by Max Henry
Long fingers rest lightly on my arm just above the wound. My flesh tingles at the contact. “I’m staying with somebody not far from here if you’d like me to clean it properly. I’d just . . . I’d have to sneak you around the back.”
I frown and check her hand for a wedding ring. Nope.
“It’s complicated,” she explains. “The person I’m staying with, they . . . well, he’d get annoyed if I brought anyone back, let alone somebody like you.”
Right. I glance down at my leather, denim, steel-toed riding boots, and general rough appearance. She has a point. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll sort it out when we get home.”
Her hand drops away, and I fight the urge to reach out and take it in mine. “Of course you will.” Her gaze is scathing as it runs the length of me. “I don’t know why I offered. It's not like I'm your type anyway.”
"I don't really have a 'type.'" I ran after her, for fuck’s sake. How much more obvious can I make it that I'm interested? “You shouldn’t make assumptions about people like that, anyway.”
“I didn't think it was an assumption, more an observation."
“Well you got it wrong.”
She stares at me a moment, jaw set hard and clearly lost for words. I consider walking away and leaving this train wreck of a conversation behind when she ducks her head, shaking it. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a rough morning.”
“You and me both, babe.”
Her face lifts, and she matches my smile with her own. “Probably you more than me, right?”
I shrug. “Probably.”
She chuckles quietly, the soft sound dying off to an awkward silence. We hold each other’s gaze for a beat; the rich flecks in her brown eyes appear to shine in the sunlight. With a short, humorless laugh, she turns away to collect her bags. I panic. She can’t leave yet. Not when I’ve put this much damn effort into approaching a woman, for a change.
“You seein’ anyone?” I spit the words out before they have time to stick in my throat.
“Right now? Only you.” The woman winks, rendering me useless. “I’m here for a little while. Perhaps we’ll be lucky enough to meet again when you’re not hurt and needing to go home?”
If only. “I’m not from around these parts.” Her face blanks, and I madly file through my thoughts to find something that’ll make her feel better. “But then again, neither are you, right?” She did say she was staying with someone.
She shakes her head, a section of hair falling into her face with the movement. “Not here specifically, but where I live is a short drive south, just outside the city limit.” Her long fingers sweep the lock behind her ear as her gaze drops to the pavement.
South. And I’m north—way north. We’ve got fuck all chance of meeting again; I have no idea when I’ll next have reason to stop in Kansas City. Life always has a way of fucking with me.
The tired look slides from her face, and her freshly painted lips curl up into a well-practiced smile as she sucks in a breath and squares her shoulders. She’s clearly a pro at hiding her real feelings, a top-level illusionist. “Until we meet again . . .”
“King.”
She tips her head to the side and narrows her eyes, acknowledging my road name. “It was nice to meet you today, King.” She holds out her hand for me to shake. “Elena.”
“Elena,” I echo, and lift her fingers to my lips instead. Her eyes spark as I lay a gentle kiss on her knuckles, fire racing through me as I do, and let go. The simple reaction is enough to justify the incessant drumming of my heart.
She places a heel behind her, taking cautious steps backward and stoops to collect her bags. “Your club.” She gestures to my prospect patch with her chin. “What’s their name?”
I glance down at the side panel of my cut as I answer; the club name is small and hard to read on the stitched bar. All the more reason I can’t wait to prove I’m worthy of the center patch. “Fallen Aces.”
“I haven’t heard of them before.” She frowns. “Where are you based?”
I turn part-way around, thumbing over my shoulder at the bottom rocker without taking my eyes off her. “Lincoln.”
“Lincoln.” Her gaze falls to the large lettering. “I’ll be sure to look you up if I’m ever your way.” She smiles, but the regret is clear in her eyes.
She knows as well as I do that our chances of crossing paths again is next to none.
Still, there’s a slim chance.
And I’m fucking holding on to it with both hands.
