Modern Wicked Fairy Tales: Complete Collection

by Selena Kitt

  He shrugged, lying. “No.”

  “Liar.” She grinned, glancing over at the building they’d parked in front of, the sign illuminated with floodlights: Parkview Nursing Home. Goldie sighed, patting the bag of jewels in her pocket. “I’ll feel better once these are in Daniel’s hands and we’re on a plane to Brazil. Although I’m sure going to miss Poppy…”

  “Speaking of that.” Campbell reached into his inside pocket, pulling out an envelope. “I have something for you.”

  He watched her face as she opened them, seeing her expression turn quizzical as she counted them in the light of a street lamp. “There are three plane tickets here.”

  “Yep,” he agreed, waiting for the realization to hit her.

  “Poppy’s coming with us?” She looked at him, incredulous. “But how? My father’s will only provides for him if he stays here.”

  Campbell smiled. “I’ve taken care of that.”

  Goldie stared, eyes wide. “What did you do?”

  “Well, you might be the goddess of combination locks—and a great actress, I might add—but I’m awesome at hacking and password retrieval.”

  She gaped, jaw dropped. “Campbell!”

  “Let’s just say we now have an offshore account that’s going to take care of us for the rest of our lives. And that includes your Poppy. Let’s call it…reparations.”

  He waited for her reaction and she bowled him over with it, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him fully on the mouth.

  “I can’t wait to tell him everything,” she breathed, tears in her eyes. “I never could have done this without you.”

  “That’s true,” he agreed, trying to sound humble, but the adoring look in her eyes melted his heart. Everything about her made him want to sink to his knees and worship her. He kissed the corner of her mouth and hugged her close, whispering, “But I don’t know what I’d do without you, so we’re pretty even.”

  * * * *

  Epilogue

  Goldie stretched out, cat-like, practically purring in the sun. She’d divested herself of her bathing suit top already and was considering losing the bottoms, too. Her pale skin had already turned a lovely golden brown in the two weeks they’d spent at this villa in Brazil.

  “Hey doll.” Campbell plopped down in the sand beside her wearing khakis and a loud Hawaiian shirt. He looked ridiculous, and she loved him. “Guess what?”

  “If there’s a tsunami coming, I don’t want to know,” she murmured, closing her eyes again. “Is Poppy okay?”

  “He’s fine,” Campbell assured her. “Back at the house, getting his second sponge bath of the day. The old guy’s sure taking advantage of having a live-in nurse.”

  Goldie giggled. “You men never change.”

  “Sit up. I have something for you.”

  She sighed, loathe to move, but she did as he asked, turning herself over and facing him. “What?”

  “Just a little something.” Campbell reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, black velvet box. Seeing it made her stomach drop to her knees.

  “Campbell…”

  “Actually, more a medium-sized something,” he countered as she took it from him with trembling hands.

  He didn’t, she thought, but he had. Inside was the Ursa Median, now set in a platinum band.

  “What…?” She choked, staring at the ring. “How?”

  “Daniel said most people only know about Ursa Major and Ursa Minor,” Campbell explained. “And he wanted to give us something for donating the diamonds to the Holocaust Museum, so…”

  “So it’s ours?” She looked from him to the diamond and back again.

  “It’s yours.” He nodded, reaching out to take her hand. “If you’ll agree to marry me.”

  She blinked and then laughed. “Are you really proposing to me naked?”

  “Well I’m not naked, you are.” He grinned, leering. “And I rather prefer you that way.”

  “Okay.” She couldn’t help the tears welling up in her eyes. “But I have to tell you something.”

  He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

  “Remember when I told you I wasn’t pregnant?”

  Campbell nodded and she swore he turned another shade of pale under his straw hat.

  “I lied.” She looked down at the ring instead of at him. “I am pregnant,” she rushed on. “But don’t think you have to marry me because I am. You don’t.”

  Campbell grabbed her to him and kissed her hard, crushing her mouth with his and she gasped for breath when he let her go.

