The Debt

by Karina Halle

  Once on the grass, I immediately wrap her in my towel and proceed to carry her inside, cradling her in my arms. I’m naked, nearly blue, but it doesn’t matter.

  Somehow we make it up the stairs without anyone seeing us. Or maybe they do but they’re too afraid to draw attention to something else that has gone wrong. I know the first thing we’ll be doing in the morning is getting the hell out of here.

  But as I gently lower her on to the bed, I’m struck with the sickly, horrible thought that I was seconds away from there not being another morning for us. Another sweep of body wash in the shower, another second of hesitation to run after her and she would have gone under.

  I quickly bundle her in blankets, my training coming in handy. Though I didn’t deal with hypothermia when in Afghanistan, it was still a threat considering how cold the mountains got.

  It’s not severe though, so after she’s bundled, swathed until she can’t move, I set on the kettle and make her tea. Once she starts to warm up a bit, I’ll replace the blankets with her clothes which I’ve set out on the radiator to heat them up and dry sheets from the armoire.

  Then of course there’s me. It’s easy to ignore the symptoms and just concentrate on her but without me around, she’s stuck here. I quickly get changed into clean dry clothes, piling on as much as I can and settling in bed beside her with hot tea. As tempting as a hot shower would feel, I know it would shock my system too much. Everything has to be slow and gradual.

  “Keir,” Jessica whispers from beside me. I peer down at her, her face barely peeking over the sheets.

  “Yes, little red?”

  “What’s at the bottom of the sea?”

  She sounds like a little girl asking this question.

  “Death,” I tell her. “And you’re not there.”

  The air between us seems to thicken, a pause or maybe just perpetual silence. If she had anything to say to that, she doesn’t say it.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Jessica

  Scotland is beautiful.

  Everything inside me though, is downright ugly.

  Keir is behind the wheel, the narrow road passing underneath the shiny hood of the vintage Jaguar. We left the castle in Wick early. Keir said it was because we have a long drive ahead of us to our next destination – we’re going along the entire north of the north coast today – but I know it’s because he couldn’t wait to get me out of there.

  I wasn’t about to argue. I wanted to blame the castle and say it was cursed for what happened, after all there is a “Lady in Green” ghost who apparently haunts it. But I can’t blame everything on something else. The castle was lovely and I was overjoyed to be there. I just wish I was able to hang onto the joy for longer.

  The past week leading up to this has been a struggle. The extra physio sessions with Kat took a lot out of me. And I’m impatient. I want so badly to be back where I was, back teaching yoga, living independently. But as I proved the other day, I can’t even do basic yoga yet. So where does that leave me?

  Well it leaves me here with a man who both takes care of me and yet doesn’t put up with my shit. I have to say, it hurt to have him say those things yesterday. I always said I liked being around Keir because he was honest and he didn’t coddle me. He didn’t see my limitations.

  That all still stands. But what last night taught me was that when he thinks I’m being a whiny brat, he will tell me so. He’ll let me feel sorry for myself to a point and then he’ll give me a proverbial slap in the face.

  Of course my ego didn’t like that and it was already on shaky ground (pardon the pun). I slipped into a dark, damp hole, nursing my wounds which hurt more on the inside than the outside. My pride was damaged, first from him discovering me on the floor in Inverness, crying because I couldn’t do a fucking yoga pose, then as I toppled down the stairs of the castle. No one saw my fall, thank god, but it doesn’t matter. I showed how weak I am.

  I wasn’t thinking. I drank several glasses of scotch, stewing over Keir as he took his shower and then decided I needed to get out of there.

  I didn’t mean to jump in. It wasn’t why I went to the beach. I was just looking for an escape. The whole trip was supposed to be an escape but I forgot that I came along for the ride. There’s no escaping yourself sometimes.

  The next thing I knew I was swimming and swimming until I couldn’t take it anymore. I stopped, the sea all around me, and just stared down at my legs, how free they felt. The clarity of the water made it look like I was on land, walking buoyantly without pain, the inky depths below them.

