by L. J. Wilson
“You’re still alive.”
Brother Creek stood next to him.
“Very observant.”
“I’d wondered. The Reverend hasn’t spoken your name since you left. It’s like you were never here.”
“Guess it worked out for you.”
“I can’t deny that.” Nolan Creek nudged him along. Sebastian hesitated. In front of him was a cheesy casserole with a delicate crust, a tasty dish he recognized.
“Please. Go on,” Brother Creek said. “Help yourself to her food. But understand nothing has changed. That’s all of her you’ll get.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, keeping emotion in check. He took a large scoop and moved down the line.
“Good. See there.” He leaned close to Sebastian. “Lust never lasts.”
He turned sharply toward Brother Creek. “Are we talking about you or me?” Sebastian headed toward an empty table. Brother Creek sat down across from him and Sebastian understood why. Better to befriend a man who knew your deepest secret, especially since all Evie Neal matters had been settled. Sebastian kept his eyes on his plate and his mind on the food. But he couldn’t keep his gaze there forever, eventually scanning the room’s perimeter.
“I must say. I’m amazed you made it through unscathed. I assume whatever work you handled for the Reverend wasn’t an easy task.”
“You honestly have no clue,” he said, teeth ripping into a biscuit. “Some close calls, but once I found my rhythm, made the right connections… Until yesterday, it all went your Reverend’s way.”
“He’s a man of good deeds, even if his servant must be a heathen.” Nolan Creek poked his glasses tight to his face, squinting at the open collar of Sebastian’s shirt.
Sebastian touched a newer scar. “Knife fight outside La Carta. An inch farther and you would have gotten your complete miracle. But they sent me to do the dirty work, right? I was probably lucky to have come ashore with my balls intact.”
Brother Creek widened his gaze.
“I’ll rephrase. I’m lucky not to have been taken hostage by rebel forces or have my head blown off. More palatable?”
Nolan Creek cleared his throat and reverted to his plate.
It gave Sebastian a moment to steal an informational peek. Evie stood in a corner, her profile to him, still holding the baby. Every so often he swore her glance darted in his direction. Better sense insisted otherwise.
Sebastian needed to kick memories to the curb. The ones he’d so foolishly expanded upon. He hadn’t forgotten a thing, silky, honey-colored hair that looked as if the sun’s rays wove through it. The contrast of her velvety brown eyes—they lit with a curiosity that made him forever wonder what was on her mind. Sebastian forced food down his throat and shifted in his seat, physically stirred by more intimate images. How powerful it had been to kiss Evie, the softness of her mouth on his. Her arms gripped steadily around his body as her lips grazed, more timidly, along the beaten, scarred skin of his chest. The fantasy-like, hypnotic surprise as she’d taken him in her mouth. How seconds later—if the man seated across from him hadn’t interrupted—Sebastian would have made love to her. He closed his eyes. If things had happened that way, would it have been enough? Would Evie have left Ezra at the altar? In the deepest recesses of his mind, no matter how the facts told a different story, Sebastian believed it to be the truth.
He dragged in a breath. He needed to get his head around said facts—crying baby included. He looked at Evie again. No doubt she’d immersed herself in motherhood, relieved that she hadn’t given into him or the thought of a life so incredibly different from the one she lived. He stabbed at a piece of meat, but irony put a sour taste in his mouth. Sebastian had navigated through life-threatening situations. Yet he was unable to control something as simple as a glance, which kept drifting toward her. But as Evie handed the infant—who continued to cry—to another woman, his glance turned into a stare. “The baby,” he said.
Brother Creek glanced over his shoulder. “Ah, the Blyth child. Sad little fellow. Hasn’t stopped squalling since the moment Hannah Blyth gave birth.” He dipped his biscuit in gravy, settling his eyes on Sebastian. “No. Much as I’d like to tell you otherwise, the child isn’t Evie’s... nor Ezra’s.”
“But they’ve been married…”
“Long enough to produce two children—and they should have. So comes the punishment, Mission. Can’t you see it?”
Sebastian leaned in, waiting to be educated.
