Six Feet Under (Mad Love Duet Book 1)

by Whitney Barbetti

  “Twenty-five weeks.” She ran her hand over her belly again. “A girl.”

  “Oh.” I couldn’t think of anything more useful to say.

  She returned to be next to me, a bit of a pink-red on the tip of her brush.

  “I’ve never seen brushes like that,” I said.

  “Really?” She looked skeptical. She held the brush up between us. “It’s a makeup brush.”

  “Ah.” I nodded. “I don’t wear much makeup.”

  “Yes, well, you don’t need to, do you?” She sighed.

  “No one needs to,” I said, before realizing what I’d said. She had a thick layer herself, caked across the bruise. And she knew that I knew.

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “You’re right. But you don’t need it either.”

  She laughed, but it was short and not at all with humor. She looked at me with the brightest blue eyes, brighter even than the red that colored her inner eyes. “Makeup is better than breeding gossip.”

  “This doesn’t seem like that kind of place,” I murmured, looking around. I jumped slightly when the wet brush touched my skin.

  “Every place is that kind of place. People aren’t different depending on the environment they’re in at that moment.”

  She was my kind of person. Which made her not like my mom.

  “You’re right,” I said for the second time. I watched as she made the first curl of the eight. Her lines were clean, precise. And when she dipped her brush in the paint again, she made a gradient of the color so the next swipe was a darker pink than before. But she blended it with her pinky, making it look like the paint got darker all on its own.

  It was such a simple design, but she took great care in creating it. It was over sooner than I wanted it to be over.

  “You don’t want anything more than that?” she asked. “Flowers, or something?”

  I didn’t like cut flowers. They were already dying, and no amount of water or plant food could keep them from wilting. But painted was a different story. “I’d love flowers.”

  “Great.” She loaded up a palette with blues and purples and pinks and a bit of black and white and then sat back down on the chair. “So, are you an artist? Or a spectator.”

  I didn’t take myself seriously as an artist, but spectator sounded like a dirty word.

  “What if I say I’m an amateur at both of those things?”

  She nodded, and her frizzy hair bobbed in front of her face. She didn’t let it affect her as she bent over my arm and added the first petals of a purple-pink flower on the outside of the eight. “Everyone starts somewhere.”

  “As an artist or a spectator?”

  “Both.” She blew a stream of air on my skin. “But you don’t seem like such an amateur at the latter. I saw you looking at me.”

  I was sorry for that but didn’t want to say it. “Boyfriend? Husband?”

  “It’s not any of your business,” she said. But then she peeked a look up at me as she began painting the petals on the next flower. “Fiancé.”

  “Hm.” I wanted to ask more but being sober kind of kept me in check. But, not enough to completely shut me up. “Have you left him?”

  She sighed again and sat back, pushing her frizzy hair from her eyes with the back of her hand. “Again, that’s none of your business, but what the hell. No. I’m still with him.” She ran that same hand over her stomach. “It’s complicated.”

  “The only complication is that he’s still living with you. You can leave.”

  Which would make her so much like my mom that I, for a moment, reconsidered what I was even saying to her.

  She laughed. “Mira’s your name, right? Look.” She glanced around, and when she was content that we didn’t have an audience, she continued. “I paint here once a week. I’m not exactly able to support myself on the ten or twenty I make a night. I’m socking it away, yeah, but it’s not ever going to support me and a baby.”

  When she leaned over my arm again, I found myself saying something I hadn’t actually thought through. “You can stay with me.”

  “I don’t even know you.”

  “I don’t know you either,” I pointed out. “You could be a serial killer for all I know.”

  “And yet, you’re inviting me to stay with you?” She raised an eyebrow, and I could tell she didn’t take me seriously.

  “Well, technically, you’d stay at my boyfriend’s house.” Great. Now I was volunteering Six for something without his knowledge. “I’d stay there while you’re there. Just until you can get something else.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  I shrugged, and she clamped a hand on my arm, steadying me so she could continue painting. “Yeah, it probably does sound crazy. But what sounds crazy to me is being engaged to a man who isn’t afraid to leave marks on your body.”

