The Rules of Burken

by Traci Finlay

  “Wait, that’s not fair,” I say, squaring off a quadruplet of hearts. “Dad knew his family was garbage and he chose to disregard it. I didn’t know Dad was a child molester because Ian kept it from me.”

  “Fair enough. But that doesn’t excuse how you idolize Ian, another monster.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? He was my big brother! He was there for me when you left, and Dad … is it true that Burken was created to keep me away from Dad?”

  “Of course, it was,” she sneers like I’m an idiot. I expected her to be proud that I figured that out. Joke’s on me … again.

  “Why did Ian protect me with Burken if he didn’t care about me?”

  “To have that control over your father. Ian’s twisted, but he’s not a pervert. And even though he did the right thing in keeping you safe from your dad, his motives were selfish and not necessarily for your protection. With Burken, he was able to control both of you.”

  I truly never knew my brother. And it was in my face the entire time. My heart’s having phantom pains—like it’s breaking in places that are already broken. I brush away one of the hearts and change the subject. One horrifying mystery down, a million to go. There’s something I’m missing—a question that’s ghosting me, eating at my brain but I can’t pinpoint it. So I grab at another one. “Do you know what happened when Dad killed Chrissy?”

  “Yes. He told me about it,” Fanny replies.

  I cock my head. “When did you talk to him?”

  “Last week, before you came home. I went up to the prison so he could sign the divorce papers.”

  Oh, of course. Not because I deactivated my Facebook—but divorce! As if the marriage hadn’t dissolved once she left and he murdered. A divorce is probably the most normal thing that’s happened to us in years. I erase another heart. “What happened while you were there?” I whisper.

  She yawns. “Not much. We talked for a while. I told him I was an editor in New York, that I’d met someone and wanted to marry him, but there was a little marriage license in the way. He told me he killed his daughter’s best friend.”

  “Did he tell you how it happened?”

  “Yeah. He said Chrissy was asleep in the barn, and he thought she was you.”

  I knew it. I feel like vomiting. My sweet, sweet Chrissy…

  “He said Ian caught him and stopped it before she woke up.”

  I actually stand up. “What? Chrissy was sleeping? I thought she woke up, and Dad was embarrassed so he suffocated her.”

  “Umm, no. Ian caught him trying to molest her. Red-handed. Gave him some ultimatum. He literally talked him into killing her, can you believe it?”

  My heart starts pounding. Ian was in on the murder. All those years, making me feel sorry for him having to live through Chrissy’s death—the love of his life—and he was the instigator. He murdered her without murdering her. My god, but he’s clever. “Mom, that scares me.”

  “I know,” she says passively.

  “Why didn’t Ian get in trouble for talking him into it?”

  “Are you serious? Your dad pleaded guilty to molesting and murdering a young girl. You think anyone’s going to listen to him when he says ‘my son made me do it’? Besides, Ian had an alibi. He was in the house with you and came outside and the murder had already happened.”

  “And Dad didn’t say otherwise?”

  “It was his word against Ian’s. And Ian was the sad, crying kid who’d just lost the love of his life at the hands of his own father,” she says animatedly, as if she were doing a voiceover for a movie trailer.

  “Why would Ian do that? Why would he want Chrissy dead and his dad in prison?” Tears burn my eyelids. My legs give out, and I plop back down in the sand.

  “Control, Charlotte. Ian needed control. He didn’t care who he hurt—or killed—to get it. And you? You were his precious little puppet. His good-luck charm. I want you to think about something. You and your dad are a lot alike. If Ian could talk Tim into doing something as horrible as killing a girl, imagine what he could talk you into.”

  I shiver and scribble out the third heart as I look around the beach. It’s completely dark, the moon obscured by thin silver clouds. “So the Stahl curse started way back with dear Grandpa Olof. And what’s your excuse, Fanny? How do you justify abandoning your family?”

