by LW Barefoot
I know all about Evan’s arrest when he found me in his penthouse. Tom and I had a long discussion about it once I was ready to hear how everything happened when I was out of it.
“When I met you in Chicago I was trying to protect you, even then. Jamie had already explained why we couldn’t find any information about you. The avenues and means it took to find out information about you and Jamie are the same sources that provided the FBI with the photos of you at your art shows.”
I suck in a shocked breath. I take a seat at the island with my head spinning.
“I assumed those photos were from the Sculptor all this time.”
Evan’s jaw clenches and his gaze moves away from me before finally looking back at me.
“I’m sorry, Harper. I wish I could apologize for all this and it would change everything. These last few weeks have proved to be the hardest challenge of my life. So far, Joe’s done a good job of setting me up, time and time again.”
“Tom mentioned you needing to work with Anthony and his family, why?”
“The DEA has a better shot of convicting Joe than the FBI. Anthony gets immunity for cooperating and I’m trying my hardest to get over personal issues I have with the guy. Joe has been using one of my real estate investments as a distribution warehouse when the drug shipments come in out of the Gulf.”
He hangs his head and runs his hands through his hair before sitting next to me. Evan weighs his words as if I can’t handle the truth.
“Tell me, I’m tired of being left in the dark,” I plead.
“First, I need to tell you how I know this. Anthony’s sister and I had a relationship a few years ago. I mentioned her the night of the Mardi Gras party here at the plantation, but I didn’t elaborate. I didn’t think I needed to. I wasn’t interested in anything more than a physical relationship, but she had other ideas. She always had this crazy imagination and I didn’t care to listen because I couldn’t tell when she was speaking the truth or just wanting attention.”
He holds my gaze intently and rubs my hands with his.
“Beyond her trying to become a permanent fixture in my life, she was rather ambitious. If you want to know why I’m so careful with my associations you have Gisele to thank for that.”
“Wait, I heard Brad and Grayson having an argument about her, why?” I ask.
“She’s the person I warned you about Grayson taking away from me. I had no idea what was going on at the time, I hadn’t believed Gisele’s stories about her family’s operations,” he explains. “The Carreras have been bringing in firearms along with drugs to the States for decades and Joe’s the largest customer in both. Grayson was right, had I gone through with marrying Sarah I would be held responsible for all of it. Her family’s shipping business bring the products in. I can’t help but think that she knew what she was getting into all this time. I should have seen the truth, I should have listened to Gisele. The Carrera’s men were who we saw at that marina when Jamie went fishing with us. That was the drop point,” he explains.
“How can they offer Anthony immunity when he’s responsible for providing the goods in the first place?” I ask.
“Grayson swears that Anthony doesn’t have a clue about the firearms. His younger brothers are in charge of shipments. Anthony’s only the charming face of the business.”
I feel my face involuntarily scowl at the mention of Anthony being charming.
“I take it you’re not a fan?” he asks with a smile.
“I can’t stand him.”
“Good,” Evan says swiftly pressing his lips to mine.
Mae’s soulful humming comes in the room long before she does, silencing our conversation about the Carrera’s, Evan’s father, and Sarah’s shipping business.
“All right, you kiddos have fun.”
She moves in for another hug then squeezes Evan in a tight embrace.
“Oh and I’m taking the Mustang.”
“Anything else?” Evan asks her sarcastically.
“You won’t be seeing me out here for another week. If y’all happen to make it to New Orleans, Sunday supper is still on.”
We watch as she saunters off to have a blissful weekend and wait until she’s out the door before speaking.
“So what now?” I ask.
“I’m trying to figure that out. I took over a company that was a front for many others. I’m discovering who’s legitimate and who’s having their pockets padded for keeping their mouths shut. I know it seems like a slow process but we are making progress.”
“Why not raid the ships when the drops are made and get this over and done with?”
“I thought that too, but people like Joe and Anthony will always get away with things. The people involved will end up finding what they’re looking for regardless of who provides it. I contacted Tom after meeting him in Chicago. I wanted any information on my family and he was able to dig deep enough. There is a task force in New Orleans, specifically, to stop Joe and any of the contributors and customers he’s involved with. It’s not just us, not just the few people you know of. Those agents that were here asking questions a few weeks ago are a part of that team. I’m sorry I’m just now explaining things but I wanted to keep all of this from you. Especially the part where my father’s responsible for the Sculptor being in New Orleans and in your house.”
“Why?” I ask not understanding why I’ve been kept in the dark this long.
“I wanted more for you. I wanted you to sleep soundly at night and not have any more negativity invading your life because of me.”
“Evan, I’m strong enough to deal with this.”
He gives me a sad smile.
“You have to be because it’s no longer up to us.”
Harper
My training sessions have become more intense lately. Being back at the plantation and not kicking up sand on the beach feels better and helps keep my feet firm on the ground. More extreme elements of self-defense have been on Brad’s to-do list. I’ve been reluctant to make it to this point.