  She hissed through her teeth. I hadn’t meant to call it out like that—but I really wanted to convince her.

  “Well, you pull no punches.”

  “Just … think about it.” When the paint brush left my skin, I grabbed her wrist. She flinched immediately, and I let go. “Sorry. Look, I know some self-defense moves. I can help you.” I didn’t know exactly how I was going to help her, but I knew I needed to.

  “Why?” She shook her shoulders. “Why would you want to help me?”

  “Because…” It was a valid question. I looked at her belly again. “My mom was a single mother. She didn’t have help—not any meaningful help at least. Maybe, if she had, things would’ve been different for her, and consequently, for me.”

  “Kind of a low blow to bring my baby into it.”

  “Yeah.” I shrugged. “But kind of a low blow to hit the woman carrying that baby, right?”

  She sighed and blew the hair that tickled her eyebrows. “I don’t know. I can’t just stay with a stranger.”

  “So, Brooke,” I said, emphasizing her name to make it sound like she was an old friend. “Let’s go for a walk or something. Coffee. You like coffee, right?”

  “I’ve been avoiding it.” She placed her hand over her stomach.

  “Okay, well they make decaf. Come on, let’s meet for coffee. We can get to know each other.” It was unlike me to make an offer to a stranger, but if I was being completely honest—a distraction wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to me. Every time Six traveled, I was alone. And that usually wasn’t a good thing for me, for us. Having Brooke in my life, helping her out, might keep me busy enough not to use again.

  “Where?”

  “There’s a coffee shop in one of these buildings above us. Tomorrow? Noon?”

  “Kind of late to meet for coffee.”

  I leaned forward slightly, conspiratorially. “The first thing you’ll learn about me is that I hardly sleep. Noon is just the same as any time of day. Besides,” I said, shrugging. “You’ll be having decaf.”

  “Okay.” But she was still cautious. “Noon.”

  Ez returned from her break and looked at me like the intruder I was. “See you then,” I said, and without waiting for Jacob to return, I left the Dry Run and walked to Six’s car.

  When I slid into the passenger seat and shoved my jacket at my feet, he closed the book he was reading. “What’s that?” I reached over to grab it, but as my hand made contact with it, Six grabbed my arm in his.

  I gave him a look before realizing what he was looking at. The eight.

  “That’s nice,” he said, before touching it. It was dry, but I worried he’d mar it somehow, so I tugged my arm from his grasp. “An eight?”

  “Yeah.” I saw his lips curve and I yanked the book from his hands. “Locksmithing?” I asked. “Changing your career?”

  “No.” He eased the book from my hands. “Just good to brush up on the different kinds of locking mechanisms there are.”

  “You have a job or something? I’m pretty good at breaking into locks.”

  He tucked my hair behind my ear. “I’m sure you are.”

  “So? W
e ready to go?” I tried not to pull myself away from his touch. Though he was always gentle with me, he was rarely tender. It made me uncomfortable.

  “You’re not going to tell me how it went?”

  I had a moment to mention Brooke, but I chose to keep my lips zipped. “Good. Interesting place. The people too.”

  “Think you’ll be back?”

  I nodded. Mostly for Brooke, I told myself.

  I slid into the booth where Brooke sat, hands cupped around a mug of what was essentially hot water with a slice of lemon on top.

  “Hiya,” I said, shrugging off my coat and punching it into the corner of the seat. “Hot water?” I asked her as I picked up the sugar canister and started pouring it into my coffee.

  “Yes. I didn’t feel like decaf.”

  “Mmhmm.” I hadn’t stopped pouring the sugar into my coffee, and Brooke watched with horrified fascination. When I had poured in ten or so tablespoons of sugar, I started opening the little cream cups and poured in one after another.

  “Uh…” she started, eyeing the sugary milk—with a hint of coffee—cup I had in my hand. I stacked each empty cream cup into a leaning tower and then took my first sip.