“Her heinous sinful actions. The Lord has seen to it that she’s being rightfully punished, left barren.” Nolan Creek looked piously at Sebastian. “Though I don’t see how it’s fair to young Ezra.”
Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “And you think that’s why they don’t have children, because of what Evie and I…”
“Could it be any clearer?” Nolan Creek’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And you wonder why I seek the protection of this community. Think what would happen to me if…”
Shaking his head, Sebastian’s back hit the chair. The power of twisted conviction—it was mindboggling.
He spent the next hour sitting at a rear table, listening. Eventually he’d tipped his chair to the wall, tucking his corduroy jacket around him. He propped his feet on the chair in front of him. Rain pounded outside, encouraging him to stay put. The group seemed to have forgotten his presence, regaling stories about Algar, the village they fled outside Colombia. He listened to their version of the events. Apparently the men were deep into their missionary work—converting the infidels—when they had to flee because of hurricane weather rising from the west. Sebastian stifled a snicker, running a hand around the back of his neck—sort of amazed it was still attached to his head.
It had been more like an uprising of terror from the west. A faction of guerilla forces with a thirst for murder had broken free from a government prison camp. They’d slaughtered two villages in the path of Algar where the Fathers of Right prayed and provided a solid cover story for the Reverend. Thanks to Sebastian’s warning, they’d escaped with no minutes to spare. It was maddening. Not a single man realized their work was subterfuge. Not one suspected Sebastian and the small band he’d hired were there to handle the treacherous exchange of weapons for cash.
Finally, he had enough. Sebastian slipped out a side door. If his plans worked out, in a matter of weeks, this would be a bad memory. The rain had nearly stopped, reduced to an eerie mist. Walking through a fog that slowed him, he crossed the narrow alleyway between the meeting hall and the next building. As he stepped blindly forward “Bash” pierced through the elements—the weather and his mood. He turned into what felt like some kind of crazy fucked up dream. Evie emerged from the mist. “I… Well, at least I thought you’d say hello before leaving.”
She kept coming. When she stood inches away Sebastian reminded himself how they were really worlds apart. “Hey,” he said dully. Turning, he flipped up the collar of his jacket and forced footsteps toward the cabin.
“Wait.”
Just keep moving… Do not make this mistake…
“Please…”
He slung his neck back. Fucked if I do… Fucked if I… Like his glance, Sebastian’s will was unable to deny her. He pivoted. “What?”
“It’s…” Her fingertips stretched toward him as if she was seeing a ghost. Well, damn, who knew what they’d try to spook you with around here. A balled fist retreated to her chest. “It’s good to know you’re all right. That you’re safe.”
“Alive, you got it. Is that all?” Sebastian shook his head, swearing her gaze had gone glassy. “If you’re worried that I’m going to say anything about… Don’t. I’m no more threat to you than I am Brother Creek. I’m not going to tell anyone—”
“Tell…? No,” she said. “I never thought for a second you’d—”
“Evie. What is it you want?”
“You’re so angry.”
Sebastian stuffed his hands harder into his jacket pockets and
swung the coat open wide. “What can I say? You leave a lasting impression.” For someone who’d taken such a chance, coming out there to find him, she seemed to have seriously little to say. It was unlike Evie Neal. “I don’t get it. What? Do you really want to have a ‘Hi, how are you’ conversation?”
“I’ve worried… wondered,” she said, swapping words. “That’s all.”
“Before or after your wedding?” There was no point in talking. “You don’t get to do this, Evie.” Sebastian stepped toward her and Evie moved back. “You don’t get to ambush me on the edge of your world because you can get away with it while they all sit inside.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then why didn’t you speak to me in there? I’ve been sitting in the same room with you for the past two hours. Or maybe you only saw me as I left.”
“Of course I saw you!”
In her voice, he heard wild frustration.
“Do you think it was easy being in there, Bash?”
“I don’t know what to think, Mrs. Kane. In the regular world you’d be a fucking cock tease. Here… ” Her expression startled and he immediately felt guilt. Damn her… “Exactly. You can’t handle the language, never mind the fact. Evie, just go back inside where you belong.”
