Fracture

by Amanda K. Byrne

  “Never know when it’ll be needed.” He gestures to a doorway. “If I put it away and take out the other one, will it make you feel better?” I stick out my tongue. “Ah, now, are you prepared to use that?”

  “Well, I would except you won’t let me,” I retort without thinking.

  Heat sparks in his eyes, and he drops his bags to cup my face, his mouth over mine a whisper of sensation. “Have you been holding back on your talents? For shame,” he murmurs.

  My response is lost to his mouth, claiming mine and reminding me who’s in charge. Him. Burdened as we are by bags, I can’t get as close as I’d like, which is skin on skin. At one point, adventurous me would have thrilled at this, knowing I was getting off feet away from total strangers, any of whom could walk by at any moment. But that part of me died along with Ryan.

  At least, that’s what I tell myself, to reason away why I can’t sink into Declan’s embrace, lose myself in the battle of lips and tongues we’re engaged in. Because the truth is closer to impossible.

  I can’t trust this man enough to let go like that.

  “Clever mouth. Clever tongue,” he whispers, the sound hoarse with desire. “Should go home and find a use for them.”

  Somehow I think it’ll end as it always does, me writhing helpless beneath him, as pliable as a cooked noodle, begging for more. Anything to lose myself in that morass of feelings.

  I wish I could tie him up. Take my time and learn him the way he’s learning me.

  Wait. Why do I care if I’m a selfish lover or not? I get off, multiple times, every time. As long as he continues to do so, why would I want to change that? This distance he’s keeping between us is there for a reason, I suspect, and I don’t want to speculate on it.

  One last kiss and we step out onto the sidewalk again, Declan’s other camera looped around his neck, bags of food in hand. “You going over to Murat and Ismael’s this evening?” I ask. Television broadcasting is more reliable of late, and he’d been over there several times for football matches. Me, I haven’t set foot in their flat since I’d roused them the day Declan was attacked.

  “Likely. They said something about whiskey. Though I’d kill for a Guinness.” We round a corner and wait for a flock of teenage girls to stumble out of our way, chattering and taking up the entire sidewalk. They’re all skinny legs and ponytails, and when they see Declan they giggle and elbow each other in the ribs, heads bent toward one another to murmur about how hot he is. Normal. I’d almost forgotten there were families around, mothers and fathers and sons and daughters, ranging in age from toddling to doddering. “And yes, I promise not to stagger home drunk and take advantage of you.” He snickers. “I’ll make sure I’m sober for that.”

  “Har.” The street looks familiar. They all are, really, though this one sticks out. Especially the twisted hunk of burned out metal.

  Mrs. Vucik’s car.

  The vise on my lungs comes out of nowhere. Multi–colored spots and tendrils flash and zip through my vision, obscuring the street. Declan, curled up, groaning. The shouts and sickening thunks and cracks as fists and steel–toed boots meet flesh. Smoke and debris and blood. Dirt. Damp. Gasping about hell. We’re in one of its circles, unable to die and unable to escape.

  Someone’s calling my name. Declan. Or Ryan. I’m not sure which, they’ve amalgamated into the same person. Broken and left to die. One gave up. The other didn’t. I manage a lungful of air and it makes me dizzy.

  I can’t see anything.

  Large, warm hands, cradling my head, turning it this way and that. A fist pounding into my back, rubbing in between my breasts. Meaningless, soothing words. Grey encroaching and retreating. Something pinches my cheeks. The sidewalk stares up at me, my head between my knees, and the blood rushes to my head where it belongs.

  “Christ.” Heedless of the camera bags hanging off me, food bags scattered on the ground Declan crushes me to him. “Scared me,” he mutters.

  Scared him?

  “Don’t make a habit of it.” He eases back, peering into my face. “You started gasping and wheezing. Looked like you were having trouble seeing.”

  I nod, swallowing to wet my throat. “Panic attack. Or something. Recognize this place?”

  He glances around and frowns. “Should I?”

  “You were jumped right over there.” I point to the middle of the street, roughly where he’d been lying. “I blew up the car with a Molotov cocktail.”