  “My god, woman, I’ve wanted to marry you for three years!” he exclaimed. “If I could have done it without arousing the Behr’s suspicions, I would have had you at a Justice of the Peace in a heartbeat!”

  She swallowed, wanting to believe him. “That was the only reason?”

  “What other reason could there be?” He shook his head, smiling.“I love you, silly woman.”

  She let her tears fall, looking down at the ring and whispering, “I love you too.”

  “Why are you crying?” he inquired, wiping at her tears with his thumb. “Don’t you want to get married? Don’t you like the ring? Is it too big? Too small?”

  “No it’s just right.” She looked up at him and felt the truth of it for the first time in her whole life. “Everything is just right.”

  BRIAR ROSE

  Google’s my lifesaver.

  Rose snorted at the irony, mentally correcting her own error as she slipped naked into the hot water—life-ender was more like it. But without Google, she would have just done what she’d seen in all the Hollywood movies and used the razor blade horizontally, and what good would that have done? She would have just ended up in the hospital amidst a whole lot of drama, her aunts clucking and pawing and chiding, while Sam scoffed and said she was just looking for attention.

  If he even showed up at all…

  She put the box of razor blades on the edge of the tub, the cardboard soaking up the water splashing onto the edge from the running spout. But what did it matter if the entire box rusted? She only needed one. Although she had been careful to buy a box-cutter at Home Depot, along with the blades, so as not to draw any undue attention to herself.

  Why would he show up?

  Thinking about Sam made her whole body curl into itself, going instinctively fetal, her knees drawn up, eyes closing, as if she could escape her own pain with darkness. Well, that was the point, wasn’t it? She had experienced her fair share of heartache in her thirty-three years, but the pain of losing Sam was far too much for her to bear. One person couldn’t possibly live through the loss, not to mention the humiliation, of losing her fiancé the night before the wedding.

  It’s your own fault.

  That was the hardest thing of all to accept. If she’d just kept on pretending, if she had let things go on as they always had, she and Sam would be staying the night right now at a sweet little bed and breakfast she’d found on the Florida coast before heading off to St. Barts for the rest of their three-week honeymoon in the morning. Instead, both tickets were tucked into her purse and the engagement ring he’d given her a year ago would never get the addition of its twin wedding band.

  She opened her eyes to admire the two-carat diamond. Although she’d protested at the extravagance, Sam had insisted, and secretly she loved the exclamatory reaction she received from everyone from shopkeepers to manicurists. Of course, she’d offered to give it back, but Sam had insisted, “I don’t want anything from you!” shaking his hand off her arm as if she was a leper before storming out of her apartment, slamming the door behind him so hard it made Mr. Neiman upstairs pound on the floor for quiet.

  Well, Mr. Neiman wouldn’t have to pound on the floor anymore when she was playing The Ramones too loud while she was in the shower, or when she and Sam got a little too exuberant during sex, would he? They used to laugh about it, the memory so painful it was like an open sore, imagining the two of them naked and panting and giggling in the dark as
Mr. Neiman pounding his cane on the floor.

  The truth was, Sam liked it when she was loud, and she saw no reason not to indulge him. She knew just what turned him on. In fact, she’d gotten the sounds and movements down to a science, and had learned to throw in a new sound or moan or some dirty talk on occasion to change it up and give him a little thrill.

  Rose opened the box of razor blades, removing one from the package and contemplating its sharp edge as she remembered Sam’s question after sex the night before. It was the first time he’d ever brought it up. Maybe she would have offered him the truth in the beginning, if he’d asked. That’s what she told herself as the level of the hot water rose around her in a cloud of steam and the thick pulse of blood through her veins pounded in her ears.

  I deserve this. Rose traced a finger down her arm from her wrist to her elbow, shivering at the sensation. I earned it.

  Maybe if she’d been honest with Sam—honest with herself—things would have been different.