“You’re right. I can only behave as I’ve been taught. Except, it seems, when you’re around.”
“Honesty and keeping your word, that’s what you’re all about. It’s all you know. I’m not sure why you’d want me to tell you that’s a bad thing. I can’t imagine what you want from me.”
“I told you, I wanted to see if you were…” They both knew it her sad attempt at a lie. “Fine. You’re right. I seem bound to the truth.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Let me share mine. To start, the jolt of having you back in Good Hope is still sinking in. I never thought I’d lay eyes on you again. I spend every day living with that truth, so you’ll forgive me if it turned out to be a startling error.” She blinked fast, swiping at a tear. “Do…” Evie’s words jammed as if the truth was having trouble finding its way out. “Do you think I got out of bed this morning expecting to see you? Isn’t it enough that I get into it every night thinking of you?”
“You…”
Evie clamped her hand over her mouth, the other following as if needing to double down on her admission. Her glassy gaze turned to steady tears. Her hands dropped. Sebastian didn’t think, he just moved. He kissed her. It was wickedly powerful, her body collapsing into his embrace. An achy mewl rose from her throat as one kiss connected to another. But he could feel her knotted fists kneading hard on his shoulders. It seemed to be the only part objecting. It was a furious struggle of passion and penance as Evie pushed away from him.
“I didn’t…” She shook her head. “I swear I didn’t come out here for that either.”
“Like hell you didn’t.”
Evie brushed a hand across her mouth, lowering a shame-filled gaze. If Sebastian was angry before, he was furious now—with her, with himself. “I shouldn’t have come back here. You walked away from us once, Evie. That’s enough for me. Go home.” He motioned toward the meeting hall. “Go back to your people. Do what’s right in your mind.”
“And that’s exactly what I did, Bash. You’ve no idea.”
“Not true. I’ve got the Evie Neal scars to prove it. Seriously, go,” he said, his eye roving her like they’d met in some skanky bar south of Philly. He knew she felt it, crossing her arms over her chest, clinging to her own shoulders. “Go. Before I turn into your worst fear, before I forget who you are, where we are. Before I just take what I want.” Her breath caught visibly on the last warning. He needed to finish it. “Go wait for the husband you don’t love. It’s what you chose.”
At three a.m., Sebastian stared at the cabin’s beamed ceiling. It was a change, even if it didn’t seem to move time. He’d spent hours staring into the embers of a hot fire. He’d tried to sleep. It was futile. Every time he closed his eyes Evie was there—beautiful and bound to a life she was destined to lead.
He rolled over and forced his mind on more hopeful things, like extricating himself from the Reverend’s grip. He’d followed orders and repaid a chunk of the Godfathers of the Night debt, but Sebastian had also begun to formulate a plan B—an exit strategy. He’d be damned if the Reverend and Godfathers would be the only ones to benefit from his dubious actions. Over time, he’d put his knowledge of plotting and thievery to work by inflating the price tag of the weapons he delivered, often collecting double the profit.
It wasn’t without great risk—the guerilla marks he swindled could have killed him at any moment. But knowing he’d lost Evie, having to travel on the same ship as her husband, gave recklessness new meaning—at least when it came to Sebastian’s own life. He pocketed a little of the money, like he’d done with Bim’s Sudanese cause, but mostly he put the profit in the hands of separatists that wanted peace. That part had taken a while, forming trustworthy alliances, defining the good and evil that surrounded him in South America. Until six months ago, it had gone according to plan. Even if there hadn’t been an obvious way out, at least Sebastian wasn’t entirely aiding the enemy. Then, on a dark fall night, during a delivery of weapons to a northern faction, Sebastian was captured. Not by guerrilla forces, but by U.S. government officials. They’d been working undercover, sent to intervene in hopes of ending the South American conflict. Initially, Sebastian thought that was it. Best case scenario, he’d go home by way of an American military prison.
