. No, it’s my mind playing tricks. Unless, Brody is trying to be funny and scare me. I wouldn’t put it past him. “Brody, is that you?” I call out, annoyed.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t find you?” a voice says through the thick night air. Sitting up, I squint to see his face. The face I’ve been running from. The face that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Armond. A chill runs through me and I have the overwhelming urge to run.

  “How did you find me?” I squeal, scrambling out of bed. Before I can get my feet on the floor, he lunges at me. A sharp object jabs me in the throat and I swallow.

  “No one runs from me,” he sneers from behind, his breath against my ear. His other arm snakes around my waist, holding me fast. I stiffen, afraid he’ll stab me if I move.

  “Please, just let me go,” I whisper, trying to control my shaking, bile rising in my throat.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Don’t move,” he mocks, pressing his blade harder against my neck.

  “What do you want?” I whisper, my voice hoarse.

  “What do I want? That’s a good question,” his sardonic voice answers. “What does everyone want? Hmmm? Money. Power.” Armond yanks me by my hair across the bed. Still wielding the knife, he maneuvers so he’s sitting on top of me. “A sex slave to pleasure me at every turn?” Although it’s dark, I can see his eyes. Those black voids full of venom, that icy gaze glaring down at me. He narrows them, glancing at my body. My heart races, but I won’t let him see how petrified I am. Controlling my breathing, all I can think about is how I can’t let him take me back. I’d rather die first.

  Regaining my composure, I try reasoning with him. “You don’t want to do that, the police know—”

  “The police?” he asks, laughing—an evil, maniacal laugh. “The police can’t stop me. No one can stop me.” Tilting his chin in arrogance, Armond traces the knife down my collarbone, then drags the cold blade down between my breasts. As hard as I try, I can’t control my body as it trembles and shakes. “Whether you like it or not, you’re mine.”

  “Nooo!” I scream, praying someone will hear me. “Help me!” Armond’s smug, condescending grin gives way to deranged laughter, and the more I scream, the harder he laughs. I thrash, trying to free myself from his grip and jar the knife loose.

  “Lani,” a voice says in the distance. My head twists to the familiar sound. “Lani, wake up.” The voice is louder, more insistent. Armond leans in closer, his foul stench invading my nostrils. “Lani!”

  I snap out of my nightmare, my eyes shooting open. My breathing is labored, terror gripping my heart like a vice. My cheeks are stained from unchecked tears
. Brody hovers over me, his brows creased. His jaw ticks as he studies me, but doesn’t touch me. As I catch my breath, reality sets in. Why is Brody in my apartment?

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, still panting.

  “I heard you screamin’, so I broke down the door,” he says, his hands balled into fists. “I thought someone was hurtin’ you.”

  This nightmare was so much worse than the one’s before. It felt as if he were right here. I peer around the apartment, expecting him to pop out of a hiding place. “I’m fine, and that still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

  “You’re not fine,” he insists.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, trying to block the nightmare from my memory.

  “I’m here when you change your mind,” he says softly. Sitting down on the bed next to me, his face changes from concerned to serious. “There’s a reason I’m here. Last night, after I left, Travis called me.”

  “Oh?”

  He sighs, clearly not excited to share his news. “He spoke to someone in New York about the men who abducted you.”

  “Did they catch them?”

  “No.” Brody shifts, his facial expression grim. “Armond’s father is the leader of the Castillo cartel.”

  My brows furrowed, I ask, “What does that mean?”

  “The Castillo cartel is the most powerful drug cartel in Colombia. Their operations consist of murder, kidnappin’, extortion, and among other things, drug traffickin’. Armond’s father, Cesar, is on the FBI’s most wanted list.” Brody lets me process this information for a minute before adding, “I came over this mornin’ because, as of right now, you’re under twenty-four hour surveillance until we figure out what Armond is up to.”

  “What? No, really. That won’t be necessary,” I argue, scowling.

  “I’m afraid you don’t have any say in the matter,” he argues back, his jaw ticking.

  “This is ridiculous!” I mutter, shaking my head.

  “Now can you understand why I broke down the door when I heard you screamin’?”

  He’s really worried Armond is coming for me. I shudder, trying to squash my impending panic. If Travis insists, then it must be serious. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Besides,” he adds, “it gives me an excuse to look at your hot ass.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so,” I chuckle, knowing it won’t stop him. Brody does have a way of helping me forget the negative, and he’s beginning to grow on me.

  “So, technically, I’m off today. What do you want to do?”

  “Change the subject much?” I ask, raising a brow. He shrugs his shoulders. Sighing, I answer, “I don’t know. What’s there to do around here?”

  “Do you like the beach?”

  “It’s one of my favorite places to be.”

  “Okay. How about we take a day trip to Galveston? It’s only an hour and a half drive, and it will give me an excuse to get to know you a little better.”

  “Um, sure.”

  “It’s nine-fifteen,” he says, looking at his watch. “If we leave by ten, we’ll be there just before lunch. Throw on a suit and let’s go.”

  “Let me go freshen up,” I say as I roll out of bed. He stands, letting me pass. I spin back to ask him something and catch him staring at my ass. Turning back, I smile. I kinda like it.

  EVEN THOUGH BRODY said we’d get to know each other on the drive, we barely say two words to each other. As hard as I try to lock up my memories in a tiny little box, to push them as far back into my mind as I can, my nightmare keeps flashing in and out. Why, out of all the other nights I dreamed about my kidnapping, did last night’s dream bring Armond here? Taking a deep breath, I try to relax the rest of the drive.