  Instead, for two years, she had let him believe a lie. Hell, she’d lived that lie for him, with him. It hadn’t been difficult, not really. It wasn’t as if she’d lied about how she felt about Sam—she loved him, always had and always would. It wasn’t as if she’d cheated on him with someone else, or had a scary former life or some big secret buried in her past. There were no skeletons in her closet waiting to pop out and surprise anyone.

  It had seemed like such a small thing—an innocent white lie. She had never imagined that her admission would lead to this—to losing Sam forever, to a pain beyond any she’d ever known, to a despair so vast she could do nothing but attempt to escape it, running away from the pain and seeking a distant, shimmering point in the distance that could only be her own end.

  “I’m sorry, Sam,” she whispered, feeling hot tears on her already wet cheeks, salty on her lips, as she pressed the edge of the blade against the tender skin of her wrist, testing its sharpness and her own vulnerability. A bright spot of blood bloomed immediately from the miniscule cut, assuring her that her skin was permeable, that the line between life and death was very thin. She was glad.

  “Hard and fast,” she whispered, studying the pale blue roadmap of her veins under the tender, thin covering of her skin. “Straight down from wrist to elbow.”

  She didn’t wonder what Sam would say, or what her mother and father would think. She wasn’t thinking of anyone or anything else at all. Her whole being was consumed with an emotional pain so far beyond this realm of existence she was sure she’d already left this world. This final act was just a matter of course, like completing an electrical circuit.

  The doorbell startled her, forcing the blade in a little deeper, the red flower of blood on her wrist spreading. Rose looked up at the bathroom door, closed but not locked, shocked by this intrusion. She had given them all plausible excuses about being alone right now—her mother, her father, her aunts, the multitude of family who had flown into town to see her walk down the aisle today—and of course, she had turned off both her home and cell phone.

  “Rosie?”

  Oh no! She knew that voice. It was her aunt Poppy, knocking and ringing the bell. Her family had obviously conferenced and decided to send Poppy over see if poor little Rosie was all right. Well no, to tell you the truth, I’m not all right. I’m broken. I’ve always been broken. No one could every want me or love me or—

  “Rosie!” The voice was closer. Poppy had let herself into the house! Rose cursed herself for not locking the front door. “Rosie? Are you okay?”

  If only it was Sam…

  That was her last rational thought before she did the inevitable, the blade far sharper than she’d ever imagined. She didn’t make it from wrist to elbow—less than halfway, but the cut was a good four inches long and quite deep, slicing between all the tendons and ligaments, finding the artery with lucky precision. That was all she could do—pain like a white hot poker shot through her arm and her hand spasmed uncontrollably, her fingers turning to claws. She couldn’t help the scream, although she tried to hold it in—it felt ripped from the raw hollow of her throat, a bright, inhuman sound echoing off the white tiles. Looking down, she saw her own arm as if someone had turned it inside out, blood bright red and pulsing from the wound into the warm water around her.

  “Rosie!” The door flew open and she saw her aunt’s wide eyes, had just enough time to register her horrified expression. “No! Oh no, Rosie, nooo!”

  Her last thought was that she wished it had been Sam who had either burst in to save her—or perhaps witness her death. She really didn’t care which. She had just wanted it to be Sam.

  * * * *

  “I didn’t even think they sold transferable airline tickets anymore.” Rose’s mother handed them back to her daughter, frowning as she scanned the airport. Rose knew she was looking for her ex-husband, Rose’s father, who was due to show up to see his daughter off. “Late as usual,” her mother whispered under her breath, but Rose heard and winced.

  “I think it’s a sign!” Poppy slid an arm around her niece’s shoulder, patting the girl’s head with her other hand. Rose let her do it, even though the gesture made her feel five years old. “You were meant to go to St. Bart’s after all.”

  Rose didn’t say anything. Telling Poppy how much pain that statement caused her wouldn’t do anyone any good. What did it matter that she should have used those tickets for her honeymoon with Sam? They had come in handy, that much was true. And Sam… She closed her eyes, swallowing and looking away, pretending interest in seeing the planes taking off and landing outside the window. Thinking about Sam was still too painful. That hurt far more than the scar on her wrist—eighty-seven stitches later.

