by J. D. Mason
* * *
Abby feverishly rolled a piece of plastic from the water bottle into what looked kind of like a straw. One end was pointed, like a spear almost, and sharp. She couldn’t make a tool to open that door, but she could fashion a weapon. Next, she wrapped it tightly with bands of plastic she’d braided together from the plastic sandwich bag, making it even rigid, almost as solid as a knife. If he was going to kill her, then that bastard was going to have to work for it.
She looked up at the sound of the key turning in the door. It was him. She knew it was him. Abby crouched low in the corner, pressing herself into it as far as she could, trying to make herself small and invisible. Abby hid the weapon beneath the blanket as he pushed open the door. She held her breath and tried to stifle her cries.
Stop it, Abby! You fight this bastard. Fight him as if your life depends on it—because it does.
He saw her. Abby pressed her lips together to stifle a scream. Every muscle in her body flexed, thick and ready to spring from that corner in her defense against him. He knelt down in front of her. Abby suddenly began to shake so hard that her teeth clicked. A scream caught in the back of her throat. Kill him before he kills you. Don’t let him! Don’t!
He reached for her, and in a reflex, she slapped his hand away. Abby blinked through her tears.
“It’s all right, baby.”
Baby? Whose baby did he think she was?
“Wake up, Abby.”
What? What was he saying to her?
“It’s Jordan, sugah.” He reached for her. Abby blinked again.
She shook her head. He was lying, trying to trick her.
“Abby. Wake up, baby. It’s Jordan.”
Jordan was gone. Jordan wasn’t here. She wanted him here. She needed him. Abby blinked and shook her head. Jordan—he wasn’t—Jordan was— The longer she stared at the man kneeling in front of her, the more his features changed.
“Jordan?” she questioned, not willing to believe her own mind, her own eyes.
“Yes, sweetheart,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “It’s me, baby.”
Was it? Jordan. Abby blinked and looked quickly around the room. “Home,” she whispered.
“That’s right, Abby. I’m right here.”
Abby dared to squeeze her eyes shut for a second, no more than that. When she opened them again, she stared back into his eyes.
She was dreaming. Abby was on the floor, backed up against the wall next to the bed. How else could he be here? How could she be here? She stared at his extended hand, at Jordan’s hand. Abby wanted it to be real. More than anything she wanted all of this to be real.
“Jordan?” She sobbed, tentatively reaching out to touch him.
“It’s me, Abby. You’re safe now.”
Even if it was just a dream, it was the best dream she’d ever had in her life, and Abby prayed that she’d never wake up from it. She took hold of his hand, and he pulled her onto his lap. She wrapped her arms around him and held on with everything in her.
He held her tight, and he felt real. He smelled real. “Yes, baby,” he murmured in her ear. “It’s me, and you’re safe.”
Abby nodded, “I am. I’m home.”
Please enter where You already abide.
—Marianne Williamson
As Cool as I Remain
“I’VE GOT A FEELING ABOUT YOU,” Marlowe said, coming out onto the porch where Plato was sitting.
He took a sip of his coffee. “What’d I tell you about eavesdropping on me with all that mind-reading shit?”
She sighed and sat down next to him on the steps. “I’m not psychic, but if I was, there’d be nothing shitty about it.”
Marlowe leaned into him, kissed the side of his face, and rested her head on his shoulder. It was late, nearly eleven.
“How come I get the feeling that you’re thinking about leaving me?” she asked softly.
Like hell if she wasn’t psychic. “Your crystal ball tell you that?”
“I don’t need a crystal ball when all I have to do is to read you. You think I don’t feel you trying to pull away from me?” Marlowe wrapped her arm around his. “Wrestling with yourself trying not to give in to old habits of taking off and never looking back. Is it really so bad being with me?”
He sighed long and deep. “Nah, you’re the problem, sweetheart,” he said, finally looking into her eyes. “Most of the time being here with you feels too damn good and I’m a born pessimist. Nothing this good can last forever.”
Marlowe paused and gave what he said some thought. “No, I suppose nothing good ever can,” she said remorsefully. “But then bad don’t have to last forever, either. Right? Why you gotta be so full of secrets?”
“You knew I was full of secrets when you met me, baby, when you fell in love with me.”
“And you made me promises that I expect for you to keep.”
He most certainly had done that. Love made men temporarily insane. He told her what she needed to hear and at the time he hoped like hell that he could live up to those promises. But all the best intentions in the world couldn’t change who he was at the core.
“I am not a good guy, Marlowe,” he reminded her. “You fell in love with the villain, baby, not the hero. Thought you knew that.”
Hours ago, Plato had slayed some folks, erased them like mistakes and hidden them so good that they’d probably never be found again. And then he came home, kissed her on the cheek, showered, ate a late dinner, and now sat outside on the porch, sipping a cup of decaf as if nothing had happened.
Marlowe sat up, put her hand underneath his chin, and turned his face to hers.
“You might be somebody’s villain, but you’re not mine. You are the man I love and will always love, unless you leave me and break my heart. Then I swear I’ll hate you for it.”
