by Angela White
2
Nerves began to settle onto Angela as the miles slowly passed, and she found herself hoping he would keep going all night. She was more than grateful for the rescue, but she had expected to have at least one more day to figure out what to say to him. What she needed was dangerous, and she was crazy to think she could guilt him into it with something that had happened so long ago. It would never hold him through all they would face.
Then tell him the basics and let him make his own choices, the witch advised her, and Angela agreed. That’s exactly what she would do, and hope the rest took care of itself.
Her dreams had kept some things alive in her memory–like the feathered black hair, that sexy blue gaze, and his full, pouty lips–but she had forgotten about his hard, tanned skin and the way a couple days’ stubble was so attractive on him. Marc was like a modern day cowboy now, with wider shoulders and lean hips inside dusty jeans and scuffed boots. He wore a wide-brimmed, faded black hat, and of course, there was the outline of a dog tag beneath his shirt and black trench coat. He also sported a gun on each hip, crisscrossed belts accenting the great shape he was in.
Her Brady was all grown up, and she hoped (feared) that what had once been between them would make him help her when anyone else would refuse. They had been true friends once, lovers…maybe even soul mates. She was counting on those feelings and his sense of honor, but also worrying about how to protect her heart. She would have to be careful not to even accidentally encourage or imply anything that she had no intentions of restarting. The past was done. They couldn’t go back.
By 2:00am, storm clouds, thick and white, were rolling overhead, and Angela was ready to stop, too tired to worry about talking. She wiped at her blurry eyes as they rolled onto yet another weed-dotted gravel road, and a street sign flashed by too fast in the darkness.
They went past small, empty-feeling buildings that she recognized as restrooms and showers. She assumed this was a campground of some kind, or maybe even the rear of the state forest she had been in. They were on a dirt path, and Marc’s brake lights stayed lit as he came to a stop in front of a wide log house with a two-car garage that boasted a single, dark second-floor window. A caretaker’s home, maybe? Garbage littered the area, and the trees were more spaced out, spots still cleared for tents and campsites, but only oddly colored weeds grew in those neat rock circles. It was spooky, and she jumped when the radio lit up.
“I need to check it out. Stay close, okay?”
“Yes.” Angela shut off her engine but didn’t get out. She wanted to watch him, wanted to see if the Marine took over the man the way it did with Kenny, but she (and the witch) also needed to know where her enemies were. She shut her burning eyes, searching for the evil twins that she had stopped Marc from killing.
3
Dillan and Dean were acting as if they hadn’t been bested, bloated egos unable to accept the fact that one woman and man had hurt them so badly, but inside they were humiliated, furious, and on the hunt. They were familiar with black magic, understood what possessing the witch could do for them, but it was the humiliation that would keep them following.
They were tracking the couple with their lights out, blood-soaked pants and jackets sticking to the seats of their jeep, and the two identical Blazers were easy to see as their brake lights flashed like red beacons in the darkness. Not disconnecting those bulbs was a huge mistake. It was understandable, considering the circumstances, but it was also enough to get them trapped.
Without speaking about it, the brothers accepted that this woman was different and required a more careful approach.
“You have gas left?” Dean asked, staying low as Dillan observed their prey through the binoculars. They had followed separate trails for the first two days of tracking the woman, being careful not to lose her, until tonight, when they’d come together for the attack.
“Two gallons, you?”
Dean smothered a cry, fingers digging deep into his thigh for the bullet. “Four. Wait until they’re asleep and send them both to hell?”
Dillan’s face was a mask of hatred as he rewrapped his mauled wrist. “Just don’t shoot unless you have to. I wanna hear her scream while she burns.”
4
Marc frowned as he came out of the garage. She hadn’t emerged from the Blazer that was even the exact same shade of mud-splattered black as his own. Able to feel the hum of raw energy, he stopped himself from reaching for the handle, knowing instinctively that she was hunting for the brothers.
When she opened the door, Marc stepped closer, thinking she didn’t look thirty years old. He, on the other hand, knew he was five years older than that by the age lines and grey hair starting to show up in his mirror. His birthday had been eight days before the war, and Marc suddenly wished he had celebrated it this time.
“Everything okay?”
Angela shrugged, slowly coming out of the zone. “For now, I think, but they’ll come for us… For me.”
Her voice doesn’t sound right, Marc thought.
Angela didn’t tell him she had seen only darkness in the future. She slowly eased out of the Blazer, trying not to wince at the pain in her gut.
As she moved, Marc saw she had a Therma-Care patch stuck to her seat. What a great idea.
He scanned the .357 on her hip. Her random firing at the twins told him that she didn’t know what she was doing with the six-shooter. It was probably too big for her hands, chosen because it was pretty. Marc sighed inwardly. She’d be better off with his old piece of shit...though really, the M9 in the bottom of his kit didn’t fit that old USMC nickname. He’d had more respect than that.
“We’ll both make some real distance in the next few days and lose them for good.”
Angela shivered as the fog cleared, hoping he was right. The two men were dangerous, and she should have let Marc take care of them…Marc. They were together again.