TWO
Elena
He’s the most rugged and yet gorgeous thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. The minute I walked in the corner store and saw him, I knew I’d do something bad. And I have . . . really bad.
Reaching into my purse, I feel out the bottom with my fingers until I find what I’m looking for. King’s gone from sight; the roar of the motorcycles as they start is deafening even where I stand. My chest vibrates with each twist of the throttle, the rumble of the engines waning as they leave.
I glance around and then down at my hand as I slide the simple engagement ring back on. I shouldn’t have taken it off, but a piece of me wanted to know if I was capable of drawing the attention of a man like him.
So brutal. So rough.
A shock of dirty blond hair fell over his right eye, his beard covering his chin, yet showcasing full lips. Tattoos adorned every inch of his exposed flesh, and heavy silver rings circled several of his fingers. His clothes were dirty and torn in places, but he wore them like a second skin. The grease marks, the tears in the denim, even the blood on his sleeve—it all added to his character.
But his eyes—they were what captured me first. Bright green and piercing; an unusual color. His gaze was hard, but almost questioning. As though he wasn’t sure of who he was. Those eyes had followed me throughout the store, making me feel naked under his scrutiny.
I want to be naked under him.
What am I saying? I’m promised to somebody else. The single diamond stares back at me accusingly as I wiggle it in the sunlight. So what if my marriage is falling apart before I’ve signed the papers? It’s the principle of it.
I snatch up my shopping and head toward Papa’s house. I’ve been given a reprieve to care for him since he’s had another relapse, and instead of making him lunch like I’m supposed to be, I’m flirting with men I have no right toying with.
But how could I not try? There was something about him that I still feel a need to explore. There was something past the obvious physical attraction.
He saw me.
Not the angry me that’s permanently on defense, but the real me.
He has no idea who I am—who my fiancé is.
My heart sinks the further I walk toward the house. My life is mapped for me now. I gave away my right to choose who owned my heart when I gave in to the demands of a man who could make all my problems disappear with a single wave of his bank card.
A moment of weakness, and of desperation.
I fell for a man who looked like a silver fox but was the big bad wolf.
Looping both bags over my right arm, I flick the catch on the mailbox when I arrive at the gate, and check inside. Nothing. There hasn’t been anything other than an electricity bill in all the times I’ve looked after Papa. It’s a perfect example of his life: lonely, and void.
The front door opens easily, and I kick it shut again with my foot as I pass through, shifting the bags to my hands.
“I’m back, Papa.” The low hum of the talkback radio show drifts through from the small kitchen at the back of the house.
“About time. I’m starving.” The rattle in his chest is audible in his words.
I ignore him and leave him to play cards at the dining table in his dressing gown. He frightened me as a child; Papa used to be a large man, overbearing and intimidating. But now when I look at him all I see is a pathetic shell of a person who never achieved a single thing he set out to do. He’s an embarrassment, to himself, and for me. When I was a child, I’d t
ell people my father was dead. It seemed so much simpler than explaining the truth.
Sometimes I wish he had been.
To be honest, I still do. I wish he’d give in to his cancer and leave this world already. But at the same time I need him to stay; he’s my excuse to get away. He’s my break back into something mundane and normal. Does that make me a bad daughter? Definitely. But when he’s never been useful for anything over the years except heartache and disappointment, the least he can give me before he dies is a reprieve from what’s to come.
“What do you have for us?” he asks, eyeing a card in his hand over the bridge of his nose.
“Apples, some cheese, and meat for a sandwich. Oh, and fresh bread.”
His top lip curls as I pull the items I’ve just named out of the canvas bag and lay them on the counter. He’s never been one for fruit, but as long as I’m preparing the meals, he gets fed how I like. He’s hardly going to be pleasant to be around if I let him survive on his preferred diet of beer and nuts.
Although it would help him pass a little quicker.
