by Helena Maeve
“I imagine it’s not as humiliating as being the friend who was almost raped,” I drawled and shut off the running tap.
“No, I suppose not.”
“May I ask you something?” Here goes. “I don’t understand why you’d stay married to a guy like that. You’re well-off. You’re in no way beholden to him…”
Mrs. Hamilton puffed out a humorless laugh. “And raise our children alone? They don’t deserve that. I’m a terrible mother.”
“You’re not,” I started to protest, but Mrs. Hamilton’s stern expression curbed any desire to say more. Hadn’t I thought the same thing every day since I’d started working for the Hamiltons?
“My children are wonderful people. They’re going to have access to the best education money can buy. Every door will open to them. I’d never deny them anything. But I can’t do what you do.”
“Because you lost your first kid.” I gripped the counter behind my back, aware that I was treading dangerous ground. “That’s why you’re punishing them.”
“You don’t know anything about me, Miriam.”
“I know you’re scared that it’s too late. That you’ve made the wrong choices.” I rolled my shoulders into a shrug. “You wish you knew how to be their mother.”
“That’s rich, coming from you.” Mrs. Hamilton canted her head, watching me with a predator’s gaze. “Where’s Elliot, Miriam? Did you choose to let him leave?”
She knew about that. Of course she did. I steeled myself against a wave of nausea and aggravation. So what if she knew? I had a right to a romantic life, just as she did. I wasn’t the one who’d married a creep.
I had the courage to end a relationship that was doomed from the start.
“Your children aren’t halfway around the country, ma’am. And you don’t have much time. In a couple of years, Riley will be planning her escape from this house. You’ll lose her forever. She deserves a mother who listens to her. You’ve got three kids who are alive and who need you now.” I shrugged. “You want to fire me for saying as much, go ahead. I kind of made my peace with the idea already.”
Mrs. Hamilton scoffed and rose gracefully from her seat. “Please. As if I’d take anything you say at this hour seriously. Go to bed, Miriam—and don’t forget your cellphone. I think you left it in the living room. It wouldn’t stop ringing. Terribly inconvenient while I’m trying to have a conversation…”
I gritted my teeth. “Won’t happen again.” Just when I thought I saw shades of the human parts of Mrs. Hamilton, she had to go and ruin it by being herself.
I stayed downstairs about an hour longer just to spite her. By the time I finally declared myself defeated, the dishwasher was at least fully loaded. All it would take was the singular press of a button come morning.
My phone was on the dining room table, between the raffle basket and a stack of empty ashtrays. It wasn’t until I unlocked it that I noticed the six missed calls from Elliot. He had left no voicemail message, but there was one unread text from him waiting in my inbox.
It said only 3:15, Oct 5th.
A time and a date. I inferred the place.
I couldn’t tell if it was a warning or a promise, and it was too late to call. Elliot was probably somewhere over Utah by now.
I clicked Reply and typed I’ll be there.
I waited for the message to send before I switched off the phone and started the long trek up to my room, alone but with a newfound lightness in my step. October was just around the corner. And I would be there to wait for Elliot when he returned.
Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:
Feint and Misdirection
Helena Maeve
Excerpt
Chapter One
Imogen contemplated whipping out her phone to check the time. If anyone saw—if the bride saw—she’d never hear the end of it. The tux had already raised a few eyebrows, but most of the guests had seemed content to chalk it up to eccentricity and moved on. Only Imogen’s mother had pursed her lips tightly and said “how nice”, in the kind of voice that implied the reverse.
She was striding toward Imogen now, a slice of wedding cake in one hand and her indignation clasped firmly in the other. It would’ve been too much to ask that she leave it at that.
Imogen cast about for an escape—or failing that, a glass of liquid courage. Finding none, she dug her oxfords into the ground and smiled with false cheer. “Good cake?”
“The icing is runny and the sponge is too sweet,” her mother said, reverting to Vietnamese as she often did when criticism was forthcoming. She was all about saving face, if not necessarily Imogen’s. “You didn’t bring a date?”
