by Harlow Stone
I nod, feeling more assured, and cringe as he changes the towel. “I’m getting tired, Lock.”
A pained look crosses his face. “I know. Paddy will be down when it’s safe to stitch your wound.”
Closing my eyes and tucking my chin into my chest, hoping that the past few hours will be expelled with the breath I release, I breathe deeply through my nose and out through my mouth. When I woke up this morning, I prayed yet again that I would get to see Locklin today, but never in my wildest dreams would I believe it’d be under these circumstances.
When I started this job six months ago, he caught my eye immediately. Ever since then, it has been a cruel game of cat and mouse. I chased him. I had him, and then he acted as though he’d never met me. It was a bruise to my ego until I began ignoring him right back. I quit saying good morning. I no longer went out of my way to bring the guy’s pastries, and I pretended his handsome face wasn’t hard to look at each time he wandered into our building. I told myself that maybe the age difference bothered him—his twenty-six to my twenty—and left it at that.
Then he cornered me in the file room and fucked me hard against the wall.
“I’ll make sure you don’t forget me, Lass. Because you’ll feel me for days,” he’d rasped in my ear.
That was three months ago.
Our relationship—if you can call it that—consists of random fucking at random times. Sometimes he shows up at my flat, in the file room at work, or at the cafe I frequent to screw me in the supply closet.
It’s not glamorous.
It’s definitely not romantic.
But for some insane reason, I never tell him no. I feel alive when I’m with him, as if I can breathe again.
I know little about him, but it doesn’t stop me, especially when we near the end of our trysts and he tells me how he can’t wait to see me again, how I’m his water (whatever that means), and how redemption may be his after all. Many of the things he says make no sense, but the tenderness in his eyes, and the way he cleans me up and looks after me when we’re done, tells me I’m not just a random fuck for him.
I’ve awakened in the middle of the night to find him sitting in the chair by my window, watching me sleep.
There have been nights when I’ve dug through my dinner menu drawer after a long day, usually Tuesdays, too tired to make anything. On these nights, a knock usually sounds at the door, a delivery man waiting on the other side.
A delivery man I didn’t call.
One rainy morning, I woke up to a flat tire and had to take a taxi to work. When I came home prepared to change it on my own—it was already done.
I once asked Locklin about the random acts of kindness, and his response was, “Quiet, Jerri girl,” before proceeding to stick his head between my thighs, effectively cutting me off.
So although I’m on this boat, with the man who spends more time fucking me than talking to me, I know I’ll be okay.
I know he will look after me.
Actions speak louder than words after all.
I hear the clanking of chains and a splash in the water. The loss of the boat’s momentum suggests an anchor was dropped. “Paddy will be kind to you, Lass,” Locklin tells me before a man enters the small cabin. Dressed in navy-blue work pants and a plaid overcoat, the burly man resembles one who has spent many days on his fishing boat. His stubble has grown into a beard, and his grey hair flops out from underneath his hat. At a glance, he seems intimidating—that is until you look at his eyes.
Light sky blue, surrounded by crow’s feet. Combine those with the wrinkles on his cheeks and you know this is a man who has laughed or smiled for much of his life. The lines between his brows could be from contemplation or anger, but I choose to think the former as he helped me escape what could have turned into a lifetime of hell.
“Ye sure know how to make a hames a’ me boat,” Paddy complains to Locklin. In turn, Locklin shakes his head and Paddy swings his kind eyes back to me. “A brick short of a full load since ’e was a wee bairn.” He jokes, waving a hand toward the blood-soaked towels on the floor and the trash bin outside.
“More pressing matters, Ol’ Man,” Locklin scolds while waving at my hip. Paddy grabs a bag from under the cabinet and settles himself on a chair at my bedside. “Ye dinnae get thick with me, Lad,” Paddy grumbles, his accent an odd mixture of Irish and Scottish.