I don’t love Papa. I’ve never been able to. Dinner when he still lived with us was spent crammed at our small two-seater table while we watched news reports of the men my father looked up to on the small TV that was shared with our neighbors—men like Pablo Escobar. We’d have the TV one week so Papa could dream of what the spoils of a drug trade that size would buy him, and our neighbors would have the TV the next so they could watch Wheel of Fortune and practice their English.
It was life in simpler times. Before I realized my father had tried to barter Mama in place of a lost shipment, and that was why she’d kicked him out. He packed his bags, gave Mama a kiss on the cheek, and walked out to the waiting taxi.
Mama later said he went so willingly because he believed he could do better without us. He stepped through our front door, a smile on his face, and flew over here to America to seek his fortune and fame as the next big-time drug smuggler. Papa wanted to follow in his father-in-law’s footsteps and then continue the path onto something bigger and brighter. But he messed it all up when he became addicted to the very thing he was trying to sell. And now here he is, fluid in the bottom of his lungs, dying of terminal cancer.
He never looked at me as he left that day, so unconcerned with how I felt watching him go that he didn’t give thought to say a single thing to his only child. So when he sent a message to say he’d planned to fly me to America it came as a surprise. The message was plain, saying he wanted to give me better options for college. I arrived on a cloudy day three and a half years ago to find the old lady from next door waiting to pick me up at the airport, and a father who had given up trying to shower himself.
I haven’t set foot on a campus yet.
My dreams of higher education are about as lively as the houseplants Papa let die and crumble into piles of brown leaves on the floor. I could have returned to Mama, but with what? I came to America on my estranged father’s promise of a better future and without a single dollar in my pocket. Plane tickets cost money—cash I don’t have. I cried a lot those first months, never having felt such a sense of entrapment and hopelessness, even when Mama and I had to give up our family home after Papa left and move to the smaller, run down part of town. Even then I could find the silver lining in setting up a new home in a one-bedroom hovel with Mama. But now, my clouds are all dark and heavy with rain.
Moving Papa’s cushions, I help him change seats so that he can eat his lunch without the need to pack away his cards. His breathing is a harsh rasp as he tries to suck life into his ailing body. His face displays how tired he really is.
I don’t get any thanks as he starts with the bread—I never do.
Two months after I arrived, I walked the streets of town every day until my feet throbbed and the blisters wept where they’d burst. I asked at every store and business to see if they were hiring, and if they’d pay cash. Nobody wanted to risk the trouble my visa would cause if I were discovered working illegally. What Papa got from his insurance and benefits was barely enough to feed the two of us, let alone keep the power on. There was only so many times I could sit at the table and share a can of soup with him, just to hear my stomach growl in hunger afterward.
I came home and told him what I’d done. He laughed at my sore feet. Needless to say I learnt how to be pretty damn savvy with what little money we had. Never once has he thanked me or shown any appreciation for the fact I’ve kept him fed, warm, and housed. Never once.
“I need my toenails trimmed,” he says around a mouthful of bread. “You can do it after you shower me.”
Hands braced on the lip of the counter, I stare out the kitchen window at the overgrown grass and weed-filled garden.
“Did you hear me? I said I need—”
“I heard you, Papa.”
The same day he laughed at my misfortune, I decided to set aside five dollars as saving each week with the full intention of leaving Papa and returning to Cuba. I managed to keep it up for six months before the bills got so behind that I was forced to use what I’d saved to keep the power on. The phone got cut off, which is how I discovered the payphone at the library. Because of Papa’s bad history they wouldn’t reconnect us—I had no other way to keep in touch with Mama. I may be only able to afford five minutes a week before my credit runs out, but those five minutes are my sanity—my time to recharge and reconnect with my reason to keep working and earn my way out of here.
“You need to clean the toilet as well,” he announces, spraying crumbs over the table. “I had to go while you were out and you know how my aim is these days.”
I cringe, turning away to fix my own lunch before I completely lose my appetite.