  Fanny sighs. “Listen, Charlotte. I’m not about to defend my actions because I know they’re wrong. That’s the difference between Ian and me. Although we’re both incredibly selfish, I at least have somewhat of a conscience and can differentiate between right and wrong. Ian has no conscience whatsoever. But actually, the fact that your dad was what he was is part of the reason I left.”

  “What?”

  “I couldn’t stay with that. I had no respect for someone like that.”

  Everything stops—the water, the wind, time, me—because that’s the ghost that’s been clinking around in my brain. She knew.

  “So you left me there with him?” I shriek. “I was the one in danger!”

  “But I knew Ian had it under control.”

  I take a minute to register that level of evil before continuing. This is beyond evil and just satanic. Of course, she knew. Nothing she does can shock me anymore. “You also knew Ian was manipulative and capable of murder. You left a young girl with a pedophile and a sociopath … I don’t know how you sleep at night.”

  “Why do you think I came back to see you instead of just calling? I told you, Charlotte. I am as narcissistic as they come. But I am still capable of loving.”

  I stomp out the last heart. “Wow. You are wicked. I can’t believe I have Satan as a mother. You’re not capable of loving, stop lying to yourself. You’re just as guilty as Ian and Dad.”

  “I don’t appreciate being called Satan.”

  “Whatever, Fanny,” I say quietly. “Goodbye.”

  Fanny sighs. “Charlotte, wait. I don’t want to fight with you. I don’t want to end this conversation on a bad note.”

  I hang up. She’s the naïve one if she honestly thinks she can salvage this phone call. I lay my phone in the sand and curl into a ball, staring at the water. My thoughts swirl in my head, tangling into convoluted knots the more I try making sense of them.

  A hand on my shoulder causes me to shoot forward and fall flat on my stomach. I flip over and scramble away until I see it’s Nikka. I shut my eyes and place my hand on my heart. “What would ever possess you to do that,” I choke.

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to scare you. I was trying to do the opposite, actually.” Nikka helps me up from my crab position. “Wanna go for a walk?”

  I look up and down the lonely beach. “Sure.”

  We meander toward the lighthouse, and Nikka clears her throat. “I’ve been thinking about what you told me about Jack. About how he punishes himself for my decisions.”

  I hold my breath, because I’ve no idea where she’s going with this. I had no ulterior motive other than just informing her, so any action she’s derived has been her own doing.

  “While I still don’t believe I shouldn’t base my decisions on Jack’s reactions, I should at least take him into consideration. Charlotte, I have issues. And the eternal extent of them is a conversation for another day. But when I think about everything Jack’s done for me, and does for me, I really see how much he cares about me. And it makes me care about myself. I’m seeing that I can love myself with Jack’s love, does that make sense?” Nikka stops in the sand, awaiting my answer.

  I halt next to her. “It does. As long as you realize you eventually need to love yourself with your own love.”

  She continues walking. “Well, that’s another thing. I think the more people who love you, the easier it is to love yourself. It’s almost like their love fuels yours.”

  I smile. “I see that.”

  “So now that I’m able to love myself, I can appreciate Jack’s sentiments toward my life, the things I do. It’s inspiring. When I see myself through Jack’s eyes … it make
s me want to be a better person. For myself, of course.”

  I grab Nikka’s hand and squeeze. “I’m glad! And thank you. I needed this. It’s inspiring to me because … well, I don’t love myself very much right now.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just talked to my mom. I can’t believe the shit I was dealt for a family. My dad a child-molesting murderer, my mom a narcissist, my brother a sociopath, and I’m just the stupid one.”

  Nikka stops and grabs my wrist, stealing my undivided attention. “You’re not stupid, Charlotte. You’re very far from it.”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s unanimous. And your brother’s brought it to my attention more than I’d like to remember.”

  Nikka tosses her head ardently, sending her bite-sized tresses flopping back and forth. “Nah, nah, nah. Don’t listen to Jack. He’s mean, remember? The problem with Jack and your family is they just aren’t as sensitive as you. You have a genuine heart, you actually care about people’s feelings, and people take advantage of that. It’s not a bad thing.”