  “I like my coffee sweet like a candy bar.”

  “Right.” I could see the wheels turning in her head. Why had she agreed to meet with me? Why was she even entertaining my offer when I was obviously a little bit deranged to drink my coffee the way I did.

  “So.” I rolled up the sleeves of my oversize yellow sweater. “Have you thought about it?”

  She tucked a chunk of frizzy hair behind her ear, and I saw the black bruise was more obvious today. She hadn’t had as heavy a hand with the makeup. When she noticed me looking, she held up a hand. “Heavy makeup is easier to get away with inside, at night.”

  “Did he hit you again?” I asked, though I saw no visible marks on her skin.

  “No. He works nights. That’s why I was able to sneak out to the Dry Run.” She itched the skin at her elbows, like she was nervous just being here.

  “Where is he now?”

  “Home. He thinks I’m at the grocery store.”

  “Okay.” I knew that meant she didn’t have a lot of time to talk, not if she wanted to have an amount of groceries that wouldn’t breed suspicion in her fiancé. “I’ll make this quick then.” I looped my thumbs through the holes I’d cut into my sweater sleeves. “I don’t know how I could help you. Just being honest. But I could give you shelter, safety. I can help you until you’re ready to make a move on your own.” My eyes dipped to her belly. “If not for you, for her.” Brooke seemed to be more mentally sound than my own mother had been when she’d brought me into the world, but that didn’t mean it’d be any easier for Brooke to raise her daughter.

  I didn’t believe in karma—good or bad. But Six had often mentioned that I needed a hobby. Something to focus my attention. And because I felt so passionately about helping a woman who didn’t need me, maybe—just maybe—her daughter would grow up better than I had. I knew one thing for damn sure. Brooke, though she looked similar to my own mother, she was not my mother. That was the truth of it. Brooke wasn’t made of simple, weak stock. A man hurt her, but she didn’t let him break her. That fascinated me, on an intellectual level. But still, she was helpless to get out of her current situation.

  “What’s in it for you?”

  I couldn’t tell her that what was in it for me was motivated by selfish interest. “I just want to help.”

  She leaned back in the seat and her belly popped up. “Now that’s bullshit. People aren’t kind without an agenda.”

  Ah, fuck it. “I’m just gonna be honest here, Brooke. I need a hobby. I know that sounds callous, but I get myself into all kinds of shenanigans when I don’t have something productive to preoccupy my time. Besides, my boyfriend keeps asking me to move in so maybe having you in his digs—which means I will also be there—will get him to cool his jets a bit.”

  “At least you’re being honest.” Her smile was weak, and her teeth worried her bottom lip. “I feel insane for even considering your offer, really. But I know I don’t have much choice.” With the back of her spoon, she pushed her lemon slice to the bottom of her mug before it buoyed back to the surface. “I need to take some time, consider things more.”

  “Sure.” I took a big gulp of my sweet coffee milk and ripped off a corner of the napkin. I rummaged through my coat pockets until I produced a pen that bled ink out the tip. I wrote my number as legibly as possible and then gave it to her. “Memorize that number. In case you need it.”

  She looked at the slip and then at me.

  “Say it with me,” I said. “Five-two-oh-seven-five-seven-five.”

  She repeated it and I handed her my pen. “Now write it here,” I shoved my napkin at her, “Five times, while saying it.”

  She did as I instructed.

  “Good.” I folded up the original slip and told her to put it in the tiny pocket on her jeans. I stood up and pointed to the pocket on my own jeans. “He won’t look here.”

  She had to lean back to fit it there. “You seem to know a lot about abusive men.” It wasn’t presented as a question, and yet it was one all the same.

  “I know a lot about assholes.” I took one last sip of my coffee and reached a hand to help her out of the booth. “Repeat that number. Call if you need me.” I’d said if, but I had a feeling it was a when.

  I watched her leave the coffee shop and hustle to her car.

  I wasn’t wrong. That when happened three days later. On a Monday night.