Living with Papa is hell, but a hell I’m becoming accustomed to. My savings struggles, and there may be barely a three figure sum in the account, but knowing that the balance is born from my hard work and determination gives me hope that with a little persistence I could achieve more. Maybe instead of returning to Mama, I could bring her here? The idea thrills and excites me, my imagination running wild conjuring up visions of Mama and I sitting in the afternoon sun with an iced tea.
“Carlos dropped by.” Papa smacks his lips together and grimaces at the cut apple.
I hesitate with the knife over the bread I was buttering whilst daydreaming. “What did he want?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Papa sasses. “Perhaps to see how his fiancé is doing?”
To check up on me more like.
One dark day, right after a storm, he arrived—the man I’m promised to marry. Carlos Redmond. I stood in shock at the front window, watching as he got out of his blacked-out vehicle and walked up the path with a bodyguard. I’d quickly dashed across the house with the stack of sheets I’d been folding, and jammed them in the cupboard, keen to make a good impression for our guest. I had no idea who he was, just that he was somebody who demanded respect.
The man stood proud.
The man oozed success.
And he spelt a way out of the gradual grind I’d found myself stuck in. Maybe he could hire me for better work? Maybe he had connections I could make use of? All I ask for is to earn more than minimum wage and make the worm on my bank statements climb instead of dive. Hardly unreasonable.
Carlos had smiled when I answered the door, and for the first time in months, I’d smiled too. I remember thinking he was handsome. His suit was a pale gray that accented his silvery salt-and-pepper hair perfectly, and he carried himself with a smooth finesse I’d never seen before in a man. His hand had lingered a little too long on mine after he introduced himself. And I liked it—I liked the attention.
Papa had moved from his seat at the table and, using the furniture as a guide, walked across to shake Carlos’s hand. That was how I knew just how important the man is. Papa never gets up for anybody. Not even the home health lady who comes every Thursday.
I’d started seeing Carlos soon after our introduction. He came by the house a we
ek later, and the look on my father’s face when Carlos explained he was there to take me out, and not visit Papa, chilled me. My father was proud.
Still, Carlos was a gift for a woman such as me, struggling to keep her head above water. He had wealth that he wasn’t afraid to shower me with, and for the price of my morality, I could use him to better my cause. Six months living the lie and dating Carlos, or six years struggling to save a penny living with Papa, if he even lasts that long? I know what I’d prefer.
“He said he wouldn’t visit,” I tell Papa, angrily swiping at the bread. The knife tears holes, enraging me further. “He should give me my space.”
“You’re promised to marry him, girl. You better learn to live without that ‘space’. You will keep that man happy, Elena. It’s your duty.”
“Is that so?” I slap the ruined bread onto a plate. The holes make it useless as a sandwich. I’ll just have to eat it as is. No way I’m wasting it at over two dollars a loaf.
My first dates with Carlos were spent mostly sharing dinners I could only dream of affording—meals a lot more extravagant than bread and butter. He promised me my heart’s desires, and like the stupid girl I am, I believed him. I’m not sure if it was lust, or awe, but either way I know I never once thought I loved him. I needed him, and he came at a time when I was most vulnerable. All the signs of his true character were there, right in front of me, but I chose to ignore them and believe the lie he’d presented to me. I chose to believe he loved me, even after such a short time.
Men like Carlos don’t get where they are through kindness and compassion, though, so why would he be any different with me? In all reality I’m simply another acquisition. I should have said no when he proposed, I should have run then and there. But when family is at stake, people tend to do extraordinary things they never would have normally considered.
Things like marrying a drug lord to secure enough money to care for their ageing mother.
THREE
King
My arm went numb somewhere around Hanover. To say the rest of the ride was a task would be putting it lightly. I back my bike in to the pre-allocated space and cut the engine. Callum dismounts and walks over as I prod the flesh around my wound, trying to work out where the feeling starts and stops.