  I barely remember Keir dragging me out of the water. I just remember being cold. So cold. In some ways I liked it, because the longer I stayed in, the less I felt.

  I fell asleep last night wrapped in blankets, Keir at my side. Neither of us have spoken much to each other – we certainly haven’t mentioned what happened and it’s now a big elephant in the car. Judging by the dark shadows under his eyes, the cageyness in his mannerisms, I’m going to guess he hadn’t slept at all.

  I’m not sure if it’s possible to feel worse than I did last night, but I do. My body aches – one whole side bruised from the fall – and more than that, I feel terrible that Keir had to rescue me, risking his own fucking life to do so, on top of dealing with all my stupid shit.

  The weather isn’t helping my mood, either. The sun was shining for a brief moment while we stopped in the small village of John O’Groats, but there was a strange desolation to the place as I gazed across the cold sea to the Orkney Islands. Almost as if we were at the edge of the earth and about to topple over.

  Then the clouds came and the rain hit. We got back in the car and continued along the way, heading west along the north coast route. The drive takes you past many amazing white and golden sand beaches you wouldn’t expect to find in Scotland, particularly the north, but with the downpour spattering our windows, heading to a beach didn’t sound like a lot of fun.

  We’re just past the town of Thurso now and the scenery is beginning to change. So does the road. It becomes a narrow one-lane with widened spots called “Passing Places,” where you’re supposed to pull over to let oncoming traffic pass you by. It’s pretty much a game of chicken.

  The land softens out into rolling hills of peat, one side stretching to the sea, the other curving into imposing mountains, their ends blunted instead of sharp, seeming to stretch forever. Ombré clouds – light at the top, dark at the bottom – gather in the folds of the hills, moving quickly.

  We stop by the town of Tongue for lunch, grabbing a quick and greasy bite at a hotel pub. Our conversation is still stunted and I’m starting to worry that I’ve lost my connection with him. Even though we’re on this trip together, even though he did this trip for me, fear plucks at my heart. What if I pushed it too far? What if I’m too much of a fucking mess for him to deal with? I know he has problems too, so how can I expect to throw mine into the mix and have everything work out fine?

  We get back in the car and continue our drive, passing over a long causeway that slices a turquoise blue inlet in half. In the background, the famous peak of Ben Hope rises up 3,000 feet above the bumpy, rolling moors that spread out beneath it. We pass the famous, shaggy Highland cattle making their way across the road and sheep surround us on either inside. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many sheep in my whole life than I have during the trip so far. They roam everywhere, lambs and ewes, either standing in the middle of the road or lying contently on the side of it, and dotted across the endless moors as far as the eye can see.

  It’s beautiful here in a desolate way, a different kind of desolation than I felt earlier. While the clouds still hover over the mountains to the south of us, the sky above the road opens up, illuminating the moors. It’s like a switch has been turned on and even Keir let’s out an appreciative grumble. The dark hills are transformed with the light. The heather is vibrant purple against vivid green, patches of red and golden brown are woven through. It’s one of the most
stunning sights I’ve seen.

  It’s like a switch goes off inside me as well. I take out my phone, roll down the window and start taking picture after picture as Keir drives. The air hitting my skin, running through my hair, smells like heaven – fresh, floral, mineral. It gets in my nose, in my bones. It’s like another slap in the face, one that reminds me how badly I need to live. Really live. Really feel everything that’s good.

  We’re passing rows of peat stacked in the moors like tiny dark walls when up ahead there’s a ruin of a stone house, far too pretty of a spot to just drive past.

  “Pull over!” I yell at Keir, my loud voice taking us both by surprise.

  He brings the car over to a small gravel road that dips over a rise.

  “What is it?” he asks as I twist in my seat to pull out my cane from the back.