Tonight, he hands me a knife and I immediately toss it on the ground. I don’t want anything to do with it. He picks it up and places it in my fist, closing his much larger hand around it.
“Take this seriously, Harper.”
“Trust me, I am. I don’t have a good track record with these.”
“You’ll be fine. There’s no dull edge to hurt yourself with.”
“Thanks, asshole,” I throw at him teasingly.
“Do you think you’re the same person you were five years ago?” Brad asks in all seriousness as I throw the knife in the dirt again.
“No. I was a different person then,” I smirk but it’s the truth.
“And what about yesterday? Were you a different person then?” Seth cuts in.
“Absolutely,” I admit.
“Good. Now pick that up and come at me,” Brad grins as he holds up a black foam dummy with silver tape in places.
“What do you mean by come at me?” I ask.
I don’t know if he wants me to try to gut the piece of plastic and rubber resembling a human or pretend like I’m fencing the damn thing.
“Like this,” Seth says as he picks up the knife and approaches Brad holding up the prop.
Seth moves forward. The sharp edge of the knife moves to the vital parts of the human body and the most vulnerable ones.
“Here,” he says as he points the knife against the dummy. “And here.”
Seth’s body becomes the weapon. I’ve never paid this much attention to any lesson in my life. His stealthy blue gaze stays on the prop that doesn’t have a pulse but becomes an extremely real opponent as he strikes. He glances over his shoulder and makes sure I’m listening.
“Harper,” he shouts and throws the knife close to where I stand.
“Really?” I ask in shock, looking at the blade that landed inches away from my foot.
“Just making sure you’re awake,” Seth smiles.
“Not funny,” Brad shak
es his head in disapproval.
“She’s got to learn somehow,” Seth counters.
And I do, but I don’t.
I grasp the handle and pull the weapon from the clay soil. The sun shines and glitters off the smooth blade speckled with dirt.
With the knife tucked behind my back, I approach the dummy as I bow like I’m accepting an invitation for a dance. I take the hand of the piece of black plastic. The face becomes the faces of everyone standing in my way. I bow and I play like I deceive.
Seth studies me and Brad releases his hold on the mannequin. I sweep my arm down and grip its throat. It makes me uncomfortable. I instantly truss the thing up against a tree.
Seth gives up on me like I’m a lost cause. Brad walks away, insisting we pick up where we left off tomorrow.
I pace in front of the mannequin, recalling Seth’s aggressive instructions on where to strike a body and cause the most damage. I’m not sure if I’m capable of it. I struggle with weighing my actions and my responses.
Twigs break and pull me from my thoughts when Grayson steps into view. His hair picks up the raw siennas and ochres off the last rays of the disappearing sun.
“I saw the other guys give up on you,” he says.
“I don’t think they gave up. I think they’re just giving me space.”
“How long is it going to take with you?” Grayson asks in a sharp tone I’ve never heard him use before.
He wraps his arm around the shoulder, or what is supposed to be the shoulder, of the prop and squeezes it like you would an old friend. His dark green eyes measure me up.
“How many faces could you envision instead of this blank one?” he asks gripping the dummy’s foam jaw.
Grayson resumes Brad’s position of holding the prop in front of his chest and moves toward me. I take several steps back, but he never stops his approach.
“What’s it going to take, Harper?” Grayson taunts. “Are you going to keep playing the victim?”
“I’ve never played that role,” I spit.
“Yet, you continue to find yourself in it and your refusal to participate suggests otherwise.”
He comes at me. Hitting me with the mannequin on my shoulder hard enough it makes me gasp.
I jump out of the way when he tries to strike again.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I hiss while dodging the foam head from connecting with my skin again.
“I’m pushing you, Harper.”
“Stop it, already.”
“Not tonight,” he says as he comes at me. “Whatever you’re afraid of, focus on it. Instead of feeling fear, channel it into something else. Something stronger,” Grayson instructs.
I punch at the object that’s supposed to be my training tool but has somehow become so much more.
“Harper, if you delivered that hit on me I would consider it flirting,” he smirks.
“Bastard.”
“I am what I am,” he replies with a devious smile as he lunges, hitting me behind the knees.
I drop to the soft grass with a thud. A puff of air escapes my chest when I gather myself and get back on my feet. I don’t even bother brushing off the grass and dirt that makes my skin itch.
“You’re not giving up are you?” I ask.
His challenge pushes me.
“It seems you are. Maybe I was wrong about you.”
I lunge because he’s pissing me off, but he dodges me. A sharp push against my back has me sprawling face first on the ground.
“Am I going a little soft on you?” he teases with venom dripping from his tone.
I get back on my feet, pulling the knife from behind my back.
“What if I’m pushed too far and I can never come back from it?” I ask what’s been bothering me the most.
“Trust me you find a way. Especially, when you have no other choice,” he murmurs from experience.
I turn around with the knife loose in my grasp. Grayson repositions himself behind the prop and points to different areas on the body that will do slightly less than cause immediate death to my supposed victim. He shows how to make a strike look more brutal but less deadly.