But as he’d sat handcuffed to a chair—day two of a brutal interrogation—he realized it wasn’t going to go that way. His American captors wanted information. Then they’d just want him dead. Who would know? Who would question it? He’d be another nameless casualty in the anarchy of this South American mess. His own father would assume he’d finally managed to get himself killed—by guerilla forces, by a Godfather hitman, by fucking the wife of the wrong villager.
Sebastian had sat slumped in the chair, pulling air past badly bruised ribs. In that moment, he’d decided he was done. He was ready to give into the idea of this being a fucking fitting end to Sebastian Christos. Beaten into the hazy fog that surely preceded death, Sebastian had choked down a bloody wad of spit—maybe a tooth. A handgun had just been introduced to the conversation, placed on the table. It sat between Sebastian and his fate. Then the government agents had left him to think about it. Sebastian had been trying to hang on to a silent, dignified end.
A new agent came into the room. Through bleary swollen eyes Sebastian gazed up at a strapping frame and serious expression. In the moment, he’d been curious: How bad would a fresh punch feel? The agent’s swagger confirmed that he owned the same hard-ass attitude as his colleagues. But as they made eye contact, Sebastian realized his anger wasn’t directed at him. SAM14—the agent’s operative name— was furious with Sebastian’s captors, men who were his subordinates. Even so, Sebastian had been wary of an eleventh hour showing of good cops/bad cops. He could guess the end to that movie.
Hours into a conversation with SAM14, Sebastian had begun to change his mind. It took him a while to gain any trust, make the connection in his mind. Where had he witnessed this same viable breadth of honesty? Where had he learned that trust was a real character trait? Through his pain, sipping the water then whiskey SAM14 had provided, Sebastian knew where he’d learned it: Evie Neal. He’d let his guard down an inch at a time. And as imminent doom waned, an idea had occurred to Sebastian. He’d ended up making a counter offer to SAM14 and eventually striking a deal.
Anarchy had hold of South America—a frenzy of drugs and weapons and money and killing. The South American setting was more lawless, but the action wasn’t so different from the Greek mafia back in the States. What about organized crime? Did his own government have any interest in what Sebastian knew about that? It turned out they did. Once SAM14—which stood for Surface to Air Missile (the 14 being how many SAM14 had recovered from rebel forces)—was convinced
Sebastian’s information wasn’t bullshit, they’d hammered out terms. An alliance was formed. It had worked out better than Sebastian might have hoped. Six months later, he remembered thinking, “Hell, I’m alive…I’m not going to jail.” In time, SAM14 became Sam. To this day, Sebastian didn’t know his real name, but he’d come to trust the man, even calling him a friend.
The two worked in covert tandem. Sebastian continued to go about his business, but with one adjustment. After completing the arms deals and based on Sebastian’s intel, American forces swooped in, confiscating the rebel warriors and weapons. It gave them jurisdiction as the weapons were being supplied by an American-based outlet—namely Sebastian and the Godfathers of the Night. It was Sebastian’s hope that eventually the Greek mafia’s power would be neutralized and his freedom ultimately earned.
The single piece of information that Sebastian had kept to himself was Reverend Kane’s role and the Fathers of the Right. Twisted as it was, he wouldn’t involve men who had no idea of their true mission. Ignorance would not be an excuse in the eyes of the law. But Sebastian couldn’t bring himself to implicate Good Hope, imagining the community in ruins, turning into the lead story on the six o’clock news. As much as the exposure might push Evie into his arms, Sebastian couldn’t destroy her life that way. He didn’t want her by default.
Lying in the bed, in the cabin, Sebastian slammed his sleepless body into the mattress again. Even in the midst of a covert mission—one that couldn’t be more distant from Evie Neal—she managed to be at the center. Rain had begun to fall again and a familiar ping rose off the tin overhang on the cabin door. He sat up. Pinging sounded like tapping. Definitely knocking. He rose from the bed, but Sebastian refused to allow hope to cross the cabin floor with him. He opened the door, aware that hope had come along regardless. He knew this because his heart started beating the second he saw Evie’s rain-soaked face.