  I’d been lying in bed with Six beside me. He was reading his locksmithing book, but had a hand running lazy circles on my bare stomach as I tried to sleep. Sometimes, the touch of his fingers on my skin was like an instant melatonin rush. But that night, I was restless. I hadn’t gone back to the art club since meeting Brooke—not because I was avoiding it, but because Six had been home for the first time in a long while—for more than just a few days. I didn’t help him on as many jobs, which was probably why he was shoving the hobby thing down my throat whenever he got a chance.

  The floor above me creaked from the new neighbor’s midnight footsteps to the fridge. I followed the creak with my eyes, across her identical floor plan to where her fridge sat above mine.

  Six turned a page and then my phone rang. We both turned to look at it before I calmly rose from the bed and answered it.

  “Hello?”

  She had time enough to give me her address before she hung up.

  “Six, we gotta go.”

  He squinted at me from above his book. “What? Now? It’s after midnight.”

  I was already pulling jeans on. “I’m getting dressed now aren’t I? So yeah. Now.”

  He set his book down beside him and I shook my head. “No, bring it with you.”

  “Will I need it?” He pulled his jeans on as I tugged my sweater over my head.

  “Well, not for practical purposes. But we’re not coming back here right away.” I shoved a few pairs of pants, shirts, underwear, and pajamas into a bag, grabbed my toothbrush and then exited the bedroom.

  Six followed me into the kitchen. “What are you doing?”

  “We gotta bring Henry.”

  “So, you’re wrapping his tank in cling wrap?”

  I sighed. “He’s not exactly easily portable as is.”

  “Just bring his tank. I’ll drive steadily.”

  We were climbing into his car when he finally asked me what was going on. I explained it as neatly as I could, leaving out the bits about how I volunteered his home as a sort of temporary home for a pregnant woman who was also a stranger. “She needs a place to crash for a bit.” That was honest enough. “I might need you to flex your muscles a bit.”

  “I can manage that.”

  Oh, yes, he could.

  Six navigated the way to Brooke’s place like he was a cab driver. I didn’t spill even a drop of Henry when we made it to her home. It was a small,
but tidy little flat, hidden away by overgrown shrubs that managed to add charm and not make it look unkempt.

  The floor of Six’s car didn’t seem safe for Henry’s bowl, so I just carried him, Six two steps ahead of me, up to the front door. Six knocked, but the door was partially ajar, so I pushed through it. I heard two loud voices before Brooke’s head popped around the door. Her eyes shot to the bag she had near the door, and Six grabbed it immediately. Her bag was even smaller than my own, which made me feel a prickle of sadness for her. Her eyes were round, red-rimmed, and glossy with unshed tears.

  “Ready?” I asked her.

  She looked at the fish tank in my hands before nodding. She looked to be wearing three layers of clothes as she bounded toward us. Just before she walked out the door, a tomato-red faced man came around the corner she’d appeared from and stopped short at seeing us—Six with Brooke’s bag in his hand and me with a goldfish tank in mine.

  “Who the fuck are you?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked again at Henry.

  “Go,” I told Brooke, nodding at the waiting car.

  “Don’t you dare leave this house, Brooke!” the man roared before Six stepped in front of her, blocking her from being able to see him and, more importantly, him from seeing her. If I hadn’t known how much I loved Six then, I did in that moment. He was protecting a woman who was no one to him. And if it came down to it, he’d protect her with more than just his steady presence.

  “Go,” I told her again as she paused at the threshold. When she was running down the walkway, I turned to her fiancé. “You will leave her the hell alone, do you understand?” I was calmer than I thought I was capable of. But anger boiled in my veins at the look on Brooke’s face as she’d passed me. “She doesn’t owe you anything.”

  The man made a move toward me and mumbled something angry under his breath, but Six stepped in front of me. “You heard her.”

  “She’s my fiancée. She’s having my kid.”

  “No,” I said, peeking behind Six’s bicep. “You lost your rights when you gave her a black eye. I’m sure the one she’s wearing isn’t the first you’ve bestowed upon her, either.”