Setting the bag between us, he pulls out bandages, a syringe, and what looks to be a sewing kit. “Stitched me deck hands up fer years, Lass. No need tae be white in the face.”
I’m about to tell him the whiteness of my face is most likely due to the blood loss, but I think he’s messing with me. His English is thickly accented, so I have a little trouble understanding what he’s saying, being that I’m less than one hundred percent coherent.
“This’ll take the bite off,” he exclaims as he prepares a syringe with what I hope is a severe pain killer. Within moments, a calm settles over me. The fire in my hip dulls considerably.
“Thank you,” I dreamily say, and he gives me a kind smile. Locklin rests his hand on my shoulder as Paddy dons gloves and threads a needle. “You’re soft as shite, ’ol man,” Locklin tells him before placing a kiss on my head. “I’m going to keep watch. Paddy will look after you.”
I simply nod and watch him go.
“He was always a quiet bairn,” Paddy says, shaking his head. He adjusts the towel covering my bare bottom, exposing the gash. “But when he speaks, ’ye listen. Wise lad,” he goes on, stitching me up. “But ya dinnae tell him I said so.”
I give him a small, tired smile. “My lips are sealed.”
He tips his head in thanks and carries on. “Ain’t ne’er seen ’em with a lass since Siobhan. Ye must be special to him, Lass. He hasnae asked for help in ages—not ’til he met the likes of you.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. Clearly Locklin cares for me, which warms my heart in a beautiful way. I settle on asking, “Who is Siobhan?”
He shakes his head and replies, “It’s nae my story, Lass. He’ll cop on, or I’ll be cursin’ to high heaven.” He’s pressing a clean bandage over the neatly stitched wound when Locklin returns.
“What filth are you puttin’ in ’er head, Ol’ Man?” he asks.
Paddy scowls at him and grabs his bag, “You’d wantae know. Nessa be waitin’ fer us. Time to ship off.”
Locklin sits in his vacated chair and begins stroking my back in the same calming way he did earlier. “Nessa is Paddy’s wife. They’re going to look after you for a few days.”
“Why can’t I go back to my flat?”
“I’m sorry, Lass, but it’s no longer safe. Nessa and Paddy will be good to you.”
I frown. “You’re not staying, are you?”
He shakes his head. “I can’t.”
* * *
“Have you thought about the offer yet?” Cory asks from the other side of the shop counter. It’s my third week back at work, and although the first few days were a little rocky, I’ve caught on rather quickly. Dr. Katherine explained that some things are truly as simple to remember as riding a bike. Since waking up from the coma three months ago, I have remembered the mundane things, such as brushing my teeth, how I like my coffee, and now, apparently, how to run my shop.
The invoicing was a little tricky at first, but when it came to staging and purchasing, I took to it like a baby to the bottle. I enjoy having something to put my energy into, enjoy having a purpose other than obsessing over my past and trying to find the father of my unborn child. The almost-daily trips to the coffee shop to find Locklin were a bust. Regardless, I started keeping a diary to write my memories and questions in, and one day I hope to write the answers.
I never told either of the detectives about my memories of Locklin. If they have seen the video that has gone viral on YouTube, they haven’t mentioned it. Of course you can’t see me in the picture to make a positive ID, but as they’re detectives, I had a feeling they might have figured it out.
They haven’t. If they did, I’m sure they’d be here questioning me about my memory.
It has been almost four months since the accident, attempted murder, whatever people are calling it, and I haven’t seen the detectives since the afternoon at the impound lot. I got one follow-up call a week later, and since then it’s been radio silence.
Cory’s question about the offer spikes my heart rate and brings me back to the present. A popular band, which is originally from Boston, came across the video some time ago. Apparently, they not only fell in love with my story, and want to help, but they have also asked me to open for them. They want me to sing that song at their upcoming show.
Right here in Boston.
