“Girl, that ain’t nothing but an outfit change,” Curt Jr. assures me. “I got a Ruby Dee upstairs ain’t nobody going to question.”
“Okay, sweetie,” I say, kissing him on both cheeks. “I think it’s time for both you and Mom to get back to your tours, and for me to start pretending the last two months never happened.”
“That’s gonna be a stretch even for you, Nitra,” Dad says.
But Mom pulls me into her arms and says, “Text us as soon as you get to Sola’s house.”
“I will,” I promise.
And I do, sending out a group text before I stop in at the main house to say hello to Brian.
Brian is Sola’s mentor and second father. Literally the man who gave her away at her wedding to Ivan Rustanov. In fact, he’s leaving early the next morning to attend the opening night performance of her Moscow Opera directorial debut, but he still stayed up late to make sure I got into Sola’s old guest house okay.
“Not at all, my dear girl,” Brian insists when I try to thank him for his consideration. “I don’t sleep much these days anyway. Consequence of getting old and sober.”
We have a cup of organic loose leaf tea and talk about the weather in L.A. as opposed to West Virginia. My new job at the Children’s Hospital of Seattle. The relatively light traffic on the 5 this time of night.
Everything except what’s most weighing on our minds. My huge scandal, and the recent death of Brian’s husband.
The closest we come to it is when he walks me to the back door and clasps my hand between both of his. “You’ll be doing good work up there in Seattle, young Anitra. Even though you’ve abandoned the arts, I want you to know both Sola and I remain proud of you.”
His words mean a lot to me. But the truth is, as I sink into bed in Sola’s old bedroom, I feel closer to turning fifty in July than twenty-six. I’m weary in a way that probably has nothing to do with the life I’m carrying inside me. I think about the one time I pushed the man I originally knew as John Doe to get help, and wonder how long I can go before I’ll have to consider taking my own advice.
Then I welcome the black of sleep, dropping a curtain down on both the reality show and real life.
I fall asleep in Sola’s bed…
...but I don’t wake up there.
Instead I come awake with a gasp in the harsh early morning sun. The wind whipping through my weave, my hands tied in front of me. There are wooden planks instead of Sola’s carpet all around me, and beyond that, lots and lots of stone blue water as far as my eyes can see.
There’s also a metal banister in my direct sightline. It’s the only thing standing between me and the grayish blue water. That’s when I realize I’m on the deck of a large but ancient tugboat, sitting on a bench originally meant to seat fisherman. But why do my feet feel so heavy…?
My eyes widen with horror when I look down. My legs are also tied, nylon rope binding them to what looks like some kind of small, rusty engine…
A motorcycle engine, I realize with a start.
“She’s awake,” a gruff voice says. And then comes the sound of booted feet approaching.
I get most of my answers then with one tilt of my head upwards. A bunch of bikers in leather vests and thick sweatshirts are now standing in front of me.
There has to be at least eight men surrounding me, all dressed in leather, all with different degrees of extreme hate etched across their faces.
Mason’s there. As well as his father. But the only one of these men I really care about is standing in the middle of their ranks. And that’s when my heart totally flatlines.
Because I don’t recognize this man.
This man has the same blue eyes as the John Doe I met two months ago, but now he’s clean-cut with the same haircut as the man in the video I watched that night in Colin’s penthouse suite. He’s also wearing a leather jacket with a patch that declares him the President of the Southern Freedom Knights.
Woods is gone. I can see that now. Killed and buried under his true identity. And Dixon Fairgood—the real Dixon Fairgood—has taken his place. He stands like a boss among these vile men, glaring at me with the same glittering hatred in his eyes.
“Your memory’s come back,” I whisper.
He looks me up and down, lets a full disgusted second pass by before answering, “That it has, race traitor. That it has.”
Chapter Thirty
He remembers.
I’m almost more horrified for him than myself, even though I’m the one tied up. Because now he remembers everything. And now he hates me just as much as he would have if he’d met me before his accident.
No worse, because now he also hates what we did together. And the baby we made.
It feels like I spend hours inside Dixon’s hateful blue stare. But in actuality, it’s only seconds. Seconds of him glaring at me in the exact same deadly way he glared at those West Virginia bikers. Associates of his, I can now see clearly, with the 20/20 hindsight of true knowledge. That must have been how he just “knew” they were there about his backpack.
Back then, those guys were the enemy and I was the woman he was trying to protect. But now…
Now his uncle asks, “You ready to wipe this impurity and her mulatto abomination from the Earth?”
And I’m so busy looking for any trace whatsoever of Woods inside Dixon Fairgood, that it doesn’t even occur to me to process or protest what his uncle just said.
But then Dixon issues a stony, “Mason.”
And like a leather clad automaton on voice control, his cousin moves toward me.
“No!” I scream. Finally understanding, but still not quite able to believe Dixon is going to kill me along with our unborn baby because of his hateful views. “No!!!”
But then it’s too late. Mason lifts me from the bench like I weigh no more than my one word of protest. Then I’m sailing through the air. Into a place where no sound or safety exists, right before I crash into the water.
