Mind Lies

by Harlow Stone

  “S-s-stop, please,” I cry, not once putting my hands in front of my face; they’re still wrapped firmly around my stomach. His hands are still pressed firmly on my shoulders to keep me seated.

  Laughing, he asks, “Why stop? Why you not fight, pretty Raven?”

  Blood flies from my mouth when I wail, “If stressed, I could go into labour, you stupid bastard! Then where will your black market baby money be?”

  I get no warning when he backhands me again before placing his fingers around my throat. “Sleep, Raven.”

  I choke against his hold, finally removing the hands from my stomach to claw at them and his wrists. I feel the blood on my fingers as he lifts me up by the neck and lowers me to the floor. Blackness clouds my vision, and I pray to all things holy that we make it out of this alive.

  ***

  “What the fuck have you done?” I growl, hands clenched at my sides, murderous gaze aimed at Vasily. “I wanted proof of life!” I shout, pointing into the cell. “What the fuck is that?”

  He laughs, but I don’t let him get any words out. I don’t care about the men, the guns, or the piece of shit in front of me. Taking two steps forward, I pull back and swing as hard as I can, hitting him right in the temple. I almost smile at the sight of the big fucker falling flat on the ground.

  Weapons are drawn, clicks telling me safeties are released. Since I’m not an idiot, I don’t bother fighting them. With Vasily down, it’s five against one.

  “Guns down,” Yakov calmly says, as if he had just asked us to have a seat at his table for motherfucking tea.

  Kill them all.

  “I finally meet the man who has been fucking with my shipments.” Clasping his hands behind his back, he asks, “I want to know who you work for.”

  I scoff. “I don’t work for anyone but myself, you piece of shit.”

  He raises a brow. “A vigilante? How noble of you, Irishman. And why would a man become vigilante? Why not stay at home and”—he waves a hand toward Jerri—“raise babies?”

  Clenching my hand into a fist, I decide there’s nothing left to lose. “Her name was Siobhan. She was beaten and left for dead on the docks almost twenty years ago.”

  The fucker shrugs. “So now you run around saving women?”

  I shake my head in disgust. “You killed her, you son of a bitch. The last name that came out of her mouth was Yakov.”

  He tilts his head, trying to remember, then shakes it. “It does not ring any bells.”

  I scoff and glance down at my watch. “I’m sure you don’t remember half the people you kill.”

  Waltzing around without a care in the world, he says, “I know I did not kill the one you speak of because I kill fast. Not dirty.” Waving his arms around, he adds, “My men do dirty work, and this suit”—he fixes his lapels—“cost three thousand dollars. I have no interest in blood. Yuri?”

  The man in question steps forward, walking around Vasily’s still yet alive body, “Who is the woman the Irishman speak of?”

  Yuri shrugs. “Long time ago, boss.”

  Yakov sighs. “It was not Vasily. He enjoys watching the light drain out of eyes.”

  Yuri nods, as if that were common fucking knowledge, and says, “Wait, wait. Girl come across container when we move women from container to truck. She attack Sven. Red hair?”

  I swallow and nod, so Yuri keeps going. “Red hair, big money. But when we grab her, she crazy. Puke all over and eyes go.” He motions to the back of his head. “So we throw her off the truck.”

  All in a day’s work, you sick sons of bitches.

  “Needle marks, all up her arms. Even if she not die, no one believe her,” he continues.

  She’s dead, you fuckin’ bastards.

  “Enough,” Yakov says, issuing the silence, staring at me for a long moment. “You don’t work alone.”

  Shaking my head, I answer, “No, I don’t.”

  He scowls, and I take a minute to sweep my eyes over Jerri’s cell. She’s breathing but hasn’t moved. Vasily starts moving and lifts himself to a seated position. His eyebrow is nearly torn off, blood oozing down his face.

  It pleases me.

  “Who was the driver?” Yakov asks. When I stall, he nods to Yuri, who then points his gun in Jerri’s cell. “Legs or arms only, Yuri.”

  Stalling for time, I joke, “It’s not as though she’s in a position to hurt you. You really need a bullet to slow her down?”