She peered up, becoming aware of a thickness between them.
Marc couldn’t help staring at her in stunned happiness, moving closer. He felt like he was in one of his dreams, and he didn’t register the fear on her face as his arms came up, nor the rigid body he wrapped them around with a groan of longing. “God, I’ve missed...”
“Let go of me!”
Marc retreated from the fear in her voice as if burned. Angie was afraid of him?
“Not at all,” she lied, hoping he hadn’t noticed her hand plunging toward her gun. “I don’t like to be touched.”
Since when? His eyes narrowed with questions he knew she wouldn’t answer yet.
“Is it okay to go in?” She buttoned up her long black sweater and then slung two big duffle bags over her shoulder.
“Yes. Window’s covered, so our lights won’t be seen.”
Angela hit her rear latch button and shut her door, not looking at the decaying bodies of two wood thrushes near her tire, or the man she’d dreamed about almost nightly for years. During the day, she’d been careful to keep Kenny from picking anything up, but the dreams were hers and she’d used them to remember.
“Get what you need, and I’ll take it in.”
“I’ve got it.”
Marc wasn’t surprised that she refused and stepped by him. The waves of anger now coming from her stiff form were hard to mistake. He went to get his own gear, stealing little glances, and he could feel her doing the same.
When she stepped into the dark garage without hesitation, it surprised him. The Angie he had known was very afraid of the dark, terrified even.
This isn’t her, the voice inside advised. Go slowly.
As Marc stepped in behind her, Angela quickly switched to the far side of the small, mostly empty room, the pen light on the chain around her neck shining dimly. He watched her fire up a lantern and put it in the corner, and he knew she was aware of him standing in the doorway, staring. She looked…tense.
“Figured we’d use the loft. It’s a good vantage point,” Marc said matter-of-factly.
Angela s
lid her bags back over one shoulder without argument.
Marc was unable to keep his gaze from her ass as she deftly climbed the ladder and disappeared into the darker shadows of the second floor. She came down less than a minute later, and he said nothing about her cushioned movements as they brought their vehicles inside without talking. Was she in pain? Injured?
Angela backed her muddy SUV in first, while Marc held the garage door. When they switched places, he rolled by her with a silly wave and smile that reminded her of the past, when he had been willing to try anything to pull a laugh from her.
Instantly sad, Angela headed to the loft and set up the heater. Having emotions sucked.
Angela sighed in relief as the red glow came on and began to warm her fingers. She had chosen the far rear corner, the side that was bare, dusty planks. She was making her bed as Marc came up the stairs.
Knowing from her life with a Marine that he would want the spot closest to the door, she unrolled her bag in the far corner, thinking one of them had to say something soon to cut the tension. It was awkward, sad. Once they had been so–
“Where did you find a heater? I kept finding the cylinders, but no actual base.”
His tone was impressed, and Angela tried unsuccessfully to pretend it wasn’t relief filling her at the sound of another human voice. “The basement of a Goodwill. It’s great to have.”
Marc was studying her, she could feel him hunting for clues to why she had called, and she began to set up the Coleman stove he had brought in, still not sure how to begin that conversation. Outside, the rain fell heavily, drowning out the hard new world on the other side of their four walls.
Marc had taken off the long leather coat, and she was drawn to his thick arms against her will as he dug out his own bedroll. He did indeed put it between her and the ladder, and they both avoided the boxes, bags, tarp-covered bike frames, and tall mirror layered in thick dust that littered the other side of the wide room. There were a million things that she wanted to say. Where to start?
“Want some hot chocolate?”
“That sounds good.”
She handled his stove with an ease that told him she knew what she was doing, and Marc kept quiet, wishing she would meet his stare for more than a second at a time. What was her problem? Was it so bad that she didn’t think he would help? The urge to ask questions was hard to resist, even for him, but he knew she was tired. He could read it on her pale face. If she said she’d rather wait until morning to talk, he would agree, but he’d never be able to sleep.
Angela lit the Coleman, a twin of the one sitting in the rear of her Blazer. When she’d seen him taking his inside, she had left her own packed, and it made her think about their vehicles. They hadn’t just picked the same camping equipment. Of all the cars and trucks in the country, they had chosen the same one, even year and make. Was that a coincidence?
“Can you use that gun on your hip?”
Angela increased the fire on the small pot of water, thinking again that he was like a cowboy from the Old West with his silver crisscrossed gun belts and matching ivory-handled weapons.
“I can load it and pull the trigger. Does that count?” she asked, dumping the packets into the mugs.
Marc noticed she bagged the garbage instead of leaving it. “Not really. You use it before tonight?”
“No. I didn’t want to attract attention. Guess I did that anyway, but I had a flat and the flashlight wasn’t enough.”
She turned to him then, trying hard to hide the pain and misery she had felt these past years.
His dread of her story increased.
“Thanks for coming. There’s no one else I can ask.”
Marc instinctively wanted to comfort her, wanted to insist that she could count on him, and stopped himself. “I’ll help if I can. It’s the best I can do.”
