by Nana Malone
A fist punched straight to my kidneys, and I howled.
I whipped around and fired off an elbow in the general vicinity of my attacker.
The guy oomphed, and I was ready to turn the tables on him. But once I was facing him, ready to go in for the attack, I heard footsteps behind me.
Multiple attackers. Fucking fantastic.
The guy in front of me swept out a leg, trying to sweep me off my feet, but my stance was strong. With a couple of quick jabs, I snapped his head back and moved in for the quick kill. Forearm on his neck, my other arm blocking his free one and attacking. I delivered a couple of knees and then, grabbing onto shirt and skin with my bar arm hand and using my block arm for momentum, I turned his whole body around, so I could see my other attacker. Striking him like this, I could deliver all the blows I needed. I could also keep my eye on whoever else was coming for me.
He was my height. Over six feet, dark hair, thicker build though. My mother used to tell me I was whipcord lean. So, I might not be as big, but I'd learned a long time ago that I needed to be deadly.
When he refused to go down, I adjusted my hold and grabbed his face with both hands, pressing my thumbs into his eye sockets. When he leaned back, trying to save his sight and exposing his throat, I punched him, and down he went.
His partner was coming at me next, and he was also quick on his feet.
I was weaving. I'd had too much to drink for this. But like hell was I going down that easy. I knew what it was like to be helpless and alone. It wasn't going to happen today. "Hey arsehole, you know, we don't have to do this. You can take your girlfriend here and go. I don't want to hurt you."
He smirked and came at me in full-on attack mode.
With his massive frame, he preferred the use of his legs. Taekwondo training was evident. I took some knees. Okay, I'm not going to lie, I took a few punches too. But I gave as good as I got.
I saw someone else coming to the door. Fuck. I was losing steam, and I needed to end things quickly.
"What's the matter? Is the little prince tired? We're just going to help you rest. Come with us, and you can rest as long as you like."
Were these my cousin's men? My second cousin was the current king of Nomea. His family had ousted mine from the throne a couple of generations ago.
Why would he be coming after us now? Xander and I hadn't done anything. Just the thought of my brother had me wincing. Shit. Xander.
I had to stay alert. What if Xander needed me?
My opening came when the guy delivered a kick to my midsection. I took the brunt of the force, but I also grabbed his leg.
His cocky smirk disappeared quickly as I pulled him off his feet and then launched myself at him. Good old-fashioned ground and pound. Elbows. Punches. I grabbed him by the shirt, and I laid into him. I let the rage take over, the anger; all of it poured out.
Behind me, someone tried to pull me off. And then I could see it, the black bag sliding into my field of vision. I released the guy in front of me, and as he sagged down, I twisted around, determined to avoid the fucking black-bagging.
What the hell was wrong with these people? From my position on the ground, I had nowhere else to go. I didn't really want to punch the guy in the nuts, but it was my best line of defense. Elbow backward first, and then I twisted and punched. It didn't take much, and he went down.
Then I was on my feet. The kick I landed sent him several feet back. "Tell my cousin if he wants to come for me, he's going to need more men."
Then I heard a voice from behind me. "Well done. But you really shouldn't play with your food, Alexi."
I released the one on the floor and turned slowly. "Jean Claude?"
My mother’s long-time advisor stepped out from the shadows. "You were slow. Lethargic. In the field, that could be dangerous. But you ah…" he glanced around, "recovered quickly. What was this? I taught you a million times, when your cousin comes for you, or anyone looking for ransom for that matter, be efficient, unemotional. This… this was nothing but emotion."
I glowered at my childhood mentor. "This was another test?"
"Of course it was a test. It's all a test, Alexi. At some point, your cousin is going to come for you. He has no children. He will do anything to hold on to his power. You threaten that power, so these scenarios are meant to keep you strong and alive."