  Sighing, he says, “I need a bullet to speed you up, Irishman. And I can’t kill her because I can get up to thirty thousand dollars for the child.”

  “You sick fucking—”

  “Hey!” Yuri shouts, pointing the gun back at me, so I slow down.

  “Babies? You sell fucking babies? The women trade not enough? Fuck me, why not just knock them all up before you sell them?”

  He nods. “Oh, we do. But babies not as pretty when they come from junkies, whores, and street people. She”—he nods toward my Lass—“a healthy girl. Now, who was the driver?”

  Two minutes.

  “His name is Lenny,” I fib. Yakov nods to the men behind me who then grab my arms. Vasily stands up and delivers a swift blow to my ribs, right below where I was shot. Two more follow right in the face.

  “Who does Lenny work for?” Yakov asks, allowing Vasily to land another punch to my chest before I kick him in the stomach. I spit blood at his feet. Some lands on his pristine shoes. Satisfying.

  “G2, motherfucker,” I reply.

  I watch the smirk fall off his face for a moment before he straightens his shoulders in a manner the suggests he doesn’t give a shit who tries to take him down.

  You’ll think differently soon.

  Grabbing the gun from Yuri, he points it directly at my head. “Nobody fucks with my business. Not you, not her, and definitely not G-fucking-2.”

  “Get low!” is roared from behind me, and I dive down, taking one of the Russian fucks holding my arms with me. Shots ring out as I fight with him, wrestling for the gun. He elbows by aching ribs, and I lose my breath, which gives him the upper hand as he reaches for the gun. He then swings back, gun in hand, hitting me across the head with it. When he sits up with the gun raised, I think this is it. I’m a dead fucker. But the blood raining down on me isn’t my own.

  Women scream as three men dressed in black garb and bullet-proof vests rush in. I grab the gun from the dead Russian’s hand and push him off me, desperate to find my way to Jerri. The bullet hole in the center of Yakov’s head lets me breathe a little easier as I pass him and enter Jerri’s cell. Vasily is five feet in front of me, soaked in blood from shoulder to ankle.

  “Don’t fucking touch her,” I growl, aiming the gun at his head. Turning in my direction, I see the pleasure on his face. I don’t understand why until I take notice of the gun aimed straight at my unborn son.

  That lump I’m familiar with rises in my throat once again, and I tell him, “You shoot, you’re fucking dead.”

  He chuckles, a wet sound as the blood runs out of his mouth. “Irishman, I’m already fucking dead.”

  And then he pulls the fucking trigger.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  “Agghh!”

  “No!” Locklin shouts. “Jerri, stay with me, Lass. Hang on.”

  I try to open my eyes, but it hurts. I push through the pain. I need to see him. I need to know I’m not dreaming.

  “Lock?” I whimper when I feel my body being moved.

  “I’m so sorry, Jerri girl. So fucking sorry,” he cries as he holds me in his arms, rocking me back and forth.

  “Lee!” he shouts, causing me to stir. “We need an ambulance, now!”

  I hear them talking, but they seem muted. The blood rushes in and out of my ears as I press my face into his chest, breathing in his scent.

  “Open your eyes, Lass. You can’t go back to sleep yet. Open your eyes,” he keeps saying, and I keep trying. Reaching up, I touch my eyes with my hand and feel the dried blood coating my lashes. Pl
acing his hand on top of mine, he shushes me, and a woman says, “Here.”

  I hear the sound of fabric ripping before a cool, wet cloth is rubbed gently over my eyes. The blood softens. The stickiness washes away, and thankfully my eyes start to open. The muted lighting in the cell is a blessing, and the first thing I see is Lock’s face, which is inches from mine.

  Tears run down his cheeks, and he presses his lips gently to mine. “Stay with me, Jerri girl.”

  I try to nod, but my head falls back on my shoulders, dizziness making me blink my eyes repeatedly. I try to clear it, the dizziness. Locklin keeps whispering in my ear as he lifts me from the floor, and a woman with a torn shirt stands there, a piece of her tattered shirt in one hand, a bottle of water in the other. She nods at me, our camaraderie among the cells now over, and hell forever behind us.

