The Red Ledger

by Meredith Wild

  A small sound escapes her, disappearing in the melding of our lips. My eyes barely close, because I don’t trust her, or anyone. As her tongue seeks mine, her flavor floods my senses. Sweet and fresh. Soft surrender. She holds nothing back, so neither do I. I kiss her deeper to take in more of her essence. As I do, my eyes close.

  Then she’s on the bright-white screen of my mind. The visual is overexposed, like a memory. She’s under me. Her body moves with mine. We’re fucking. I can feel her everywhere. She’s overwhelming all my senses. The fantasy takes hold and arousal prickles my skin—everywhere we touch and everywhere we don’t.

  Except it all feels too real. Feels too good to be a fantasy. In seconds, my body begins to respond to the closeness of hers. Which is just fucking great.

  I can already see this will be yet another distraction I can’t afford. I was hired to kill this woman. Now I’m about to kidnap her and keep her until she can tell me things I’m not yet sure I want to know. And all I can think about is getting inside her.

  There’s no time for this.

  I break the kiss and try to mentally erase the disturbing erotic image. But Isabel replaces it in the flesh, breathless, her eyes hazy. She looks how I feel. Overwhelmed. Confused. Ready to fuck.

  The pulse at her neck beats rapidly. She might be turned on, but she’s scared too. And even if she thinks she knows me, she’s too smart to give me her trust. I only need a little of it to get us out of here.

  I brush her hair back off her face. I’m not accustomed to charming my way to a desired end, but I manage a small reassuring smile. “I need you to trust me. Okay?”

  She softens, but I keep my hold on her.

  “I want to,” she utters.

  It has to be enough. I don’t ask, and I don’t tell her again. I simply guide her into the car, shut the door, and move back to the driver’s seat.

  As I start the ignition, I’m anything but relieved.

  Two hours go by, and already the drive is too long. Isabel’s presence dominates the small space of the car and every crevice of my mind. She chews her lower lip and wrings her fingers as the city turns into jungle and the road narrows. Her fear and uncertainty don’t affect me. The longing in her eyes does. Her confusion seems laced with an affection I can’t comprehend.

  She has questions, and so do I. I have no idea how I’ll answer hers. I wasn’t prepared for this. I grip the wheel and cycle through my options.

  Killing her would have been so much easier. I’ve built this new life on the surety of the kill. The simplicity of it. Nothing is simple now.

  I keep my eyes straight ahead. “We know each other.”

  A statement. A question.

  I could spend days coaxing the truth out of her, pretending to know about whatever connection we share. But if I have to kill her anyway—and despite my strong urge to fuck her, I will have to kill her—the truth can do no harm. I realize this in a moment of sudden clarity.

  I brave a look in her direction. She stares back in confused silence.

  “Of course we do.”

  I break the stare and focus on the road. “How?”

  I refuse to meet her gaze again. The late-afternoon sun is setting ahead of us, turning the sky orange and mauve above the trees as we pass through town after town.

  “You know…”

  I shake my head slightly. “I have gaps”—I swallow hard, pushing down the unwelcome feeling that comes with the truth—“pretty big gaps in my memory. I recognize you. I just have no idea why.”

  I can feel her gaze hot on me. The air between us is thick with emotions neither of us can fully understand. I turn, and the tears in her eyes confirm the pain I’ve inflicted with this admission.

  “We were in love,” she utters, almost too quietly to be heard.

  I curse inwardly. Another complication I don’t need.

  “When?”

  “It’s been six years since you left.”

  “Since I left?”

  “You joined the military right out of high school. I went to college, but you never came home.”

  I nod slowly. She’s an old girlfriend. From high school, for fuck’s sake. Nothing. She’s nothing. Lovesick and naïve, thanks to a narrow, privileged existence. If she were important, surely she’d have been somewhere in my memories. Somewhere in the dreams or nightmares, the smallest flashes of remembrance, the blurred darkness that is my past.

