Savage

by Michelle St. James

  “We have things in hand, yes, but I do think he would like to see you.”

  Farrell spent a few seconds debating the merit of skipping the funeral, then decided against it. It wouldn’t change anything, and he needed to pay his respects to the Carver family.

  “I’ll be there first thing tomorrow,” Farrell said. “Call me if anything else comes up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Ms. Moore?”

  “Yes?”

  “Make sure he has anything he needs.”

  “Of course.”

  He disconnected the call and set down the phone, then headed for the shower. It was one of the rare moments when he felt his isolation, but he wouldn’t allow himself to wallow in it.

  Life was shit. Everyone was alone.

  They just didn’t know it.

  6

  Jenna stood next to her mother as the pallbearers passed by with her father’s coffin. The service had been short and small, attended by their neighbors and a few people Jenna assumed were from the Stafford Institute where her father had worked.

  She spent the entirety of the service avoiding the casket, trying to keep her shoulders squared and her head up through any means necessary, even resorting to outright lies.

  Her father’s body was not inside the wooden box.

  She would see him again.

  She would.

  Kate had cried steadily throughout the mass, and Jenna took a calm, steadying breath and took hold of her sister’s hand. Sometimes she envied Kate. If only Jenna could muster such a simple release.

  But she came up empty even as she searched her heart for the pain she knew must be there somewhere. Her whole body felt like an empty cavity, a corpse already readied for burial. There was only numbness, and she was alternately grateful and angry for it. She was glad she’d left Lily with Mrs. Hodges'. Funerals and death and dying were already complicated for a four-year-old. Jenna didn’t know how to explain the absence of her grandad, a man she’d never met.

  And that was when she felt the stab of pain. Of guilt.

  She’d never brought Lily home to meet her father. She’d been too afraid that someone would tell Farrell. That he would find out about the secret she’d been keeping and her carefully constructed house of cards would come tumbling down.

  She didn’t know if she could take it. She was barely hanging on as it was, trying to be strong for Lily. She was on the edge, at the precipice of something dark and unnameable that would strip her of the control she’d fought so hard for over the last five years.

  She should have brought Lily home to meet her parents. She would have to live with the fact that she hadn’t.

  They followed the pallbearers out of the chapel and down the front steps. The cemetery was spread out on all sides, the grounds green under an oppressive spring sky. She slipped a hand in her pocket and touched the rigid cover of her father’s passport as his body was loaded into the waiting hearse. It was silly to carry around the passport, but it gave her a strange kind of comfort. Rubbing the little booklet between her fingers was soothing, and when things got to be overwhelming she distracted herself by thinking about what her father had been doing in Madrid. In Amsterdam.

  The hearse pulled away from the curb, and she started walking toward the gravesite with her mother and sister and the other funeral attendees.

  “This bloody sucks,” Kate sniffled next to her.

  Jenna squeezed her hand. “I know.”

  She looked over at their mother. Jenna had been surprised to hear her mother sob quietly through the service. Her parents hadn’t shown affection often when Jenna had been growing up, the house filled with the tension and resentment that was a hallmark of their marriage. But if John Carver had been a steadying presence for his daughters, he was that times a hundred for the woman who probably would be on the streets, drinking rubbing alcohol out of a paper bag, if not for him.

  “You okay, Mum?”

  Her mother nodded, then fumbled in her bag for her sunglasses. When she had them on, Jenna took her hand so she was walking between her and Kate. She knew how it looked. Like she was propping them up. Like she was the strong one. But the truth is, she thought she might fall over without them. Without the anchor of their need. This she could do. This taking care of people and getting things in hand. Taking control of a bad situation. Without something to keep her mind busy she might have to come face to face with her own grief.

  And that might undo her.

  It was better this way. They all had their self-assigned roles. It was dysfunctional, but it was all they knew. Jenna didn’t know who she was without it.

  They reached the gravesite and watched as the pallbearers situated the coffin amid a spray of flowers. Then the priest began his final blessing. Jenna hadn’t been to church since she was a child, but the words were comforting, the intonation of the priest like a familiar lullaby. She let her eyes scan the crowd.

  There was Mr. Osbourne, who had once helped them wrestle their mother up the stairs just in time to vomit on the landing.

  Mrs. Ahmadi, who let them run a tab at her small market before the Tesco had taken over.

  Mrs. Shelton who had been so grateful to their father for mowing her lawn after her husband died.

  There were others, people she recognized from life in the neighborhood, plus the ones in well-cut suits who were probably from the lab. Had they been friendly with her father? Had they been good to him? Her eyes landed on one of the men, standing at the front of the group. He was young, probably in his early thirties, but his bearing made it clear he was used to being in charge. His hair was neatly trimmed, his face clean shaven. He was tall and slender, but she sensed power beneath the wool jacket. His arms were folded in front of his body, and he kept his eyes respectfully downcast as the priest concluded his blessing.

  She turned her attention back to the priest.

  Our father in heaven, hallowed be your name…

  He finished reciting the prayer, and then it was over. She stood with her mother and sister to accept condolences, shaking hands and trying to smile, thanking everyone for coming. She was listening to old Mr. Paddon talk about the recent death of his cat when she caught sight of a shadowed figure standing under one of the trees in the distance.