  I fight the darkness as my head bobs on Locklin’s shoulder. Dead bodies litter the floor on our way out of the building, and men dressed like commandos are huddled around the small group of terrified women. Blankets and water are handed out, and the women reach for them with a liveliness you wouldn’t expect from someone who had just cowered in a cell a moment ago, petrified.

  I try to wave, but it hurts.

  Everything hurts.

  “Lock?” I whisper.

  The lights of an ambulance are visible in the distance. I focus on the flashing. “I’m tired.”

  He presses his face into my neck and weeps. “Stay with me, Jerri girl, and I’ll tell you a story, okay?”

  I think I nod into his chest. I’m not sure because I can barely feel anything. His arms loosen from my body, and I call his name. “Right here, Lass,” he whispers against my forehead as I’m lowered onto a stretcher and loaded into the ambulance.

  His hands grip my own, his thumb moving in soothing circles as he rests his forehead against mine. I feel a prick in my arm, hear medical jargon being spouted off about my condition and the baby.

  A gunshot wound.

  “The baby?” I cry, eyes barely open.

  “Shh, Lass. Our boy is fine right now. I was going to tell you a story, remember?” I tilt my head toward his voice and open my eyes.

  “Kay.”

  He smiles. God, it’s beautiful. There’s blood covering half of his face. Tears stream down his cheeks, and two days’ worth of stubble covers his square jaw.

  But he’s beautiful.

  I tell him so.

  He laughs. “The drugs are kicking in. I guess I better hurry before you fall asleep on me again.” I give him a dopey smile. He carries on. “I once told a woman that I loved her, but I don’t think I really knew what it meant at the time. Those words are thrown out so freely, Lass. They’re overused and underworked. You can love someone, but not like them. You can love them, but not care for them.” He sighs. “I’ve cared for you, deeply, Lass, more than I have ever cared for another. And I don’t just like you . . . I’m practically obsessed with you.”

  Reaching up, I place my fingers on his full lips. He kisses each finger before holding them to the side of his face. His cheeks wet from tears. “In the past twelve years, I’ve helped rescue one hundred and eighty-three women.”

  His throat works. He clenches his jaw. “One hundred and eighty-three, Jerrilyn. Black, white, Asian, Russian, Irish.” He barks out a harsh, painful laugh. “Twenty-three, seventeen, thirty, ten. It didn’t matter the age. It didn’t matter their ethnicity, where they came from. It didn’t matter if one were a prostitute and the other a child entering high school.

  “When that cage, container, or warehouse door opens, none of that stuff matters, Lass. And it doesn’t matter if they’ve been in that cage for five hours, five days, or five weeks—they all want the same thing. They all beg for the same thing: That thing is not their parents, children, or friends. It’s not even healthcare.”

  Leaning close, he places his free hand on the side of my face and harshly whispers, “It’s water, Jerri girl. They beg for fucking water.”

  You’re my water, Jerri girl.

  Epilogue

  Jerrilyn

  “Oh my God.”

  “I like it much better when you moan my name, Lass,” he says with his mouth firmly attached at the base of my neck.

  “Stop teasing me,” I groan, digging my nails into his back as he continues to thrust gently and steadily into my body.

  “Patience, Jerri girl,” he says as he pushes deeper, grinding his hips before placing his mouth on my own. I push my fingers into his hair and pull none too gently. “Locklin, please!”

  He sighs but doesn’t push harder. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  I growl, “You’re hurting me by denying me my orgasm.”

  He clasps his hands around my shoulders, and I wrap my legs around his firm arse, pulling him deeper into me. “Christ, woman. You’re killing me.”

  I nip his bottom lip and pull, forcing a groan to erupt from his chest but spurring him on enough to fuck me harder. “Yes,” I moan, falling back onto the mattress, taking all that he gives me.

  Locklin, my unselfish lover who loved me all along, even though I was deaf to his words.

  You can survive without love.

  You can survive weeks without food.