This was well-trodden territory. Mrs. Dao had begun with casual hints, veered into outright insistence and had finally reached the stage of constant harping, which explained why Imogen hadn’t seen her parents in months.
Imogen shook her head. “I didn’t want to steal Sherry-Ann’s thunder.” Not that it would’ve been possible. Her childhood friend had elected to tie the knot in nineteenth century crinoline and serve caviar at the banquet. Her band of choice involved a banjo, a qin player and two saxophonists—an experimental ensemble from VanderCook whose version of The Way You Look Tonight was surprisingly not bad. She was bound for a honeymoon in Antigua on a flight later that evening.
Imogen hated her like she hadn’t hated anyone in a long, long time.
Mrs. Dao pursed her lips. “Hmm,” she said, not even a word and yet so pregnant with disapproval that Imogen felt her insides churn.
She hated this. She felt like a teenager again, seeking her parents’ endorsement on boyfriends or boxing lessons when they had already made their opinion known. Loudly.
“What about that brute of yours?” her mother prompted, just when Imogen thought she was off the hook. “Couldn’t he come?”
“His name is Russell,” Imogen sighed, in English. And he wasn’t a brute, though the thought of his thick biceps stretching a formal dinner jacket was enough to trigger an absent-minded smile. “I didn’t ask him.” The intention had been there for the space of a heartbeat, before he’d pulled out and started hunting for his clothes.
There hadn’t been a good time after that. Imogen shoved her hands deep into her pockets and cast her gaze at the couples crowding the dance floor. Anywhere was preferable than looking at her own mother, whose silent censure was enough to make Imogen squirm. She was almost relieved when the levees broke and her mother smacked her rouged lips together.
“I don’t know why you persist in keeping such company,” she sneered. “He is a no-good thug, who hits you—”
“And I hit him back,” Imogen interjected, bristling. “It’s called sparring, Ma.” The way her mother had said it made it sound like Imogen was a battered woman.
“It’s inappropriate,” her mother insisted. “You wonder why you don’t have a date? Who wants a girl who gets into fights?” She sighed pointedly, reaching up a hand to brush Imogen’s hair off her brow. “A girl with such ugly bruises? You will attract the worst sort of man. Is that what you want?”
“No…”
But one paltry victory was not enough to curb her mother’s diatribe. “And would it kill you to wear some makeup? You can see every bump and scratch… Perhaps if you just tried to behave like a lady, you could—”
“What, Ma? Find a husband to give my life meaning? How’s that worked out for you?” It hadn’t escaped Imogen that her father was imbibing by the bar again, his face flushed and his collar undone. He’d been there since they’d arrived at the restaurant. All the same, the outburst cost her.
Her mother pressed her lips into a tight, red line, her gaze shuttering.
It was impossible to go through one of these events without someone commenting on how similar Imogen was to her mother. If only she didn’t crop her hair short, if only she wore a dab of lipstick and a proper ao dai, they could be sisters. The compliment always fell short of the mark. Imogen knew she had inherited her moth
er’s austere features, but her prominent mouth and nose belonged to her father’s side of the family. The proportions of her face had always seemed a little off to her, even as a little girl. Getting her nose broken twice hadn’t helped any. These days she wore her welts with pride and no foundation, but that was a personal choice.
“Ma,” Imogen started, casting about for something to say that would take the sting out of her retort. It was too late for that.
Her mother drew herself up a little taller and said, “Perhaps if you tried to behave like a lady, you would be happier.” A slap across the face would’ve hurt less than watching her spin on her heel and depart into the joyous swarm.
Imogen ran a hand through her hair, wishing she had something to kick without causing a stir. “Shit,” she mumbled to no one in particular.
As if in answer, her iPhone shrilled to life in the pocket of her dinner jacket. Imogen rushed to answer without checking the caller ID. “Is it time?” Anticipation mixed with relief in her voice, blending into a murky cocktail.