  “Huh.” He studies the car, then removes the lens cap from his camera and starts clicking. “Where’s the alley? You made me crawl to an alley.” He limps out into the street. “Never mind. I think I’ve found it.”

  How can he switch off like that? Just … act like nothing happened? Like this isn’t the site where everything changed and I was jolted awake after sleeping my way through the last two years of my life? The blood’s been washed away by the rain, but the stain is forever imbedded in my memory, merging with another that had a different outcome.

  A crack. A rip. A fault line tripped.

  “Declan.” Shaky. I’m shaky. My voice is shaky. “I’ll see you at home.” Come with me. Make sure I'm okay. Keep me safe. He grunts and continues shooting.

  The next few blocks pass in a fog. It would have happened eventually. The neighborhood is bigger than most, so it would have been possible to avoid the block all together, but not practical. And Declan’s reaction wasn’t completely out of character. The initial spurt of concern, quickly overtaken by disinterest.

  It stings.

  Fine. It fucking hurts.

  Good thing he’s going out tonight. Good thing I am as well. The delayed opening of Mila’s club is happening tonight. A night of dancing and drinking with women who could very well be friends. A night free of the sinuous bonds of desire chaining us together.

  “Nora.”

  I stumble, Cristian catching me before I can faceplant onto the sidewalk. “Cristian. What are you doing here?” I’ve never seen him this close to my flat before. Another block, and he would have found out where I’ve been hiding.

  “I have been looking for you. I did not have a chance, the last time we met, to ask you for your answer. We can’t wait any longer.”

  Oh. That. I sigh. Putting it off won’t do me any favors, and it’s past time for me to stop leading him on. “I’m sorry, Cristian. I can’t do it. I don’t speak the language, for one. And I don’t know where you got the idea that I’m good at sneaking around.”

  He smiles. “You are better than you think if I am not able to find you at whim. The language barrier we can get around. You will learn. You must know some of it. You have been here years already.”

  Actually, I’m terrible with languages. The rudimentary French I took in high school has long fled the scene, the basic verb tenses and conjugations finding no purchase. “My answer is no, and it’s not going to change.”

  His eyes widen in disbelief. “You do not want to go home? You want to stay here? Die here?”

  “Cristian, your offer sucks. Once the war is over, I’d be able to get out.” If I had somewhere to go. “It would only make a difference if you could get me out now. You can’t. You’d need information all the way up until the bitter end.” I shift Declan’s camera bags against my hips. “Your side wins, you’ll have the clout and pull to offer favors. Now? You’ve got nothing.” Oh, this is going to anger him. I can tell. I stifle a flinch and the instinct to apologize, to promise to think about it a while longer.

  Sure enough, his jaw tightens. “I have done you favors already. Medical supplies. Food. You will see none of these. You have friends here? Loved ones? They will be forced to choose a side.” Many people were choosing to not choose, staying firmly in the middle. It irked both sides equally, to the point some were being forced to pick a side or face death. Way to score new recruits.

  “I have no loved ones here. You already took him from me.” Tired of holding it back, tired of patching the walls of my well, the pressure builds. Cracks appear.
The walls bow outward. “Your soldiers beat him while I watched. For what reason? What was he to you, that you had to break his spine? Were you scared of what he might do? Were you afraid people would take his research to heart, that it would ramp up the protests to steer Sarajevo back to communism?” I push a finger into his chest, riding the wave of fury. “Did you enjoy listening to him scream for mercy? Beg for it to end? Did you not hear me? No one did. Not then. I was as invisible as he was. Congratulations. You took us both.” God, I want to kill him. Rip him apart with my hands. Feel his blood slick on my fingers. “Get out of my face,” I growl.

  A standoff, and only one of us has a gun. He breaks the contact first. “They will have to choose,” he repeats and stalks off.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Nora. Your roommate. You should have brought him.” Zlata’s dark eyes glitter in the spotlights dotting the club.