  You cannot survive without water.

  “Eyes, Lass,” he whispers against my lips.

  When my eyes connect with his, we’re joined in every sense of the word, from toes to mouths.

  From skin to soul.

  There’s no doubt, worry, or indecision.

  There’s no fear or insecurity that he may leave.

  We’re one, Locklin and I. And although it may have taken a long time for us to get here, I know, as does he, that never would either of us been in this place with someone else.

  If we did, it would be settling for less.

  And regardless of what has happened over the years, I get it now.

  I fucking get it.

  Whether it was when he rescued me in that warehouse or when he told me the reasoning behind me being his water, I’m not sure. What I do know is there’s not a soul on this planet who has loved me, and will continue to love me, like Locklin.

  I used to think him selfish, and perhaps he was for a time. But until he learned, on his own terms, how to get rid of the ghosts from his past, there was no way I ever would have had one hundred percent of him.

  And while there was a time in my life when I had settled for a part of him, I now know the abundance of having all of him.

  Given our turbulent history, I can only call it tragically beautiful.

  Much like the man—my pretty and reckless.

  “Sing to me, Jerri Girl.”

  I sigh. “Only if you make me come.”

  His eyes crinkle around the edges as a smile takes over his handsome face. “Done.”

  “There are a million of you,

  But only one for me,

  They may be new,

  But can’t you see?

  There’s only one for me.

  And that one is you,

  No matter what you do,

  Know that I need you.

  No matter what you see,

  Know it’s only you for me.

  No matter what you see,

  Know it’s only you for eternity.”

  “Beautiful, Jerri Girl. Now come.” His hands hold tight—one on my shoulder, the other on my neck—as I go to blissful heights and let out the first moan of pleasure in months.

  “Locklin!” I half-moan and wail as he follows me over, squeezing my body so tightly to his that it’s hard to tell where he ends and I begin.

  “Whaaa . . .”

  Locklin grasps my hips and gently removes himself from my body before leaping off the bed and pulling his lounge pants on.

  I sigh. “You know, it’s okay for her to cry a little, right?”

  He turns and scowls at me. “It was your idea to put her in her own room.”

  I fight the smile and the laugh wanting to escape
my mouth. “She’s two months old, Lock. How long do you suggest we let our children sleep in the same room as us?”

  He flings the bedroom door open and speaks as he walks across the hall. His voice tapers off but comes through on the monitor beside our bed.

  “She doesn’t like to be by herself,” he grumbles. “Do you, Lara? Come to Da.”

  Her crying wanes, as it does every time he holds her. It’s getting to the point where I think she does it on purpose just so he can come to the rescue and rock her until she falls asleep. “You don’t like being on your own in here, do you little Lass?”

  I hear her gurgle sounds and the motion of the rocking chair in her bedroom. She was just fed an hour ago, so I know she’s not hungry. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep. How about a story?”

  I put my nightshirt back on so that I don’t give our son an eyeful in the morning when he comes to wake me up. I snuggle down into bed and listen to my husband’s deep, soothing voice serenading our girl.

  “There was once a beautiful Lass, more beautiful than any other in the land.” Lara coos as he continues. “She had the voice of an angel and the body of a goddess, but that wasn’t what caught the attention of the most stubborn man in the Kingdom. No, it was her eyes. They told a story all on their own. So much so that even after the awful villain tried to steal the light from them, they still shone bright every time the most stubborn man in the Kingdom made contact with them.

  “You see, it didn’t matter how many men from the kingdom looked at her. It didn’t matter how powerful or handsome they were, because the light in the beautiful Lass’s eyes only shone for one stubborn man. You know why, Lara girl?” She doesn’t answer; she’s probably fast asleep, but he continues. “Because the stubborn man was sent to protect her, care for her, and treat her as though she were the last drop of water in the middle of a desert. He vowed once he escaped the darkness and shadows he lived in that he would treat her as best he could for the rest of his days and all eternity. And any man who had been in the desert knew that this was the highest form of assurance. Bigger than fate, bigger than love. Bigger than anything.