“Hope you feel that way later,” Angela murmured, dumping in the hot water and stirring. When she brought their cups over, she set his down and quickly retreated despite his hand reaching out.
She balanced on each foot to slide her shoes off, feeling his attention. Settling herself on her bedroll, Angela pulled the blanket over her lap before easing out of her sweater to reveal a simple white T-shirt with a flag on the front. The jeans now hidden under the quilt were unfastened around her aching guts, had been for hours while she drove. She had been pushing herself, and now she was paying for it.
Lips tightening at the attempt to hide her pain, Marc also settled on the floor. He busied his hands with cleaning one of his Colts, but his attention stayed mostly on her and the small details that his years of experience allowed him to see.
There was a pretty (small) diamond ring on a chain around her slender neck, a claim of ownership that she obviously still felt, or she wouldn’t be wearing it. She was thinner than he thought she should be–probably only one hundred twenty pounds–and her nose was crooked, though that was barely noticeable. He also spotted the slight shadow of what was probably a nasty scar showing from under the edge of her wrinkled shirt.
She looked scared, sick maybe, and instead of the guilt or anger he had expected her to use, Marc sensed only sadness, and felt that old concern rise up–stronger. He wisely kept his mouth shut, though, sure that anything he said would be met with scorn or sarcasm. This was her show until he agreed, and he hadn’t done that yet.
Their eyes locked, began to melt the ice wall between them, and hers flinched away. There was joy and pain in that brief glance, and once again, Marc admitted there was little she could ask for, that he wouldn’t give.
Angela took a deep breath and then picked another question to stall. “So, are you really a Marine or do you just like being a moving target?”
Marc grinned, a bit surprised that she knew he was military and what branch. Most civilians didn’t, and he wondered what had given him away.
“Been doing it a long time. Saw no reason to change,” he stated carefully, slowing his hands on the gun. This was obviously going to take a while.
“What’s your rank?”
“I was a sergeant.”
She stared at him curiously. “Why only an E5?”
He was surprised again by her knowledge, and he shrugged, starting to worry. Was her man military too? “I disobeyed a direct order too many times. Lost rank.”
“When did you enlist?” She hated herself for being unable to stop the old Angela from asking, but couldn’t deny the need to know.
Marc snorted and noticed she jumped. She’d been attacked. She had every reason to be a little twitchy.
“I didn’t enlist,” he replied with heavy sarcasm. “It was either put in my time or go to prison for statutory rape. I’ve been a jarhead for fifteen years.”
Her expression was guarded. Fifteen years. Right after they were caught in her bedroom.
“The first year was bad, but I learned not to draw fire, and I made a life. I do...did things that most people can’t even imagine.”
“Sounds like you’ve enjoyed it.”
“For the most part, yes. It was good, knowing I was making a difference.” Marc tried to get her to meet his eye. “What about you, Angie? Have you been okay?”
The question was abrupt and she lowered her eyes. “It’s had good days and bad days.”
Simple. Marc studied the bags beneath her long, dark lashes, the broken, jagged fingernails, and the unhealthy color of her pale skin. Too simple.
“More bad than good, right? Otherwise, you wouldn’t have called me.”
She nodded, but didn’t give any details, and Marc felt guilt roll over him as if she was screaming. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake.”
Angela lit a smoke, a flash of annoyance streaking across her mind. Did he regret loving her or not coming for her? “I don’t need your apology, just your help.”
“I will if I can,” he repeated. “Tell me.”
She let out a deep sigh that told him he wouldn’t like any of it, and, as with the note, he read between her words and mis
sed little.
“I left some things out of the letter. Important to you and me, but it’s nothing my son needs to feel bad for.”
Marc waved a hand, understanding what she wanted from him. “This stays between us. My word.”
The wind gusted, moving things around outside and she flinched again. Dog continued pacing in front of the door, noticing her tension, Marc assumed. It was hard to miss.
Angela inhaled and blew out a thick cloud of smoke. “We’ve been living with a man named Kenny for the last fourteen years. We met at the hospital where I gave birth. He was there for rehab on his arm. I had talked my way into a job as a lab assistant, running packages between floors to pay for my medical classes. He seemed normal enough, safe, dependable, and I ended up telling him everything one night on my break.”
She paused and sucked in a breath. “He acted horrified that I was a single, underage mother on the run, living in a sleazy hotel, working ten-hour shifts, and spending another six hours, four days a week, in classes. Was scandalized that I had to have the hotel manager’s drunken sister and teenage daughter babysit.”
“And the concerned Samaritan offered you a deal you couldn’t refuse.”
She nodded again, and the hate in her depths left no doubt. He had been forced to leave her, and she had been hurt. Marc braced himself. “What was the deal?”
She met his eyes with pain that he knew wasn’t faked.
“Me. I had to accept him as my…owner, until my son is nineteen.”
“Nineteen?”
Angela crushed out her butt and opened a flat black case to pull out a thick, neatly rolled blunt. Outside, the wind howled in warning, but neither of them noticed.
“He said the extra year was his bonus for being such a good citizen. He never let me forget he was caring for someone’s bastard.”