  “What for? He’s got a busted leg. Can’t dance. Plus, he’s white. White men can’t dance.” The cocktail is better than I’d expected. The whole place is better than I’d expected. The industrial feel suits the environment. An actual DJ would have been nice, but the sound system is several steps above decent. It’s been a mix of club hits I recognize and those I haven’t, plus some truly old school R&B. TLC’s “Creep” was playing a moment ago.

  “You are thinking of American men. Yes, they cannot dance. But the Italians, the Spanish…” Mila licks her lips and smiles.

  I snort. “Declan’s Irish. I doubt he’s got any more rhythm than your typical American frat boy.” Ryan had had two left feet. He'd been happy enough to let me go off with girlfriends for the night instead of embarrassing both of us by trying to dance.

  “Who cares about the dancing or his leg? I just want my hands on him. I can do that at the table.” Zlata’s laugh is a husky, sensuous thing, but there’s a steely determination to it. She wants him, all right, and she’s going to go after him.

  I guess the question is whether I should step aside or tell her to back off.

  After the run–in with Cristian, I’d gone home and opened a book, staring at the pages as though they would give me the answers to the questions flooding my brain. When the door to the flat opened and Declan greeted me, I didn’t answer. The last thing I needed was to talk to him, because all it would do is add to the confusion.

  He'd pulled out his laptop and started loading pictures, and after a while, I'd actually managed to focus on the story in my hands. The silence had become companionable, and I'd almost forgot our circumstances. Just a couple enjoying each other’s company, doing their own thing. I'd made dinner, and he'd left to go watch a football match while I'd showered. I'd made it to Mila’s without freaking out, and I was pretty damn proud of myself I hadn’t fallen to pieces today.

  The panic attack on the street didn’t count. Besides, I didn’t cry, didn't try to hide, didn’t sleep away the afternoon like I would have in the past. As little as three weeks ago, I would have huddled under the covers until I managed to fall asleep.

  I’m fairly certain that if I hadn’t stumbled upon Declan in the street, I wouldn’t be here tonight. I wouldn’t have made the conscious choice to socialize. Violence has a way of provoking meaningful actions. But something’s holding me back. Something’s preventing me from putting Ryan in a little box labeled the past. Someone. Someone with a lovely accent and the ability to make me think I can start over. Someone who holds me in the middle of the night and tosses off thoughtless comments during the day.

  Declan’s kind of an asshole. Why I’d want to stick with him is beyond me. I’d be better off with a nice guy. Declan is not a nice guy.

  “You’re welcome to him, babe.” I down the rest of my drink.

  “You do not want him for yourself? If I am taking such a man from you, I should replace him.” Zlata waggles her eyebrows. “What kind do you like?”

  “I think you mean type,” I say dryly. “I’m not interested.”

  She frowns. “How can you not be interested in men? Many varieties to choose from. I know I want to sample as many as possible.”

  I used to own my sexuality as much as she does. I miss that version of me. I push my glass into the center of the table. “Dancing. I’m dancing. Either of you coming?”

  Mila shakes her head. “I need more alcohol first.” Zlata’s eyeing the bar and a few of the men ranged around the end of it and doesn’t answer. With a shrug, I slide off my stool and make my way onto the dance floor.

  It’s not so crowded I have to worry about getting elbowed in the chest, which is sometimes a problem, being as short as I am. My joints are creaky and stiff; I could have used another drink or two myself. Normally I’d have a good buzz on before I’d venture out like this, but the track switches to an old David Guetta song, one I loved back home, and I forget about needing alcohol and Declan and betraying Ryan and the war outside. Nothing matters but the beat pulsing its way up from the floor. Lights flash, the volume rises, and the bodies around me undulate in synchronicity.

  Hands appear at my hips. Caressing them. Molding them. They’re unfamiliar, pulling me backward so I’m flush against a hard, lean chest. Also unfamiliar. Someone’s aggressive. Glancing over my shoulder, I’m met with a sly grin and dark eyes. Pretty. Since his hands haven’t wandered from my hips to my ass, I let him stay.

  A few more beats, and he spins me around, catching me in a smooth, obviously practiced move. He grins again, then leans in, lips brushing my ear as he shouts into it. Shaking my head, I lean back. “American!”