“You said you wanted me to call to—” Russell sounded wary, but by now he should have been used to Imogen interrupting him. They had known each other a year, been working together for six months. They were practically married.
“I’m leaving right now,” Imogen promised. “Be there in thirty minutes.”
“Don’t run anyone—”
But Imogen had already hung up. She glanced around for a sign of Sherry-Ann or the groom, but couldn’t see them.
Her mother had immersed herself in conversation with the ladies from her bridge club. That only left her father, whom Imogen dreaded approaching because he had a habit of roping his audience into lengthy and not always truthful sagas about childhood years spent running between rice paddies. Imogen knew for a fact that he had been born and raised in Hanoi, and the only rice paddies he’d seen had been in propaganda films, but she no more wanted to dispel his cloudy fantasies about youthful misadventures than she wanted to pluck holes in her mother’s delusions about marriage.
She inched her way to the restaurant doors without telling anyone. No one paid her any mind, though three of the waiters smoking outside did go remarkably still when she passed by. It was a very deer in the headlights sort of response, but Imogen didn’t stop to revel in the brief and slightly perverse power trip.
She had borrowed Russell’s battered Buick to attend the wedding and though it smelled slightly of potato chips and minty air-freshener, hearing the engine purr to life was music to her ears. With a belch of exhaust eddying up in her wake, she was off. There would be other weddings for her mother to twist the knife at her leisure and, after that, wedding showers, baptisms, funerals. The list went on.
Imogen pulled the bowtie loose from around her neck and popped the top buttons on her starched shirt. Finding formal wear that fit her body type was hard enough. The sheer thought of having to shop for a cocktail dress had nearly broken her out in hives. The suit had been a practical alternative. She could rejoice in the good deal. The event itself was always going to be a bust.
Thirty minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot outside the aptly named Espina Fitness and Gym with a screech of tires. The Buick lurched to a stop and Imogen slid back her seat, prying her shirt undone with deft fingers. She’d sooner die than walk into the gym done up like a goddamn clown. There were standards everywhere. Russell would never let her live it down.
“Must’ve been some wedding if that’s how you went,” he said when Imogen stomped into the office with car keys in hand.
Imogen cocked her hip, tilting her head with a smirk. “Are you eyeballing me, Mister? Now what would the rulebook have to say about that, I wonder…”
He didn’t stand up to greet her, but even seated Russell Espina was all tight-laced strength and had a scowl to put her mother’s to shame. He had been a fighter in his day and the physique remained even if he’d cut down on the hours he spent lifting. “Did they have a big, fat spread, at least?”
“Everything from chocolate eggs to spanakopita. Oh, and caviar. And the cake—”
“What about the cake?” Russell asked, pressing his full, red lips into a tight line.
Imogen knew what was coming. She’d heard the lecture before and she’d tried to fight it with reasoned arguments about how her body was her own to do with as she pleased. Experience had taught her that it wouldn’t fly. “I don’t know,” she shot back, beaming. “I didn’t have any. And no champagne, either.” She had toasted the happy couple with water, like a teenager.
Russ received the news with a tip of the head. “You’re still banged up,” he drawled, neither praise nor reprimand, just a fact of life.
He always put the work first, no matter how Imogen tried to rile him.
She spun the keychain around her index finger, shrugging. “It’s just cosmetic. Doesn’t bother me when I move.”
The match two days ago had been a clean win, but her upper body had taken a beating. She wasn’t lying about the pain being manageable. Her joints barely ached and she was confident she’d pull another rabbit out of the hat tonight, the better to prove to Russell that he had made a wise investment.
He didn’t seem convinced as he pried the toothpick from his mouth and tapped it against the desk. “No weights today. Warm up and then a twenty-minute spar. That’s it.”
“That’s it?” Imogen couldn’t help a disbelieving note from slithering into her voice. “But I told you I’m fine—”
“And I’m your coach,” Russell said. “Do we need to go through the ‘who does what’ again?”