The thought of her hating him broke his heart right then and there. But see, that’s what kept him here with her. Love like hers was too addictive to just walk away from, but sometimes those walls of his transgressions started to close in on him and it got hard to breathe.
There was a time when Plato would finish a job and then forget about it. It wasn’t smart to let his sins weigh him down. So what was this he’d been feeling since he and Gatewood had found Ms. Rhodes? Why was he carrying this burden now?
Gatewood had taken out the man trying to kill his woman, and rightly so. The sick bastard got off pretty easy if you asked Plato. Shit. If he’d come at Marlowe like that, and Plato had found him, his ass would be strung up between two trees, and skinned alive until his black ass begged for death. Gatewood had blessed him with that bullet. It was an easy kill. Justified. Plato took care of the other dude and the woman.
“Please, man,” the other brotha cried. He cried like a baby, hands held up in surrender, spit and snot running down his chin. “I did it for my family. My old lady and my babies. We needed that money. I didn’t know they wanted us to kill her. They said hold her. Keep her safe and then we’ll tell you when to let her go.”
“Who’s they, son?” Plato asked, squatting in front of him, his pistol held loosely in his hands.
The woman curled up in a ball on the ground, trembling and moaning as if she was in pain, and Plato hadn’t even touched her.
The young brotha shrugged and shook his head. “I … I never saw her. She never told me her name.”
“How’d she find you?”
“I don’t know, man. She just called me one day. Knew where I worked and about my family. She knew I needed money.”
There was no doubt in Plato’s mind that the dude was telling the truth.
“Please, man. Please just let me go home. I won’t say nothing. I can’t. If I do, then I go to prison. My family needs me.”
If he knew who’d hired him, he’d have told Plato. But not knowing was not going to save the brotha’s life. Plato fired the gun and it was over for him. Just like that. The young dude never even saw it coming. That’s what mercy looked like.
Loose ends, even those who meant no harm, the repentant kind, weren’t given passes in Plato’s line of work. It was all about absolutes and putting that period at the end of a sentence. The young man’s family would somehow have to learn to manage without him.
The woman lay completely still and silent, stifling her cries after knowing that her friend had died. Did she hope Plato would forget that she was here? Plato stood up, walked over to her, and knelt down in front of her. Of course she wouldn’t know shit, either.
“He’s going to keep the boys,” she said in a whimper, finally pushing up to kneeling, fixing wide eyes at nothing in particular into the woods.
He’d believed her to be a white woman, but being this close to her, he saw she looked biracial or something. Hazel eyes flashed at him, red-rimmed eyes. She had freckles.
“I don’t know what made me think that I could do this,” she said sorrowfully, sniffing and dragging her forearm across her nose. “I got a bad habit of trusting the wrong people when what I should be doing is listening to my gut and trusting myself.”
She looked at Plato and waited as if she needed him to affirm her revelation.
“I never should’ve married Thomas. Looking back—what is that they say about hindsight?” Somehow, someway, she managed to attempt a smile. “I wanted to save my babies,” she sobbed. “To keep them from being like him. They see what he does to me, and I can tell that they’re starting to think that it’s okay. I never wanted them to believe that it was okay to hurt people. But then I go and do this. Makes me wonder if I’m any better than he is.” She shrugged. “I’d always hoped that if something happened to me, my boys would go to my parents. I just didn’t want him to have them.”
He didn’t know Thomas, but from the way she spoke about him, the man was a motha fucka. “What’s your name?” Plato asked, embarking into forbidden territory.
He never cared about their names, until now. Until her.
“Naomi Simpson.”
Plato fired again and the world was void one Naomi Simpson.
“I spoke to Shou, earlier,” Marlowe told him, bringing him back to the moment.
Just hearing that old woman’s name made his skin crawl. Without realizing it, she had given him clues. He was more afraid of her now than ever.
“She wanted me to thank you for no longer tormenting her with those peaches. Are you going to tell me what peaches had to do with whatever it was you were working on?”
He looked at her.
“Don’t call me psychic. Women have intuition. That’s all this is.”
“I don’t know nothing about that old woman and peaches,” he eventually responded.
Marlowe shrugged. “Fine. Don’t tell me, then. I’m going to bed,” she said, standing up and untying her robe as she turned to go back inside, giving him a tasty view of all of her. “You coming?”
Plato bounded to his feet like a kid and followed Marlowe inside.
The Better Man
JORDAN AND ABBY HAD SLEPT off and on for the last two days. It was Sunday evening when Abby told him that she was hungry. Abby nibbled on cheese, bread, and fruit and sipped hot tea. Since he’d found her, Jordan held on to her, being sure to keep her close to him. They hadn’t spoken much. Both quietly processed the last week in their own ways.
It was cool out, but they sat outside on the terrace anyway and watched the sunset. Neither one of them would ever be the same. This ordeal had the power to tear them apart or to make them grow stronger, together. The way she clung to him, Jordan had hopes that it would be the latter.
He loved her literally to death—his or someone else’s. The fear of losing Abby had definitely taken its toll and pushed Jordan to limits he’d never imagined he’d ever have to face. This woman was literally everything to him. She was the only thing that mattered, more than Gatewood Industries, more than money, more than his reputation or name.