  My eyes meet his and I don’t know what to say other than I need this. It’s the first moment today that I’ve really looked at him, the first moment I think he’s really looked at me. I miss looking into his eyes so much, it almost hurts.

  I swallow. “I need to be there,” I tell him, nodding at the house.

  “Okay,” he says. He licks his lips nervously, the line between his dark brows deepening. “Do you need to be alone?”

  “Give me a few.”

  I get out and then start working my way down the slight rise, the peat spongey and soft beneath my feet, thistle and patches of golden grass growing on either side, making a makeshift path. I feel a bit like Catherine as she roamed the moors in Wuthering Heights. It’s so isolated here, just the unending peat and heather, the peaks in the distance. We haven’t even come across a single car on this stretch of the journey. Apparently Sutherland is the most isolated area in all the country.

  While the gravel road dips down to a shallow loch fringed with tall grass and broom, I continue on the soft path, taking extra care with my cane until I’m close to the house.

  To my surprise there’s another road here, one that’s long since abandoned and overgrown with moss, perhaps joining up with the gravel one that went toward the loch. The house is built on the side of it, like a roadside motel from the 1800s.

  The house has no roof, just four walls, two of which are sharp pyramidal peaks, and in places it looks like new brick has been fitted in with the stone, perhaps as a conservation measure. But the real shock is when you step inside.

  Nearly all the walls are covered in beautiful murals, graffiti of the highest art form. There’s a man on a red background, a woman with her feet in the air, someone in a green gas mask. All the paintings have faded from a life of rain, the open roof leaving the place to the elements. It’s an incredibly urban sight in such a simple stone house, set amongst the bleak moors.

  I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. The floor plan of the house is just one large room. I stand in the middle, staring at the art, the orange lichen growing on the walls, the strands of hay on the dirt floor. I go to one of the windows, the glass having gone long ago and lean against the stone sill. I stare out at Ben Hope, the craggy mountain rising toward the clouds and I feel miles away from myself in the best possible way.

  “Wow.”

  The sound of Keir’s voice, soft and gruff, causes me to spin around.

  He walks in the ruins, staring around him in that quiet way of his. His mass makes the place look smaller, his shoulders just as wide as the mountains in the distance. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans, his combat boots stepping soundlessly as he makes his way around the structure, inspecting the graffiti with respect, as one would at a museum.

  Finally, he turns to me, brows raised. “Did you know this would be here?”

  I shake my head. “No. I just saw it on the side of the road. The sun hit it…I wanted to see it up close.”

  He nods, coming closer to me, the walls blocking out the low light. His face falls into dim shadow, exaggerating the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the cut of his jaw. His beard is thicker now, somehow making him even more manly. A breeze picks up, tussling his dark hair.

  My throat goes dry. I’m suddenly struck dumb by how handsome he is. It’s never been news to me and yet it is here and now. It’s like I’m seeing him for the first time, not as just this stranger who has taken a liking to me, but as something more.

  “I like this look on you,” he murmurs, running his thumb over my chin.

  I swallow. It feels like I’ve got sawdust in my mouth. “What look?”

  “This one. The one that says you’re alive and with me. Not just here.” He gestures to the air around me with his other hand. He then pushes in at my heart, his palm so warm against my shirt. “But here.”

  He takes his hand away and cups my face, his thumb gently brushing over my lip. I lean back against the window, feel the cool air sweep over the back of my neck, bracing me.

  “I’m so sorry about last night,” I say, my words choked.

  He shakes his head slowly. “No. Don’t be. It happened. It’s in the past and the past is just a place of reference. Nothing more, nothing less. The real question is, what are you going to do going forward.”

  But the thing is, I don’t know. All I know is that the longer those intense eyes of his bore into me, the more I don’t care about the future. I just care about the now. Him with me, two bodies and souls who need each other.

  “Going forward, I’m going to do this,” I tell him, placing my hand behind his neck. I pull his head down to me and kiss him sweetly on the lips. Soft, tentative, teasing.