Imogen glared, tossing Russ’ car keys to the desk. “No,” she sighed, grudgingly giving in.
He snagged the keys with a big, meaty hand and tossed them into a drawer. There was little chance that they wouldn’t go missing amid the pervasive clutter that crowded Russell’s office. “Good,” he said curtly. “Get some ice on that elbow before you get in the ring.”
“Careful,” Imogen sing-songed as she made her way down the metal stairs. “Keep talking like that and I’m going to think you’re sweet on me!”
The gym was sparsely populated at this hour and a few heads turned to watch her progress between weights and sandbags to the locker rooms. She knew all the familiar faces—the weekend warriors, the bodybuilders who did porn on the side—and it had been some time since she’d felt anxious under their scrutiny. As for newbies, there really weren’t any. Espina Fitness and Gym had seen its halcyon days sometime in the mid-nineties, like most of the fighting circuit in the Windy City. Everything since was just an exercise in pig-headedness.
Imogen splashed water onto her face in the locker room, as though that could erase the crawling sensation of not fitting into her skin. When she glanced up, the woman staring back at her was ashen, her bushy eyebrows in bad need of plucking. She was a far cry from marriage material.
“Well, tough,” Imogen breathed. She had better things to do.
* * * *
The bloodthirsty audience roared, elated by the artful knockout punch Imogen delivered with a twist of the hip. She slammed her knuckles into her opponent’s temple, sending the redhead to the mat with a dismal thump. The urge to follow, to rain down blows until the woman’s face was nothing but mangled pulp, was quickly smothered.
Imogen bounced back, sucking in breath after breath as she waited for the ref’s call. It came a moment later. He grasped her wrist and raised her gloved hand high, showing her off for the victor.
“I won,” Imogen gushed when Russell was allowed back into the ring. “Jesus, I won!” She leaped into his arms, consequences be damned.
He groaned, but caught her easily, his thick fingers catching under her thighs. Camera flashes sparked like fireworks in the dense shadows of the arena, a thousand bursts of light to celebrate her victory.
“I was awesome,” Imogen laughed. “Wasn’t I awesome?”
“You were…good.” Russell barely even flinched when she rammed her fist into his sho
ulder.
Imogen hopped out of his arms, too restless to keep still. “There, see? I told you I’d make you proud.”
Euphoria still clung fast as Imogen made her way out of the ring, and soon out of the arena altogether. It bubbled under her skin like champagne through the post-fight routine of seeing her wounds tended to and her ego managed. Russell was especially skilled at mitigating the latter.
“We should celebrate,” she gushed. “Oh, or we could go dancing?”
Holding the car door open for her, Russell shook his head. “You need sleep.”
“Oh, come on!” Imogen slumped her shoulders, tempted to wheedle and dig her heels into the concrete sidewalk. “You’re killing me with this Zen bullshit. We had a good night…” A knockout in the second round—the first of her career—and Imogen felt way too keyed up for sleep.
It was to no avail. Infinitely patient, Russell waited until she obediently ducked into the passenger seat, then closed the door behind her with a click. He didn’t react when Imogen propped her feet against the dash in silent protest. He knew her too well.
She groaned when they pulled up in front of her apartment building. It wasn’t exactly home sweet home, and Imogen would’ve defied anyone to be excited to return to a smashed front door and crumbling walls festooned in garish graffiti.
“Up you go,” Russ said, as the car engine idled with a thick plume of grayish smoke from the exhaust.
Imogen fluttered her lashes at him. “Come with? I have coffee. I’ll make coffee and we can share a cupcake or something and then you can go.” She didn’t know what Russell did in the evenings, but couldn’t imagine it being very interesting. Maybe he went home to meditate. Maybe he sat very still, contemplating new ways to make her life miserable. “Please?” Imogen begged, pressing her palms together in mock prayer.
It was a cheap ploy, but it worked. Russell slid the key out of the ignition. “Five minutes,” he said, wagging a finger.