The Theater will be a more intimate venue, and although it’s not televised, it still scares the shit out of me. I have no desire for people to see who I am, but I also feel as though I’m running out of time. Since Cooper’s company is filtering all the responses that come in, I have the benefit of not seeing what people write to me. Portia assures me ninety percent of it is good and supportive; it’s the other ten percent that’s filled with whack jobs and haters I have no desire to find out about. Cooper still continues his search for the ghost of a woman I was.
All this time and she’s still just that.
A ghost.
Sighing, I tell him, “I don’t know, Cory. I want to if it will get me better results. But let’s be honest; that video has been up for about two months now. If he hasn’t seen it yet, I don’t know how singing at the theater is going to help, unless he’s in the audience. But I highly doubt that.”
He shrugs. “What have you got to lose, Jer? Ask them to keep the stage lighting low so people can’t see your face. Somebody is bound to film it, so it’s going to end up all over the internet again. I guess the only question to ask yourself is how badly do you want to find him? And what would you do to make that happen? If the answer is anything, then I say you go for it.”
He straightens his bow tie and gives me a questioning glance.
How badly do I want to find him?
Pushing the invoices aside, I lean a hip against the counter and whisper, “What if he’s already seen it?” I take a deep breath. “What if he doesn’t want to be found, making all of this work Cooper has done for me worth nothing?”
Cory leans across the counter and takes my face in his hands. “What if it’s for something? Because that, Dear Girl, could be everything.”
A single tear rolls down my cheek. “Damn you and your logic, Cory,” I reply, laughing. “And damn these hormones!”
“Hands off the lady!” Marcus shouts in an English accent as he enters the shop. The chandelier lighting reflects off his bedazzled orange scarf as he struts toward the counter. Cory sternly says, “How many times must I ask you to keep your voice down? This is a respectable business, not your gossip-ridden hole down the street.”
Marcus slaps his ass as he rounds the corner and takes me in his arms. “Don’t be a bitch, Cory. I know you love my hole.” Air kissing my cheeks, he asks, “How are you today, Love? Is my lesser-half bothering you? Hmm?”
Smiling, I lean into him. “He’s been fine, Marcus. My hormones are all over the place. Tell me, did I cry this much before?”
They both shake their heads. “I think the only time I have seen you cry was when Pussy Galore got stuck in the dumpster out back and you had to go in and save her,” Cory replies, referencing the once-stray cat that now lives in the shop in her own little cat house. She’s a long-haired, sassy little beast, who sits in her carpeted tower people-watching all day long. Marcus says she’s not watching—she’s plotting. The cat doesn’t like to be touched and hates people, so I can’t say I disagree with him.
Portia scoffs as she rounds the corner. “The only reason she cried was because it was onion-peeling day at the deli next door, therefore the dumpster was full of them. Who’d cry over a cat anyway?”
Cory lifts a brow and crosses his arms. Portia gives him a look that says, “don’t you dare, or I’ll spill all your secrets too.”
Cory remains silent.
“What’d I miss anyway,” Portia asks. “You been crying again, Babe? Are the gays getting on your ass again?”
Marcus snorts, “Pun intended,” while Cory says, “You walked right into that one, Pixie.”
She scowls at them both. “Just say the word, Jerri. I’ll strangle this bitch with his bowtie and beat the other with his BeDazzler.”
One thing about this beautiful space I call my own, there’s never a dull moment.
“No strangling or beatings are needed,” I tell her, shaking my head.
She purses her lips. “Fair enough. We still on for Tequila Tuesday?”
“It’s Wine Wednesday, you twat. Can’t you keep your days straight?” Cory asks.
She shrugs. “I missed Tequila Tuesday. I’m cashing in my rain check. You in, Jer?”
I shake my head. Although I’ve been doing my best to participate in these outings, being pregnant is starting to suck my energy. “No, I’ve got a hot date with a baby book and a cup of decaffeinated herbal tea.”
Portia leans into the counter. “I can sit this one out, Babe, if you want some company.”