I stood and staggered over to the nearest wall, breathing heavily and deep as two of my assailants groaned and tried to stand. The third wasn't moving at all. I dragged in deep, heavy breaths and watched as his partners went over to him and tried to wake him up. When he finally rolled over, I breathed an extra sigh of relief. I hadn't killed him. "This was for, what? All for a training exercise?"
"Yes," Jean Claude said as he stepped over to me. "And I'm disappointed in how you performed."
I shrugged. "Well, I'm alive. That should be a lesson to you. If you send more assholes after me, I won't be responsible if I kill them. I'm done with your tests. Not long from now, I'll be 25, and you will no longer be my adviser. My father will no longer be in charge of my money, and I won't have to worry about any of this royal bullshit any longer. You've been feeding the same shit to my mom for years that she's going to sit on a throne someday. Don't you get tired of the false hope? Nomea has a king. And it's never been destined to be me."
"Let's face it. Your brother is unfit. You're the hope. You're the next generation."
I shook him off and headed for the exit. No way was I going to let him see me limp or know that his men had landed one too many good punches. He was trying to prepare me for a future I was never going to have. A future I didn't want. All I wanted was my freedom, and soon it would be mine.
And neither he nor his stupid tests were going to keep me from that.
Abbie…
Where the hell is it?
I frantically checked the pile of mail. Bill, bill, advertisement. Nothing from the University of West London. Worry knotted my stomach. All my other graduate school acceptance and rejection letters had come by now. I’d expected to hear word from them over three weeks ago.
“Hey, Easton, was this all the mail? Was there anything with the packages?” A part of me held on to that last thread of hope.
“Sorry, sweetheart. That’s all of it.”
My boyfriend, Easton Peters, leaned against the doorjamb between the hallway and the dining room, still dripping from his run, creating little puddles of sweat on the floor. “You have some perfectly good schools to choose from. I don’t know why this one is so important to you.”
I clenched my teeth and tried not to focus on the fact that, as usual, he didn’t support my choice. I also tried not to focus on the tiny puddles. Puddles I’d be expected to clean.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Instead, I focused on his face. Easton, covered in a sheen of sweat, was still handsome. Perfect, smooth, bronze skin, strong jaw, whiskey-brown eyes. A body that made women salivate. Not to mention, his family was also wealthy enough to sway political turnouts.
My friends liked to remind me how lucky I was to have him.
If only they knew.
“I know. I need to make a decision, especially if I want to start in August, but I really wanted this program.” I inhaled sharply the moment I caught the look of displeasure in his eyes. “But you’re right.” No, he’s not. “I’ll pick one. If London comes through, I can always pull my acceptance or something.”
He frowned, and I braced myself.
Stupid.
Why did I say that? At best, I had a lecture coming. At worst… something else.
Frown lines creased his perfect brow. “Abena, it’s bad form to rescind an acceptance. Especially if it’s at a school where I pulled strings for you, like Georgetown or George Washington.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from snorting at the pulled strings. It wasn’t worth the fight. Keep your cool. Breathe. Don't say anything. “Of course,” I muttered. Ever dutiful. Sometimes I just wanted to scream at mysel
f. Or him…
“Some dreams aren’t meant to come true. I mean, let’s face it, your photos are okay, but you’re not exactly doing gallery openings, are you?”
I bit my tongue. As if I wouldn’t have been able to get into those schools on my own. As if his talking to a couple of professors had been the thing that made the admissions boards sit up and take notice. He’d only just graduated from law school himself and was an associate with Walters and Logan, a big law firm in town. His family name might have pull, but he, himself, did not. I’d gotten in on my own merit.
But with practiced ease, I kept my thoughts to myself. “I know. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t want to do that. I’ll think about it carefully.”
He snatched up the hem of his sweat-sodden T-shirt and used the material to wipe his brow. The view of his six-pack and strong chest muscles should have had me salivating, should have had me begging to join him in the shower.
Too bad I knew what was under the perfect façade. And it wasn’t pretty.