  “But they’re right, Nikka. They point these things out to me that I should’ve known if I would’ve just opened my eyes and faced reality.”

  “That doesn’t mean you’re stupid, Charlotte. You’ve opened my eyes to many things just in these few weeks I’ve known you. And Jack? Wow. Jack’s a whole different person since meeting you.”

  I trip, spraying a cloud of sand within a two-foot radius. “What do you mean?” I squeak.

  Nikka clasps her hands at her chest and squints at the sky. “The problem with Jack is that he’s built up this defense because he’s scared to death to get close to people.”

  “Yeah, he told me.”

  Nikka’s arms drop to her side and she stops. “He did?”

  I nod at her startled expression.

  “Jack doesn’t tell people that. Jack doesn’t tell people anything unless he’s insulting them.” She begins walking again. “It all has to do with our upbringing, you know. I don’t want to say he’s bitter, but he’s basically been a loner his whole life. It’s really sad, too, because Jack has such a great heart, and he’s so funny. And he’s a good-looking guy.”

  “Yeah, he is,” I comment, kicking a bottle. Then I jerk my head toward Nikka, who’s grinning at me. “I mean, he’s funny! He’s really funny. When he wants to be.” I clench my teeth. Big Red’s got nothing on the scarlet hue rising in my cheeks.

  “You ready to turn around and go back?” Nikka asks.

  I gaze down the empty beach. “Why don’t you go ahead? I think I’ll go for a run.”

  It’s six in the morning, and for some godforsaken reason, I’m stumbling around this godforsaken room, trying to find my godforsaken running shoes. I look at Nikka’s body—a tiny lump under the blankets—and curse her for talking me into doing this 5K for Jack. Easy for her to say. She’s still sleeping. The perks of early registration, she says.

  I step out of the room and stumble down the hall, dropping a shoe. I grab it and when I stand back up, Jack’s sauntering toward me, a mug of coffee in each hand. “Good morning,” he whispers, handing me a cup.

  I grab it from him and start chugging, and I don’t even like coffee.

  He chuckles. “Take it easy. You’re gonna burn your mouth.”

  “Shut up, Jack.” I storm past him toward the kitchen, and he follows me.

  “Okay, not a morning person, I see.”

  “Not this morning,” I grumble and sit in a chair to put my shoes on.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “You should eat before running long distances.”

  I abandon my shoelace and gawk at him. “Three miles is not a long distance for me. I’ve been running my entire life. I ran fifteen miles without so much as a piece of birthday cake in my gut, and no one batted an eyelash. And you would’ve known I’m not a morning person if you hadn’t left me in the hotel for hours and then screamed at me for touching the gun and called me stupid.”

  “I didn’t call you stupid!”

  “Did too.” I return to my shoelace and have no idea where I left off in the tying process. Was I over the tree or under the tree?

  “Oh, come on. You know I don’t really think you’re stupid,” he says.

  “Really? No, I didn’t know that. Usually if one doesn’t think one is stupid, one doesn’t say things like, ‘you’re stupid,’” I quip, and I accidentally tie my shoe in a knot that I can’t get out.

  Jack rolls his eyes. “I’ve never told you straight up that you were stupid. And if I did, I wasn’t serious.”

  “Well, I know I’m not prided for my intelligence, but I’m pretty confident that it’s rude to insult someone, serious or not. Why can’t I tie these damn shoes!”

  Jack snickers and kneels down to help in a manner that reinforces his belief that I am stupid. “I’m sorry I called you stupid and hurt your feelings. Forgive me?” He looks up at me and grins.

  There’s something unnerving—and absolutely delicious—about Jack on his knees, his stormy eyes looking up at me, his lips in a roguish smirk. I swallow the flutter bugs flitting up my throat. “Yes. But now you have to give me a compliment.”

  He chuckles as he moves to the other shoe. “Okay, you look really hot. How’s that?”

  I shake my head, pulling my hair into a ponytail. “Nope. It doesn’t count if I have to tell you to compliment me.”