  “There’s your father.” Her mother was readying herself, mouth puckered, arms akimbo, foot already tapping on the airport carpet. Rose ignored her mother’s reaction, smiling as the tall, handsome man in a suit strode toward them, a congenial smile spreading over his tanned face, showing more lines than Rose remembered.

  “There’s my princess!” Her father swept her into his arms and hugged her tight, and this, too, make Rose feel small—but she didn’t mind. He set her down and kissed her forehead, asking, “How’s my girl?”

  “Fine, Daddy.” Rose smiled, realizing they’d had the exact same exchange while she’d been lying in a hospital bed two months ago, her arm still heavily bandaged, her head fuzzy from the morphine.

  “You’ll love St. Barts.” He turned, acknowledging Poppy for the first time but clearly avoiding meeting the glaring eyes of his ex-wife. “Won’t she, Sis?”

  “I think she’ll get just what she needs in St. Barts,” her aunt agreed.

  Rose glanced between her parents, wondering how that much hostility could still exist between two people after twenty years of being divorced. She’d long ago given up trying to reconcile them or even to try to keep the peace. They were adults—she couldn’t control the way they behaved, even if that behavior resembled two children.

  “Are you sure you packed enough?” Rose’s mother eyed her daughter’s carry-on. “Isn’t this supposed to be for a month?”

  “They have laundry facilities,” Poppy piped up, intervening quickly. “They’re boarding.”

  “Well I guess this is it.” Rose offered a tentative smile to both of her parents, taking one of each of their hands, making some sort of bridge.

  Her father said, “You have fun,” and kissed the top of Rose’s head and her mother squeezed her hand and said, “Get better, okay?” illustrating the vast difference between her parents and her relationship with both of them in one brief moment.

  Rose let her parents’ hands go and leaned in to give her aunt a hug, whispering, “Thanks for everything.”

  She had once wished it had been Sam who burst into the bathroom that night, but she didn’t wish that now. Poppy had taken charge—twenty years of nursing experience took over, of course, but it wasn’t just that. Her aunt had protected her from then until now, staying with
her at night after she was released from the hospital, and ultimately finding the unorthodox treatment center she was heading to now.

  The truth was, Rose didn’t want to die anymore. But she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to live either. It was a strange place to be, like walking through life like you didn’t belong, as if it was all someone else’s dream. Maybe this place really would help. At least, Rose figured, it couldn’t hurt.

  She waved to her family as the flight attendant took her boarding pass, seeing them gathered into a little trio of worry. Even her father look perplexed and unsure, an expression she hadn’t seen on his face since that first day in the hospital when he saw the enormous bandage on her arm.

  Rose settled herself into her seat on the plane, stowing her carry-on in a very small overhead compartment and wondering at the safety of the tiny aircraft. The seats were narrow, just two on each side of the aisle, and regardless of who she would be sitting next to, it would be close quarters. It should be Sam. But she didn’t want to think about that. Instead, she took out her Kindle and enjoyed her window seat, her eyes unfocused on the words on the screen.

  “They’re going to make you turn that off during takeoff you know.”

  Rose glanced up, experiencing a horrible, dizzying sense of déjà-vu—except it wasn’t an image of something that already happened, but something that should have happened. Sam was taking a seat beside her, stowing a briefcase under the seat in front of him, just as he would have if this had been their honeymoon flight.

  That’s not Sam! She had to remind herself of that fact as she put her Kindle face-down in her lap, attempting to smile at the man who resembled her ex-fiancé so much they could have been brothers, if not twins, as he reached down to get something out of his bag.

  “But we can sneak in a little reading time before then, huh?” He winked and showed her a tablet device. “Those Kindles are great for reading at the beach, but I gotta have my Angry Birds.”

  “Angry…birds?” She gave him a quizzical half-smile, shaking her head.