I struggle against my fate, even as I realize I’m going to die.
I keep my eyes open against the sting of the cold salt water, fighting my inevitable death with everything I have, even though I know it’s hopeless.
I fight and fight. Until the ropes around my hands suddenly give way, the knot coming undone as easily as a shoe lace.
My arms are free!
Now I really start struggling, pushing my arms against the water, trying to get up to the sweet, sweet air. But the engine tied around my legs is heavy, and despite my adrenaline and desperation, my arms are starting to weaken. I’m simply not strong enough to—
My desperate thoughts are interrupted by a cannonball hitting the water.
No, not a cannonball, but…
My eyes widen. Confusion temporarily shorting out my panic as I see a man whip around, searching…until he sees me and makes a beeline.
I haven’t made much progress, but I’m close enough to the light above the water’s surface to realize that it’s Mason. And he’s got a huge knife in his hand.
What the…? Oh no!
He reaches out to me, and I fight him. But I’m no match. He easily grabs me around the waist, pulling me in close with one arm. And my soul cries out, because I know he’s going to put that knife through my stomach, but then…
I’m suddenly lighter, and just like that, we’re rising. Getting closer and closer to the surface on the power of Mason’s kicks.
And things only get stranger after we break the surface. I’m busy trying to cough up water and breathe and tread at the same time. But he seems intent on some kind of mission. He only gives me a few moments to finish coughing before pulling me backwards into a rescue hold. He paddles us back toward the old tugboat and doesn’t stop until we reach the place where a short metal ladder hangs down from the side.
I grab ahold of the structure gratefully, still coughing up water. But the oxygen must have brought back my rational brain, because I pause halfway up, not sure what to do.
On the o
ne hand, I don’t want to take my chances back in the ocean, especially with no land whatsoever in sight. On the other hand, the last time I checked, the only thing on this tugboat was a group of bikers who wanted me dead. Including the father of my baby.
“Go!” Mason shouts behind me, ending my indecision. “Get back on the fucking boat!”
I climb, liking my odds on the boat way better than down in the water, especially now that my hands are untied and my feet are weight free.
And just as I’m about to crest the top of the ladder, a familiar hand reaches out. One that’s touched every single part of my body.
I take it, more out of surprise than anything.
And Dixon hauls me back onto the boat, gathering me into his arms in a way that feels both foreign and familiar. Yes, I remember the hug, but the leather jacket he’s wearing is cold and unforgiving against my cheek.
He takes the jacket off and tries to wrap it around me. But I shake my head. Even as cold as I am, I do not want that thing anywhere near my body.
“Mason, get her a blanket,” he calls out. And a moment later, I’m wrapped up in a blanket even warmer than Dixon’s arms.
He takes my face in both his hands, “You okay?” he demands. “Are you okay?”
“Wh-what did you drug me with to get me out here?”
He gives me the name of the same anesthesia I’d seen used to put pregnant women under when they need gallbladder surgery.
“How much?”
Again he answers with a dosage number I can live with. “Okay,” I say, releasing a shaky breath. “I was only down there for a few minutes. At this early stage I’m most likely fine, like I just took a swim. But I’ll schedule an ultrasound to make sure on Monday.”
“Thank God.” He hugs me again. “It was the only way to get you clear while I took care of them. Or else I never wouldn’t have chanced it.”
The only way? Now that my initial diagnosis is done, my trembling mind struggles to process his words. What reason could he possibly have for kidnapping me? Having me tossed in the ocean? Taking such a chance with two lives, one of which is still extremely fragile?
As if hearing my questions spoken out loud, he tells me, “They were going to come after you. I had to play along. Get them out here. Then get you clear, so I could make sure they never threatened you or the baby again.”
I pull out of his embrace, because I still don’t understand, much less comprehend his words. Until suddenly I can, because that’s when I see what I couldn’t when his arms were around me…
All the dead bodies now strewn across the tugboat’s floor.
“Don’t look,” he implores me.
But how can I not? Every single biker from before, every single biker other than Mason, is now dead on the boat’s deck.
Chapter Thirty-One
It was the only way.
We drive back to Sola’s place in the same white conversion van I was apparently driven away in. Like the boat, the van is also old. A loaner from a local club.
California has white supremacist gangs? I almost ask, before realizing I’ve been coddled for far too long. Outside my rarefied world, there’s real life hate, not staged hate. As it is, I’m finding it hard to feel anything but neutral about the deaths of what Dixon referred to as “his board” when he came to get me out of the tugboat’s inner cabinet.
By the time Mason and Dixon are done disposing and cleaning-up after the eight dead bodies, I’m dressed in dry clothes, warm, and totally okay with Dixon’s logic. He’s right. As crazed as his gang was, there would have been nothing Dixon could have said to them to get them to leave me alone and let me have their president’s mixed-race baby. This wasn’t the only way, but yes, it was probably the best way to eliminate the threat as quickly, quietly, and efficiently as possible.
Which is how I find myself hesitating when we pull into the driveway and it’s time to get out of the van.
When he comes around to the passenger side after fetching my suitcase—you know, the one he and his gang stole from the guest house when they drugged and kidnapped me in the middle of the night—I realize what I should do is take it and run, never looking back.