  We arrive at East Beach at precisely eleven-thirty, and it’s beautiful. Colorful chairs, each with their own umbrella, stretch down the beach as far as the eye can see. The beach is crowded, filled with blankets and towels strewn across the sand, groups playing volleyball, and families wading in the crystal clear water.

  He brings me farther down, where there’s less of a crowd. He pulls a pair of towels and a few different kinds of sunscreen out of his duffel bag. Thank God, I burn in the New York sun and that’s nothing compared to the ultra violet rays in Texas. Placing the towels side by side, he motions for me to sit.

  With my back to Brody, I pull my t-shirt over my head and shimmy out of my shorts, knowing he’s watching. Since he’s always talking about my ass, I slowly bend to pick up my shorts and hear Brody whistling through his teeth. Hiding my smile, I turn around and sit next to him. “See something you like?” I ask, my face impassive.

  “Every day,” he answers with a wink. He’s incorrigible.

  Brody’s eyes are wide as I grab the lightest sunscreen he brought, squirt some onto my palm, and drag my hands up my legs as I rub the lotion in with a sly smile. Covering all possible areas I can reach, I turn to lie on my stomach and cross my arms under my head. “Can you rub lotion on my back please?” I ask, my voice sugary sweet.

  “With pleasure,” he says, diving for the sunscreen.

  Turning my head the other way, I hear the squirt of the lotion before he places his hands on my shoulders and massages the sunscreen into my skin, his fingers moving like magic. I close my eyes, absorbing his touch. Making sure to cover every square inch of my exposed body, his hands glide effortlessly across my shoulders and arms. Eventually, he skims the back of my thighs, his fingertips skating across my ass. As warm as it is, goosebumps appear across my skin. I smile, knowing he can’t see me.

  AFTER EATING A picnic lunch Brody brought and spending hours splashing around in the shallow waves, Brody suggests we stay and watch the sun set. He’s very persistent, and I give in. Taking me to a section of the beach with rocks forming a circle, he gathers wood to light.

  We sit across from the roaring fire, relaxed and at ease with each other. Hugging my knees, I focus on the water, lost in the rhythmic percussion of waves on the sand. As calming as the sound is, visions of Armond flash through my mind. The dark voids that are his eyes haunt me. How he touched me, hurt me. The harder I fight against my visions, the more vividly they return. It isn’t until the sun begins to set that I start to focus on the glowing embers, pushing the chilling images to the back of my brain.

  Leaning back against a rock, I place my head on Brody’s shoulder. I close my eyes and listen to the soothing sound of the crackling of wood, exhaling deeply. “You okay?” he asks.

  “I’ve been better.”

  “Do you want to talk?”

  I sigh. “What do you want to know?”

  “I want to know what makes you, you. Tell me about your childhood.”

  “My childhood?” I ask, a nervous laugh escaping my throat. “Are you sure you want to ruin our day?

  “You don’t have to tell me anythin’ that makes you uncomfortable. I just want to know what’s hidin’ underneath that tough exterior.”

  “Boy, did you pick the wrong topic to start with,” I mumble. Turning, I crisscross my legs and face him. Placing my hands in my lap, I start to circle my thumb and middle finger as I tell the story only Taryn and Dominic know the truth to—the story I fought so hard to bury. “I was twelve when I lost my parents. Their plane developed engine trouble over the Maldives and crashed into the ocean. No survivors.”

  “Lani, I’m so sorry,” he says, his voice quiet and sincere.

  “I took it hard, but not as hard as my older brother, Dante. He was six years older than I was. Since he was eighteen at the time, he legally took responsibility for me. The inheritance my parents left us helped with all of our expenses, among other things. Once a year on his birthday, three hundred and fifty thousand dollars is deposited into an account. All he needed to do was go down to the bank and sign for it.” Taking a deep, steadying breath, I murmur low, “Now, I need to sign. September first, on my birthday.”

  I haven’t thought about this in years. My mind spins as I relive one of the worst days
of my life. I choke back a sob, trying to stay strong. I glance up at Brody. His eyes are on mine and the tension around them tightens, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word—doesn’t give anything else away. Still fidgeting with my fingers, I stare back down at my lap and continue. “The stress of being my guardian started to get to him. His friends would come over and rag on him, saying he was playing house and becoming too domesticated. At first, it didn’t bother him. He said he loved spending time with me. But after a while, his friends would stop coming over. He never had a girl in the house. He drowned his sorrows in alcohol at first, but moved up the ladder pretty quickly. He became depressed and irritable, and rarely came home.

  “I received a phone call at three-fourteen in the morning, July sixth, two-thousand-eight. I was eighteen. They found my brother’s body in a rundown building in Hell’s Kitchen. He was lying in a pile of his own puke.” My hands start to shake and I shove them underneath me to steady myself. My anxiety is getting the better of me. A single tear trickles from the corner of my eye, the warm trail running down my nose and resting on my bottom lip. Wiping my eye with the back of my palm, I take a deep breath. “They said it was bad coke, laced with something called tango and cash. The autopsy report said it was the combination of the two that killed him. His heart stopped and he died of an overdose.” Telling Brody my story is like reliving every second. The morning I received the phone call, having to identify him at the city morgue, planning the funeral. The anxiety that sat deep below the surface bubbles up like a volcano moments away from erupting.

  I lift my head, looking directly into Brody’s glossy cinnamon eyes. Staring back at me, he looks lost and despondent. His face is frozen, his expression grim. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.”

  “How could you have? No one but Taryn and Dominic know. I told anyone who asked it was an aneurism. If I hadn’t been so young, so needy—”