  “And then I’ll do this,” I run my other hand over the front of his jeans, marveling with a gasp at how hard he is already. I get a firm hold, give it a light squeeze.

  He lets out a moan that I feel to my toes.

  “Go on,” he says thickly, his eyes closing.

  I unbuckle his jeans and pull them down to his hips, then pull back the waistband of his briefs and slip my hand inside until it covers his cock. It’s amazing how something so soft, like velvet, like silk, can be so fucking hard and rigid.

  There’s nothing I want more than for him to be inside of me.

  Right here.

  Right now.

  He moves without asking, knowing exactly what to give. He grabs hold of my waist and, as if I only weigh ten pounds, lifts me up and back until my spine is flush against the wall. I wrap my good leg around his waist, holding him to me.

  “I’ve got you,” he says huskily, his hands at my hips. “I won’t let you go.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.” He pauses. “As much as I want to push inside you like this…can you reach into my front pocket?” He gestures with his eyes to his leather jacket.

  I reach over into the pocket, my fingers sliding over a condom foil. I take it out and do the honors, quickly tearing it and unrolling the latex over his inflexible length while his mouth covers mine, his tongue searching. His cock is there, the tip pressing gently against my sweet spot and when I shift slightly, it slides inside me with ease.

  He lets out a jagged breath, his mouth going to my ear and taking my earlobe between his teeth. He slowly pushes his cock in and fills me as I stretch around his thickness. I never imagined I could feel so full as I do with him, this feeling of being totally and completely whole. I moan lightly, feeling him everywhere inside me.

  His hips curl forward and he starts pumping into me, my back razed against the stone wall, buffeted only by my jean jacket.

  “Are you okay?” he whispers, his accent extra thick with desire. “Tell me if you’re not okay.”

  “Just fuck me,” I tell him, my hands making a fist in his hair.

  He groans. “Oh, when you fucking talk like that…”

  The pace picks up. The rhythm starts to become punishing.

  He’s so hard, driving into a place so soft. Every muscle in me is tense to the point of shaking and each thrust undoes another livewire inside me. They’re snapping one by one. He’s filling up all my empty, hollow points.

&
nbsp; My body is hypersensitive, hot, crazed. He stares at me so intently that I can feel his eyes in my darkest parts. We share this need, this feral, raw desire for each other’s flesh, we share this darkness that we hide. We’re just two broken people picking up each other’s pieces.

  I’m falling to pieces.

  Over him.

  Over this.

  Each powerful pump of his hips, each time his cock drives in deeper into this wet heat, each breathless gasp I make, each hungry groan that he makes, and I’m falling, falling, falling.

  Something inside of me breaks.

  Cracks.

  I am wide open.

  I am his.

  “Oh fuck,” I cry out as the pressure in my core tightens, round and round, a feverish spiral and my eyes pinch shut as my body pitches over the edge. I clutch him hard. “Fuck!”

  My words turn into a garbled mess as the orgasm crashes into me. Our love-making echoes around the house and my head goes back, my eyes opening to see fluffy clouds overhead, the sky so wide and endless above us.

  I feel just as wide, just as free, as that very sky.

  And yet I belong one hundred percent to him.

  Tears spring to my eyes, the emotions entirely too overwhelming as my body rides out the wave, floating through deep space.

  He’s coming now too, such a gorgeous, primal groan pouring out of him. Nothing has sounded sexier as he grunts into my neck, his forehead hot and sweaty against my skin. He slows down his thrusts, then comes to a still, the pulse in his throat tapping against the pulse in mine as we both collect our shaky breath.

  A chilled breeze smelling of heather and hidden streams washes over the open walls, cooling our overheated limbs. He pulls back and gives me a lazy, sated grin.

  “Anytime you want me to pull over, you just let me know,” he says.

  I grin back at him, my eyes still wet. “I’m afraid we’ll never get to our destination, then.”