But instead, I find myself pulling Ivan’s business card out of the Virkin PETA gifted me with a few years ago. “Here,” I tell him.
He lets go of my suitcase handle and takes the card from me. “Ivan Rustanov. Who’s this?”
“My best friend’s husband. He’s part of a powerful Russian family. If anyone can help you with fallout control, it’s him.”
His eyes flick from the card back up to me. “You still worrying about me?”
I put a lot of effort into not letting him trap me in his gaze again. We’re no longer those strangers who met in West Virginia. “I don’t want you hurt or dead, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“No, Doc, that ain’t what I’m asking.”
He looks at me and I can’t help but look back at him while tension that should no longer be there crackles between us.
But…
“You really remember?” I ask him, voice so faint, I wonder if it won’t be drowned out by the birds chirping over head.
He looks down, then seems to decide to meet my eyes. “Yeah. Not at first. They took me back to Tennessee. Back to our family farm. Couple of days in, I was drinking a Shiner Bock and cleaning my bike and it all just came back to me. The deal with the New Rebels, the accident, everything before it.”
“Spontaneous recovery,” I say, unable to stop myself from labeling what happened to him. Back when I’d been trying to help the John Doe in the hospital, I’d read how the reminder effect often didn’t help with retrograde amnesia, but sometimes classic association did. The act of doing something you’d done a million times before—like drinking a local beer while you clean your bike—bringing back a flood of memories in a way that simply being shown or told something hadn’t.
“Yeah, I guess that’s what you’d call it.”
“So you remember saying those things in the video now?”
Again he looks downs, jaw ticking before he admits, “Yeah, I do. I don’t know what to say to you about that now.”
He looks back up at me then. Eyes still so honest. But clear and no longer those of my innocent John Doe. “I’m trying to fix this. Trying to fix it the best I can.”
I can see that, and I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Okay,” I say. “Call Ivan. He can help you fix it, and keep it fixed.”
Dixon nods. “If that’s what you want me to do, then that’s what I’ll do.”
I’ll do anything you want me to do. You know that, right?
His words from just a few weeks ago float into my mind. Hurting me more than getting thrown into the water.
I want to touch him. I want to knuckle his face like he used to knuckle mine.
Instead I grab the handle of my suitcase. “I should go,” I tell him.
Because I really should before I add one more ill-advised thing to the list of “Dumb Shit I’ve Done Since Meeting Dixon Fairgood.”
Dixon runs a hand over his face. And he’s still so handsome, but there are dark circles under his eyes now. Like me, he now reads a few years older than when the biggest secret between us was some silly reality show.
Still, he smiles at me. “Don’t worry, Doc. I’m going to make sure you’re safe. And thanks for this,” he says, waving the card.
He’s no longer a John Doe.
He’s the president of a white supremacist motorcycle gang.
He remembers everything now.
He had to have me kidnapped and thrown into the ocean to protect me from all the people who want to hurt me because of the baby inside my womb.
Yet, it feels like I’m at the door of his hospital room again, heart beating fast, because I know I’m somewhere I shouldn’t be.
But this time, I don’t come in and take a seat. This time, I take my suitcase and rush into the guest house without saying good-bye. For fea
r of what will come out of my mouth if I let myself stay there even a moment longer.
Chapter Thirty-Two
I wasn’t trying to assuage Dixon when I told him I thought I was okay. Knock-out drugs withstanding, I can sense the baby inside my body will be fine after this. And when I walk back into the guest house, it feels like I’ve taken a very scary dip in the water. Ultimately not harmful, but emotionally exhausting.
I end up falling back into Sola’s bed for a very long time, and this time when I wake up, I’m still in it. It’s also morning again.
If not for the fact that I’m dressed in an entirely new outfit, the same yoga pants and long-sleeved top I put on in the tugboat’s cabin, I would have thought the whole thing a nightmare.
But it wasn’t. If I didn’t know that for sure before I take a shower and repack the few things I took out of my suitcase, then I definitely know it when I walk out to the living room…
And find Mason sitting on the couch, flipping through an old issue of Vanidades magazine. He’s once again dressed in dark jeans. But this morning he’s paired them with a simple waffle shirt. Unlike the last time I saw him, he’s not dripping wet, and his Southern Freedom Knights jacket is nowhere to be seen.
“How did you get in here?’ I demand.
Mason grunts and throws the magazine back down on the coffee table. “You ready to go?”
Seriously, why is he in Sola’s living room? But I also feel compelled to ask, “You know Spanish?”
“A little,” he admits with a frown. “Enough to do deals with the wet—”
He stops himself and replaces it with the word, “Hispanics. Dixon couldn’t be seen doing deals with them. He was the one they sent to do deals with our kind without attracting too much attention. I’m the one they used for the people they didn’t want to be associated with.”
“Okay, well thanks for that disturbing bit of information. And for looking out for me while I slept, I guess.” I start toward the door. “I’m going now, so you can also be on your way.
His Forbidden Bride: 50 Loving States, West Virginia Page 18