  She knew those shoulders, wide and strong enough to carry the weight of the world. He stood like he always did, feet slightly apart, like he was prepared for anything. His face was in shadow, but she caught sight of the strong line of his jaw, knew without being able to see them that his eyes were gray and cold.

  She could almost feel the blood coursing through her veins. Could sense his presence like a tangible thing in the air, the connection she’d always felt to him palpable even after five years and the thousands of miles she’d put between them.

  “I’m sorry to be meeting under such sad circumstances.”

  The voice got her attention, and she looked up to find that it belonged to the handsome, well-dressed man she’d observed during the funeral. He was looming above her now, looking down at her with concerned blue eyes.

  “Yes, thank you for coming, Mr…”

  He held out a hand. “Alexander Petrov. I’m the Chief Operating Officer at Stafford.”

  So he was from her father’s work. The guy in charge at The Stafford Institute.

  “You were my father’s boss,” she said.

  He gave her a wan smile. “Guilty as charged.”

  “It was very kind of you to come,” she said.

  His expression turned serious. “Of course. I’m terribly sorry about what happened.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  He held her gaze a little longer than necessary, then glanced back at Mrs. Ahmadi, waiting to talk to Jenna.

  “We can speak more later,” he said. “Please let me know if there’s anything you need.”

  He continued to Kate, and Jenna turned her attention to Mrs. Ahmadi long enough to give her a smile before looking back at the tree where s
he’d seen Farrell.

  But it must have been her imagination. There was no one there.

  7

  The house was crammed full of people, all of them milling about with drinks and plates of food. Jenna stood against the wall, feeling like she wanted to crawl out of her own skin. She’d stopped to check on Lily after the funeral, but she’d been fast asleep on Mrs. Hodges' couch. Jenna had let her be.

  Now she wished she was back in Mrs. Hodges' flat, drinking tea and petting her cat, Duke. The air in the house was stale, and Jenna was beginning to feel claustrophobic from the press of bodies all around her. She was wondering if she could manage a walk around the block without being noticed when Kate turned the corner from the kitchen. She leaned next to Jenna with an exhausted sigh.

  “This is unbearable,” Kate said.

  “Which part?” Jenna asked.

  “All the parts.”

  Jenna laughed a little. “I see your point.” She turned to look at her sister. “How are you faring?”

  Kate met her eyes. “I’m so bloody sad,” she said. “But I’ll be okay. How about you?”

  “I’m fine,” Jenna said.

  “It’s okay if you’re not, you know.”

  “But I am,” Jenna said.

  “But it’s okay if you’re not.”

  Jenna sighed. “Kate. Please.”

  “I’m just saying,” she said.

  “Thank you. Now let’s leave it alone, shall we?” Jenna asked.

  She didn’t want anyone digging around in her psyche, poking at the fresh wound of her father’s death asking, “Does it hurt here? How about there?” She would wait until it had healed a little, when answering wouldn’t loose the dam she’d built brick by brick to keep everything from spilling over.

  “Want something to drink?” Kate leaned closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I’ve got some blackberry vodka in my room.”

  Jenna smiled. “I can’t believe you still drink that stuff.”

  “It was good when I was fifteen, and it’s still good now,” Kate said.

  “I’m fine,” Jenna said.

  “More for me.” Kate pushed off the wall and disappeared up the stairs.

  Jenna navigated her way through the crowd, stopping to talk to people along the way. When she finally made it to the kitchen, she poured a glass of wine and stepped onto the patio in the backyard. It was twilight, the yard marked by shadows cast by the setting sun. But the fresh air was clean and damp, and she drew in a deep breath and sat on the rock ledge before taking a long swallow of the wine.

  It was like being in a time capsule. The lawn where she and Kate had lain on the rare clear night, looking up at the stars and making up stories about people far away. The fence Kate had tried to climb the first night she’d snuck out. Jenna had heard the commotion from the open window in her bedroom and had run outside to find her sister lying in a heap on the ground. She’d been afraid Kate had broken her arm, but they’d managed to clean it up amid hushed whispers in the bathroom, worried their mother would wake up from her bender and hit the roof. It hadn’t been a perfect childhood, but it was amazing how much easier acceptance was when your survival didn’t depend on whether someone was drinking or not.

  She thought of her father and felt a wash of sadness. She’d been too young to offer him her support when she’d been living at home. Then he had seemed weak and beaten. Jenna had sometimes been scared by the force of her repugnance. Why couldn’t he do something? Make her mother get sober? Kick her out so at least Jenna and Kate wouldn’t have to clean up after her?

  Now she knew the truth was painfully simple. He had loved her, and his love had been undimmed by her disease, even when all he could do was keep a roof over her head and food on the table.

  Is that what love was? A fire you could never extinguish, even when there was proof that it was destructive? That’s how she felt about Farrell. Like he would haunt her always. Like nothing would change it. Not his chosen vocation or his dangerous lifestyle. Not the thousands of miles that had been between them the past few years or the enormous secret between them now.