  He laughs loudly and stands, grabbing his coffee off the counter. “Wow, now I understand why your brother knocked out your boyfriends. They probably asked him to. You’re impossible.”

  I give an arrogant shrug and bend over to touch my toes, stretching my hamstrings.

  “Okay, how about this,” Jack says after a moment of silence. “I know you’ve been talking to Nikka, and I don’t know what you told her, but whatever it was … bravo.” He gives a couple nonchalant claps. “She’s talking about going to college.”

  I stand and bend my knee, grabbing my foot behind me and feeling the stretch in my quad. “That wasn’t me, though. That was Nikka’s decision.”

  “Really? You’re going to throw down the humility card after a straight flush of conceited comments?” he asks amusedly.

  I switch feet and yell, “Gin!” pumping my fist in the air like a cheerleader.

  Jack drops his head back and releases a pleasant laugh. I even feel some tension of my own evaporate. “Okay, note to self: Charlotte Stahl doesn’t play poker. Or gin, for that matter.”

  “Nah.” I widen my stance and lean forward at the waist, twisting to stretch my inner thighs. “Just euchre.”

  “I’d be offended if you didn’t play euchre.” He scoots onto the counter and watches me stretch my sleeping muscles.

  “Wait, when does the race start?” I look at him while lunging forward and stretching my arms overhead.

  He smiles devilishly. “Not for a couple hours.”

  I stand up straight. “I don’t need to stretch now!”

  He shrugs. “I’m certainly not going to tell you to stop.”

  I roll my eyes and grab a water bottle from the counter. “You ready?”

  Jack jumps off the counter and stares at me, wiping the smile off my face and awakening the flutter bugs. I swallow as he takes a step toward me. “How about this one. You don’t know what it means to me, how much you’ve helped my sister. And regardless of your IQ, or your intellect, or your SAT scores, I think you’re one incredible person.” He runs his hand down my arm and latches onto my wrist, pulling me into a comforting hug. “And for real, you are so beautiful,” he says into my hair.

  I inhale his scent as I close my arms around his waist. What can I possibly do to make this hug last forever?

  “I’d be prettier if I were in bed sleeping,” I say quietly, and I’m surprised when he moves his hands from my waist to my face, and we’re kissing. I feel that his lips are smiling—laughing at my joke, no doubt—and I wish I could see his rare smiling face, but I g
uess tasting it is so much better. I’ve already forgotten that Jack Swaring wears his passion on his lips, and I’ve never felt more beautiful in my life.

  “Wow, you’re on a roll, Swaring,” I whisper as his hand moves down to my butt. “When I asked for a compliment, I didn’t know it’d get me this. I thought I’d get something on what a mean salt shaker I fill.”

  He laughs softly against my mouth, his teeth pressing into my lips. He places both hands on my ass now, and lifts me so that I wrap my legs around his waist. “Most bosses would fire employees on the spot for that smart mouth,” he whispers between kisses as he moves toward the living room. “You’d better watch it, Stahl. I’ll write you up.”

  He lowers me onto the couch, and his hands move to my stomach and work up my shirt—dammit! I have a sports bra on! But his fingers slip under it anyway, and I catch my breath because my boss’ hands are on my bare breasts and oh my god, his hands! He manages to remove all clothing from my chest and sits up to admire the view, and I’m feeling very self-conscious, but I don’t want him to know that, so I bite my lip.

  “God, Charlotte,” he says, and lowers his mouth to them, and I can’t help moaning because the ecstasy’s shooting right down my body. I open my knees so his thigh presses between my legs, and I wonder if he feels the pulsing between them. I think he does, because one of his hands moves down to my thigh and he works his way up until his fingers are pushing aside my running shorts. He slides two fingers inside me, and I catch my breath.

  “Does that hurt?”

  I don’t answer, because I can’t tell if it hurts or not; no one’s ever done this before and it feels both invasive and promising, like trespassing in a gold mine.

  He slides them out and inserts only one, and yes—that feels better. So much so that I close my eyes as he explores me, lifting my hips to grant him easier access, and he comments on how wet I am and how good I must taste.