“How do you live with the consequences?” I ask after a while of attacking hard styrofoam.
“The point is that you live,” he exclaims as he pushes the prop at me with force and I spin it to the ground.
I flush with visions of captors and immobile limbs. Of masked men and smiling fuckers that try to control and take.
Strike.
I’m sick and tired of them taking.
Strike.
I decapitate the damn thing when I straddle it and have the workout of a lifetime. My arms are fire as flames burn through me.
I push and pull and plunder. I beat and force and release. I swear and sweat and scream.
Those dark corners I knew existed within me are highlighted by my actions. These depths I’m embarrassed by and try to hide become evident.
There’s no going back.
Foam chunks of my victim’s form fly. I cut and carve. I sculpt and destroy.
I create something new from the torments and words that have always accompanied my steps.
I yell and cave and relent.
Only when I’m out of breath, does the complexity of reality come flitting back in. Darkness has descended and my chest heaves while I look down at the one I destroyed that never possessed one in the first place.
I search around and realize I’m all alone in the purge of my insanity.
The shuffle of branches and breaking limbs a few feet behind me send me on high alert.
I stand and sprint to the house, leaving the vessel of my relief and the shadow that haunts me long behind but the knife tight in my grasp.
Harper
I walked this same path a few days ago with fear coursing through me. Now I feel loved, adored, and wanted. And I’m perfectly, blissfully okay with that. Whatever that says about me, I don’t care because this is exactly where I want to be regardless of the consequences.
Evan’s palm on my lower back soothes and thrills me with equal measure while we maneuver through the growing crowd. Whatever I’ve seen in the past is nothing compared to the scenes and characters mingling now. I keep my focus on Evan because some of the visuals are not all that pleasant. Gags, collars, leashes, chains, nudity, there’s a lot of nonsense going on. Sharp lines of cocaine are cut on antiques and shot up noses. Its presence adds a darker element than alcohol can provide.
Those emotions I felt a few days ago come rushing back, but they’re more severe, more harmful even. The aggression and display of debasement is so prevalent you can feel it.
Brad meets us at the door of the parlor before we enter it.
Cigar smoke wafts out of the room. Clinking glasses and tumblers filled with dark liquor are among the visitors. The outrageous display of sexuality outside this room has no place inside it. It looks like a mens club from ages ago. The setting is appropriate for what this parlor was originally designed for.
Grayson looks out of place with his cold bottle of domestic beer that dangles from his fingers.
Anthony doesn’t get up to shake Evan’s hand. He stares at me openly, taking in my appearance. As his eyes strip me, I study him with equal measure. He looks awful. His eyes are swollen. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
“Anthony,” Evan says and sits in the vacant wingback chair opposite of Anthony.
If I were to sit down, I would feel exposed and vulnerable. I’ve done well to keep those feelings out of every moment I’ve spent with Anthony. I stand by Evan’s side. His fingers brush against my thigh while Anthony studies our body language. He flips a phone around and around in his hand, tapping it against his knee.
“Evan.”
The tension between the two of them is palpable. Anthony’s usual mask of humor is gone. He’s an entirely different person than the man I met in Florida.
“You lucked out tonight, my love,” his tone so familiar. I try to conta
in my reaction to it… ‘My love, my long lost heart, your luck is running out.’
Grayson moves to the edge of the couch, placing his beer down and bracing his hands together. He doesn’t know what Anthony’s talking about either.
“You were my bargaining chip, Harper,” he smirks in bitter amusement. “I was planning on using you to get my sister back. My troubled little sister,” he chokes and takes a minute to compose himself. “I can’t imagine why she stayed in this fucking place after all these years.”
This has to be the first Evan has heard of this. His shoulders tense as his grip tightens on my leg. I look around the room and notice the men in Anthony’s entourage also wear the same sad expression as their boss.
Anthony hands the phone to Evan after pressing play. The video is of a beautiful woman with tears streaming down her face as she talks about Anthony and his presence being enough for her. When she turns her attention away from the camera, chills run down my spine. I know what that look is and what it does to you in that position. I bristle when he turns up the volume and listen to the words of the person recording the scene.
“Do you know where she is?” Evan asks.
“Do you know where your father is?” Anthony counters.
“No, but he’s the reason she stayed here in the first place,” Grayson reluctantly adds.
His gaze meets Evan’s for a brief moment.
“Oh, trust me I know,” Anthony spits. “The question is why in the world would someone lead me to Joe Hawthorne’s bed with my dead sister in it?”
The room goes completely silent. It’s as if all the air is sucked out and not even the tips of the lit cigars burn with its absence.
Anthony runs his hands through his hair and holds them up in defeat. He looks at Grayson when he finally speaks.
“I’m staying here until I get answers or until I get retribution,” Anthony swears.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Evan offers.
Anthony gives Evan a rueful smile.
“I’m not going to be sorry about yours,” he promises Evan and stands.