I wanted him to be supportive. I wanted him to believe in me. I wanted him to be who he pretended to be. But at the moment, I just wanted him to get into the shower so he would stop dripping on my floor.
“I’m getting in the shower. What’s for lunch?”
I swallowed. “I’m making chicken salad.”
He sighed, clearly unenthused, but headed off toward the shower anyway.
As much as I hated to admit it, I was deliberately pushing the dates for accepting an offer. Letters of acceptance into law programs from Georgetown, George Washington, John’s Hopkins, American University, and University of Maryland all beckoned to me in a neat stack.
But I didn’t want to have to think about them. Easton had left them there purposefully, so that every time I walked through our dining room, I’d have to see them. The spiteful part of me yearned to disorder the tiny pile. But I restrained myself.
Petty isn’t a good look.
No. It wasn’t. And it certainly wasn’t becoming of the perfect girlfriend of Easton Peters.
The problem was I didn’t want to be a lawyer. Sure, it was the natural choice in a family full of them. Both my parents were attorneys. Even my oldest sister, Akosua, was. My middle sister, Ama, had broken the mold to go to medical school, but still, it was a profession the whole family approved of. Not like my passion, photography.
The University of West London had the best MA program in photography in the world. There, I’d have a chance to work with Xander Chase, one of the youngest, most renowned photographers in the world. He’d even exhibited at Hamilton’s in London.
Some dreams aren’t meant to come true.
Maybe Easton was right. Maybe London was just a pipe dream.
Unless you went on your own.
As quickly as the betraying, insidious thought popped into my head, I shuddered and quashed it. Going on my own wasn’t an option. I’d once tried to interview for a job in Los Angeles right out of college. The bruises he’d left on my body had made it very clear that I wasn’t going anywhere without him.
I’d been with him since I was sixteen, and he’d come to my school to talk about the benefits of NYU as a college. Even then, everyone had pointed out how lucky I was that a college guy was interested in little ol’ me.
That a Peters was interested in me.
Then why don’t I feel lucky?
Nobody saw what I saw.
He could be sweet. He could be unfailingly kind. We could spend hours talking about nothing. Or debating the merits of superpowers. There were so many happy moments interspersed with the bad that sometimes I wondered if I imagined the bad times.
Like the times when I was afraid or made to feel worthless were phantoms that plagued my mind with lies. Problem was, like phantom limbs, those bad moments sent aches throughout my soul that set like permanent stains.
His sweet moments were like an analgesic that dulled the pain and made me forget it lurked just around a happy corner. His temper was always at the forefront of my mind. But still, despite the fear, there was a part of me that hoped. Hoped he could be different, that I could be.
My phone rang in the kitchen, pulling me out of my reverie. I raced to grab it, a smile tugging at my lips when I saw who it was on the caller ID. “Hey, Dad.”
“Abena, how are you?” My father’s baritone voice with its accented English never failed to calm me down.
“Oh, I’m good. Just making some lunch.” I stalled, wondering what he was calling about. Neither of us was particularly skilled at small talk. A call from him was not the norm. We always relayed messages through my mother or via text. Nevertheless, I was happy to hear from him. “What’s up, Dad?”
He expelled a breath, as if happy to be able to cut to the chase and forego the social niceties of asking what I was making for lunch.
“I need the valuation papers for the condo. I’m trying to up the insurance, given the renovation we just did to the bathroom.”
“Sure, I’ll grab them.” I jogged into the study that Easton had taken over upon moving in and kept an ear out for the sound of the shower turning off. Once Easton was finished, he’d want to eat, so I needed to hurry up with lunch. “One sec, I have no idea what Easton’s filing process is.”
Quickly, I searched the stack of folders on the desk and found what my father was looking for. As I relayed the information, my gaze landed on the corner of an envelope peeking out from the desk drawer. A Queen Elizabeth stamp was affixed on the thick paper.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” My father hesitated. “Are you well? You sound off.”