There were people out there who knew that now. People who would no doubt not hesitate to come for her again, holding her out in front of him like bait, and Jordan couldn’t let that happen. Abby was far too precious to him, and if nothing else had come of this, he hoped that she understood that now.
“You need to see a doctor, Abby.” He eventually said what he’d been thinking since he’d found her. “We need to be sure that you’re all right. That the baby’s all right. Phyl can make the appointment.”
She reluctantly raised her head from his shoulder. He fought back feelings of rage every time he looked at the bruises on her face. What had they done to her? He didn’t know and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to know. But Abby was still pregnant and she needed to be seen as soon as possible.
Abby nodded slowly. “That’s fine,” she said softly.
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Five days was too long for those people to have held her. Whoever was behind this had nearly destroyed him. Addison was high on that list, but Jordan knew that he hadn’t done this alone. He had deleted all of the documents they’d demanded he sign and send back. Jordan wondered if they knew that Abby was with him now, or if they were just pissing in the wind, hoping to see those contracts show up in their in-box.
Of all the things he wanted to ask her, one weighed most heavily on him, and he finally worked up the courage to bring it up. “Did you think I wasn’t coming?”
Abby nestled more securely in his arms. “They wanted money,” she softly explained. “I knew that. I knew you’d be worried when you hadn’t heard from me.”
“But did you ever think for one moment that I wasn’t looking for you?”
Abby reluctantly nodded. “For one moment, I did think that.”
How could she possibly believe that he wouldn’t flip the world on its ear to find her?
Abby sat up and looked at him. “I thought I was never going to see you again.” She paused. “But I knew you loved me. I never doubted that. I couldn’t wait, though.” Abby swallowed. “I had to try to get out on my own.”
He smiled. “I wouldn’t have expected anything less from you.”
Jordan was so proud of her. Seeing the condition of the man chasing her, Jordan had drawn some conclusions of his own of how she’d escaped. But the details could wait.
“They told me that I had to wait five days,” he explained. “I was to sign a contract that I’d get at the end of the week. But I didn’t wait a week to start looking for you, Abby. As soon as I knew—as soon as I knew, baby, I—”
Abby pressed her head to his chest and wrapped her arms around him.
“Nothing was going to keep me from you, sweetheart,” he said, choking back tears of his own. “Nothing ever will.”
“I’m so sorry that I didn’t listen to you,” she sobbed. “I should’ve listened to you, Jordan, and I shouldn’t have gone back to the house.”
Jordan just shook his head. “None of that matters, Abby. You’re here now, sugah. That’s everything.”
* * *
An hour later, Abby drifted back off to sleep. Jordan carried her upstairs to bed and covered her with a blanket before going back downstairs to finish up some business, beginning with a call to his accountant telling him to leave his money right where it was. The transaction fell through was all he said. His next call was to an associate of his at the state capital. He had no idea who the woman had been on the phone responsible for Abby’s kidnapping, but he’d be damned if he let Addison’s ass off the hook.
Jordan worked from home on Monday and Tuesday, and then on Wednesday left the office early to take Abby to her doctor’s appointment.
It took some convincing, particularly from Abby, for the doctor to get past her assumptions of Abby’s face to finally stand down.
“It’s a long story,” Abby said calmly, squeezing closer to Jordan. “And he didn’t do it.”
“The only thing I’m going to scold you about is your weight,” Abby’s doctor, Amanda Stewart, told her.
She came highly recommended as the best OB/GYN in the city, and Jordan wo
uld settle for nothing less for the mother of his child and his heir. Abby laughed at him the first time he said that to her, but as silly as it may have sounded, it was true.
“Eat, lady,” Amanda said, squeezing a clear gel onto Abby’s abdomen. “You’re too skinny.”
Abby and Jordan exchanged glances when she wasn’t looking. He hadn’t said as much to Abby, but she knew. No one could know about the ordeal the two of them had been through the previous week. Not even her family. It would raise too many questions, lead to investigations, and the truth of the matter was, Jordan had killed a man. He’d never believe that he wasn’t justified in doing so, though. Jordan wanted whoever had done this to pay for the pain and suffering they’d caused him and his family. And he wanted to be the one to dole out that justice. His kind. His way. And he wasn’t finished.
The stress of what she’d been through had them both worried about this baby. Jordan stood next to her and held her hand. Abby bit down on her bottom lip as the image came up on the screen next to her. The doctor brought images up on the screen, and clicked that thing she rolled across Abby’s stomach a few times.
“What are you doing?” Abby asked anxiously.
“Just measuring your uterus, sweetie.” She smiled. “Making sure it’s what we think it should be.”
“Is it?” Jordan asked.
“Well…” Dr. Stewart responded apprehensively.
Again, he and Abby glanced at each other.
“Oh, there’s the little peanut,” the doctor said.
Jordan was amused by the reference. Abby’s nickname was Peanut and she hated it. Abby looked at him and rolled her eyes.
There on the screen was his kid in glorious 4-D, looking pretty much like, well, a peanut.
She paused and then said, “Oh, boy.”