I wave her off. “No. You guys go ahead. Have a drink for me.”
Cory whispers, “She definitely needs one.”
Marcus adds loud enough for me to hear, “What she needs is a good pounding.” Cory slaps the back of his head as they walk to the door, Portia in tow yelling she loves me and she’ll see me in the morning.
Chapter Seventeen
“Silence at last, Miss Galore.”
Talking to the miserable cat somehow makes me feel better after everyone leaves. I love the banter between the group, the camaraderie. It’s humble and heartwarming, and I’m incredibly grateful to have them in my life. But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the silence when they go.
Gathering the bag of shredded paperwork from behind the counter after I’ve locked the front door, I make my way to the back, turning the lights off as I go. There’s a comfortable lunch room between the front and the delivery bay, and I swing by to grab the trash there as well. Exiting the building, I cross the large alley and toss the bags in their appropriate bins before heading back. I double check the shop door, making sure the self-locking mechanism is engaged before rounding the back of the shop to my apartment door.
The man standing on my steps takes me by surprise, but out of fear—or sheer stupidity—I shout, “Hey!” and the man shoots off the steps like a bullet and takes off around the corner. Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out my phone and edge closer to the building. The light over the delivery bay door is on, but the bulb above my front stoop is out.
“Shit!” I exclaim, clutching a hand to my chest. No part of town is completely safe, but it’s not quite dark yet, and the man is long gone. I pull up my contacts as I walk, debating whether or not I should call 9-1-1, Cooper, or one of the Detectives.
The door to my apartment is still shut, and turning the knob proves it’s still locked. There’s paint missing on the door where the lock meets the door jam. “Son of a bitch,” I curse. I punch in the code to unlock the door and fly through as soon as it’s open, locking it behind me.
I quickly scan my surroundings before flipping on every light at the base of the stairs and heading back into the shop. With all the lights on, and Pussy Galore to keep me company, I feel a little safer.
Plopping down onto a couch, I take a few deep breaths before dialing Detective Bryan.
“O’Shaunessey,” He answers. I calm my hoarse breathing before replying, “That’s a mouthful, so I’m just going to call you Detective Bryan, or Bryan, from here on out.”
He’s silent for a few moments. Then he answers, “Ms. Sloane?”
I nod, but when I realize he can’t see me through the phone, I say, “You seriously recognized my voice?”
He replies, “No, I have call display.”
&nb
sp; Smacking my hand on my forehead, I say, “Right. And it’s Jerri. Please, just . . . call me Jerri.”
He clears his throat. “What can I do for you, Jerri?”
“I think someone was trying to break into my apartment,” I tell him.
“What? When?” he asks intensely, nearly shouting.
“About one minute before I called you.”
“Where are you now? Are you safe? Is the intruder gone?”
I roll my eyes and reply, “I’m in my shop with all the lights on. I’m pretty sure I’m safe, and I watched the intruder run away when I spooked him.”
“Why didn’t you call 9-1-1?” he asks.
I sigh. “Because I focused on getting somewhere safe first. It seemed stupid to call 9-1-1 after he had already left. It could be random, but what if it’s connected to whoever cut the brake lines on my truck? If that’s the case, wouldn’t someone end up calling you anyway?”
“I’m not sure whether to call you clever or crazy, Sloane. Keep your phone on you; I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I’m about to hang up when he adds, “And don’t touch anything around the door!”
Setting my phone beside me, I lean forward with my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands. I debate calling Cooper and Portia since they’re just across the street, but then I remember Tequila Tuesday and Wine Wednesday and decide I won’t bother. Someone holding my hand isn’t going to calm the storm inside me. It has been months since the accident, and I’m sure it was just a randomly attempted break-in.
Knocking sounds from the back of the shop. Pussy Galore hisses in that direction but doesn’t bother getting down from her tower. Walking slowly with my phone in hand, I head toward the door and stand on the tips of my toes to look through the peep hole.