  She heard the kitchen door open behind her and turned, expecting to see Kate, probably with the bottle of horrid vodka in one hand and a joint in the other. But it wasn’t Kate.

  It was him.

  Farrell Black.

  He stood in the shadow cast by the eaves, his face lost to the darkness. But she would know him anywhere.

  Across a cemetery.

  In the shadows.

  Across the world.

  She stood, but she couldn’t seem to do anything else. Everything faded into the periphery: the muffled sound of voices inside the house, the hum of traffic in the neighborhood, the five years that had separated them.

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. She could feel his eyes boring into hers, and she had the sudden urge to run. To leave before he stepped into the light and she was lost to him all over again.

  He stepped forward and shut the kitchen door, then stepped slowly toward her.

  “Jenna.”

  She tried to smile, but her face felt frozen. “Hello, Farrell.”

  He was everything she remembered and more. The biggest man she’d ever met, tall and imposing with shoulders like a brick wall and biceps that bulged under his tailored suit jacket. His thighs strained against the expensive fabric of his trousers, and she had to push away the image of him naked, his body as chiseled as carved granite, dwarfing her own but somehow making her feel safe anyway. Dark ink reached up his neck, over the collar of his shirt, just enough to make her want to see if he’d added to the tattoos that had decorated his body all those years ago.

  The scar on his left cheek had faded slightly, but it made him look even more menacing now that he was older. For a split second, she caught something like longing in his eyes. It disappeared a moment later behind a cold and impassive gaze. She recognized the expression, the rigid set of his jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes, the balled up fists at his side.

  He was angry.

  She couldn’t blame him, of course. But she’d imagined this moment a thousand times since booking her flight home, torturing herself with the idea that Farrell had someone new, that he would look at her with something like bland affection, the passion that had burned between them nothing but a dim memory. It had hurt to imagine it, but it had been nothing like this. Nothing like seeing the look of cold fury on his face and knowing that it hid the pain he would never let her see. He stepped closer, and she caught the scent of expensive cologne mixed with the soap he’d used for as long as she’d known him and his own musky scent.

  Sex. Violence. Control.

  It was a heady mix, and she reached out with one hand to steady herself on the porch railing.

  He gave her a small, formal bow. “I’m very sorry for your loss. I always admired your father.”

  It took her by surprise, that a man like Farrell would admire her father. “You did?”

  He nodded. “He was a good man. A steady man.”

  She nodded, feeling a twinge of disappointment. Farrell would admire steadiness. It was the one thing he didn’t have. The one thing he didn’t want. She scolded herself a moment later. It didn’t matter that Farrell wasn’t steady. He didn’t belong to her anymore.

  “He was all of those things,” she said. “I can’t… I can’t quite believe he’s gone.”

  He didn’t respond, just kept looking at her, his eyes like a piece of flint slowly sparking a fire in her belly. Every second she stayed was another chance for it to ignite. She needed to leave. Needed to get out of there before she did something stupid. Said something stupid.

  “You left me a letter,” he finally said, his tone accusatory, his eyes as unyielding as stone.

  She looked away. “It was for the best.”

  She didn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t what happened next. He advanced on her, reaching her position in two long strides. Then his hands were around her upper arms, an
d he was pushing her back against the house, into the shadows. Like everything Farrell did, his grip was precise. Strong enough to show her who was in charge without actually hurting her.

  He stood close enough that she could feel his hips against hers, feel the press of his erection, an answering call to the moisture that had been building between her legs since their eyes first met.

  He leaned down. When he spoke, she could smell the Scotch on his breath. “Don’t tell me what was best for me.”

  She looked away, desperate to escape the siren’s call of his gaze. “It was for the best. For both of us. We didn’t want the same things.”

  “You never gave me a chance to tell you what I wanted.” His voice was low and controlled.

  She looked up at him, anger rushing her body. “Would you have quit the Syndicate?” she asked. “Gotten a steady job with a steady paycheck? Come home for dinner every night at six?”

  His grip on her arms tightened, and he leaned in even closer, his hips grinding into hers. Her breath was coming in short and shallow gasps. It would be so easy to wrap her arms around his neck, to press her body against his, to let him lift her dress and plunge into her. To pretend like no time had passed. Like nothing had changed.

  “That’s not what you wanted from me, Jenna.”

  “Don’t tell me what I wanted,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “You need someone to tell you, Jenna. Because I don’t think you have the first fucking clue what you wanted.”

  “I wanted to feel safe!” she cried, wrenching her arms free of his grip. She tried to put distance between them but his body was a barricade she couldn’t escape. “I wanted to be safe.”

  He looked down at her, shook his head. “No one could have made you as safe as me, Jenna. No one.”

  He stepped away, suddenly the picture of politeness. “I’m going to pay my respects to your mother and sister. Please let me know if there’s anything you need.”

  She watched him walk to the door, his movements strangely easy and graceful for someone of his size. She could hardly breathe, and she had the sudden desire to tell him to stop. To beg his forgiveness. To tell him about Lily and how scared she’d been. How young and alone.