  Understanding crosses his face, and he bends forward again. “My English not so good. I am Danilo.”

  “Nora.” I see no reason not to enjoy this man’s attentions. It doesn’t happen often. I was used to my girlfriends being picked off one by one when we’d gone dancing in college. Going home with a guy I’d met in a bar was never appealing to me anyway. Getting the chance to flirt was good enough.

  We dance a while longer, and he’s good. Surprisingly good. He knows where to put his feet and if his hands drift every once in a while, he moves them fast enough to territory that won’t get them cut off. So when he points to the bar, I take his hand and follow him.

  What Cristian never could understand was I’d never needed to learn the language. Enough people spoke English, or a bastardized version of it, for Ryan and I to get around without issue. Though standing at the bar with Danilo makes for some awkward moments. His English really is as terrible as he claimed.

  Mila catches my eye and gives me a thumbs up, and I grin. She can believe whatever she wants. And Danilo is good–looking. Almost sinfully so. Sipping my drink, I try to keep the conversation going, and it sputters a few more times before it goes out. I give up and we head back to the dance floor.

  There are more people, crushing us together. The alcohol is a pleasant, warm burn in my belly, but it doesn’t make me brave enough to throw all caution aside and grind against Danilo the way some couples are doing. My exhibitionist streak never went quite that far.

  Beats rise and fall, the bass line throbbing through my body. Sweat trickles down my neck, along my spine. I needed this. This night, this carefree night. A night away from my brain. As long as my feet keep moving I don’t have to think.

  A few songs later, I stretch up on my toes and yell into Danilo’s ear, letting him know I need a glass of water. He grins in response, kissing my cheek for good measure, before squeezing my hand and moving away. My cheeks heat with pleasure. I’d forgotten how fun harmless flirting could be. Maybe I’ll try to find him later and do some more of it.

  I make my way off the dance floor, skin tightening with awareness. I swear I’m being watched. Scanning the bar, I spot Declan on a stool, his booted foot propped up on the lower rung of a neighboring one. I head toward him. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” I call out over the noise.

  “What the fuck was that, Nora?” He jerks his head toward the dance floor. A muscle jumps in his jaw.

  Why does Zlata find hi
m so attractive? The scowl on his lips drags his whole face down, dark brows lowered over blue eyes like shards of ice. The last of the bruises have faded, leaving behind a slight yellow tinge. His jaw is scruffy since he hasn’t bothered to shave in several days.

  Not attractive. Not in any traditional sense. But he makes you look twice, and then he catches you looking and you’re stuck.

  I sigh. “Dancing. I was dancing. And before you go all caveman on me, he kept his hands to himself.”

  Declan grabs my hips and jerks me forward. “I saw where his hands were,” he grumbles. He strokes down and cups my ass. “They didn’t belong there.”

  I lift a brow. “And yours do?” I close my hands around his wrists. “It’s sex. Don’t pretend it’s anything else.”

  He flexes his fingers, making me yelp. “Isn’t it?” Dangerous. When he softens his voice, that lilt becomes dangerous. I’ll believe anything he says.

  “It’s not,” I murmur, distracted. His mouth is right there. All I have to do is lean forward an inch. “Let go of my ass.” His hold softens, but he doesn’t relinquish it completely. “Declan—”

  “I didn’t like it. Watching him put his hands all over you. I know I can’t dance, not with my leg in a cast. That’s no reason for another man to paw at you.”

  That’s enough for me. I dig my fingers into his arms, smugly satisfied when he hisses as I poke at his injured wrist. I yank his hands away and take a step back. “Do you think we can have a conversation without you manhandling me?”

  He glowers, and I step in so we don’t have to shout so much. “We have sex. Spectacular, amazing sex. It’s what you wanted. Spectacular, amazing sex does not entitle you to act like a jealous boyfriend.”

  The sneaky bastard palms my ass again, bringing me to him. “I never said it was just sex, lass. I said I don’t do relationships. I don’t go in for flowers and love notes. That doesn’t mean it’s nothing more than getting naked. Call it spending time together, if you like.”