I sighed. His way of asking if I still thought I’d made the right choice by moving in with Easton. My parents had been so against it. After all, in Ghanaian culture, it just wasn’t done. They were so old school. You only moved in with someone after you’d done a traditional engagement ceremony.
The mere thought of marriage made my stomach clench. Not that Easton hadn’t hinted it was the next logical step. But every time I thought about it, it felt like someone was tying a noose around my neck.
“I’m fine, Dad,” I said as I tried to pull the drawer open. It didn’t budge.
“Have you selected a school yet?”
“Uhm…” My voice trailed as I grabbed the letter opener and tried to slide it into the drawer to pop the latch. “I need to. I was hoping to hear from University of West London.”
My father harrumphed. “A photography course does not qualify as school.”
I could almost see him grumbling and pacing in his office. “Dad, actually, it does. The program is prestigious, and it's at an accredited university.”
My father's accented voice pitched lower. “Abena, what do you think you’re going to do with a master’s in photography? You’re supposed to go to law school.” Of course, to Ghanaian parents, the only appropriate professions and worthwhile educational pursuits included law, medicine, and engineering. I ignored the prick of pain his disappointment caused. I was used to it by now.
“Dad. You already have one daughter who’s a lawyer. Besides, with the photography, there's a lot I'm planning to do. With a recommendation from my professor, opportunities in production would open for places like National Geographic and a career in documentary films.”
And I was sure a recommendation from Xander Chase would open those kinds of doors. But I didn’t care about those doors. What I was after was the apprentice position offered to his top student.
“Abena, you can’t put all your eggs into one basket. You have to have a backup plan.”
“I know. I know. I’ll be looking at all the offers tonight, and I’ll make a decision by the weekend.” I could only hope and pray that the acceptance came before then. I really only had two more days to stall.
The drawer opened with a splintering pop, and for a second I was worried I’d broken it, but it slid smoothly on its grooves. My father mentioned something about my sister, but I had already tuned him out. I pulled out the envelope with its maroon stamp
of the queen, and my breath caught. With my blood rushing in my ears, I carefully scanned the return address.
University of West London.
Twice, my brain tried to make my lips cooperate. Twice, it failed. On the third attempt, I managed with a shaky breath, “Listen, Dad, I have to go. Easton’s going to want his lunch soon.”
I hung up without waiting for a goodbye. Unable to swallow and incapable of breathing, I slowly reached into the already-opened envelope and pulled out the papers contained inside.
My brain short-circuited as my eyes flitted over the cover sheet. …Great happiness that we offer you a spot… our students… we look forward to hearing…
Numb with shock, the only coherent thought my brain managed was, Get lunch ready, otherwise, it’s going to get ugly.
In the kitchen, my body worked on automatic pilot. Chicken salad would not have been my choice of lunch, but Easton hated any Ghanaian food I cooked. I added the mayonnaise and the additional spices I knew Easton liked. I always saved the scallions for last because he liked them fresh but not too big and not too fine like the food processor would have done.
“God, I needed that shower. That run was brutal.” Easton’s voice was jovial.
I was too numb to answer, as rage battled for dominance with disbelief and sorrow. Instead, I just continued chopping. My mind was unable to form coherent thoughts.
He continued without waiting for a response. “I went down by the library then up Independence. It was pretty. Still spring but with a touch of summer heat in the air.”
I smoothed the scallions off the knife into the chicken salad with my finger. While I worked, the bitter scent burned my nostrils. I still didn’t speak.
“What’s with you?” His tone was cold and held little note of concern.
I knew the moment his eyes landed on the envelope from the school. The air around him shifted subtly, and I braced myself.
His voice was barely above a whisper as he spoke. “Where the hell did you get that?”
Stupid move or not, I wasn’t going to let this one go. If there was ever a time to stand up for myself, it was now. I was not the pathetic girl he thought I was. I had been strong once, and I reached deep into the depths of a long-forgotten girl to find a sliver of that strength. “Where the hell you hid it.”