  My stomach clenches. My grip tightens around the wheel. The urge to dig through those clues and learn more is dangerous. For years, I’ve existed for no other reason than to breathe, point, and shoot. Even if Jay hasn’t all but promised it, inherently, I’ve always known that reaching beyond that basic state of being is inevitably painful and likely to end in death. Not others’ for once, but mine. Yet here I am, seeking out my past. Drawn to the irresistible beacon of Isabel Foster and the things she knows about me.

  “If you don’t remember me…how did you know where to find me?”

  I make a turn onto a dirt road and ease off the gas. Outside of Jay and the people whose light left their eyes at my hand, very few people know exactly what I do. Mateus knows enough to be an ally. I trust him because I did him a favor once, and now he owes me about a thousand in return.

  Ahead, a pristine white stucco house is set back on a large lot protected by several feet of well-kept gardens and a wrought-iron gate. I slow at the entrance and dial Mateus’s number.

  He answers after the first ring. “Tristan?”

  “I’m here.”

  The call ends and the gates, armed by guards on either side, slowly open. I pull through and drive up the winding path to the house. Every inch closer brings an unexpected calm over my rattled nerves. A momentary reprieve is what I need, and I’ll find it here.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ISABEL

  I’ve never been this far outside the city. Every instinct is shouting at me. It’s the same voice that keeps me on high alert when I’m in uncharted territory or edging outside my comfort zone. Tristan leaves the vehicle and pops the trunk, while I hold on to the door handle with a white-knuckled grip. What if this was all a terrible mistake?

  I want to trust him. I told him so, but that was two seconds after he kissed me like the Tristan I remember. The second our lips touched, an avalanche of memories rushed in. Stolen moments, heated touches, and forbidden nights. Everything precious that clung to the hurt he’d caused me, making him impossible to forget.

  In my periphery, a man descends the white stone steps that lead to the grand entrance of the home. He smiles warmly, and I hear his muffled greeting to Tristan from inside the car. I take a deep breath, gather my resolve, and step out.

  “It’s good to see you, meu amigo.” The man’s gaze shifts swiftly to me. “And who is this?” His accent is thick and brusque.

  “I’m Isabel.” I smile weakly and take his outstretched hand to shake it.

  In one fluid motion, he brings it to his lips and brushes a kiss against my skin. The warmth in his dark eyes chases away the discomfort the gesture should give me. The man has charm, and even though my entire life changed a few hours ago, somehow I’m grateful we’re here and not someplace even more frightening.

  “I’m Mateus da Silva. Muito prazer em conhecê-la. Welcome to my home.”

  “Obrigada,” I mutter.

  Tristan’s eyes darken as he hauls our bags over his shoulder. “Shall we?”

  “Of course.” Mateus hesitates a moment before easing away, nodding toward Tristan, and leading us toward the house.

  We step inside onto a well-worn Persian rug that stretches into an expansive living area. The walls are covered with dozens of paintings of varying sizes. Each is trimmed with gold leaf and light dust. Antique furniture hugs the walls and completes several small entertaining areas. The tables are decorated with ornate lamps and bronze statues.

  The guards at the gate and the heavily barred windows tell me whatever he keeps in this house is worth protecting. I’m t
elling myself it has to do with the wall-to-wall antiques and nothing to do with the danger that Tristan insists we’re running from.

  “Are you hungry from your travels? I can have a meal prepared.”

  “We’ll eat in the room,” Tristan answers quickly. “Where are we staying?”

  Mateus motions us to follow him down a hall. He seems unaffected by Tristan’s grim mood. A sinking feeling washes over me. If this is normal behavior for Tristan, who has he become? Is there anything left of the man I fell in love with so many years ago? I can’t think that way…

  We pause outside one of the doors, which Mateus pushes open. “The honeymoon suite,” he says with a smirk.

  Tristan frowns but doesn’t reply. He only guides me into the room that matches the rest of the house—rich textures and deep colors. The bed is draped in a red satin bedspread, its ornate metal headboard pressed to the wall like a piece of art in itself.

  “I will have Karina bring you dinner. I’ll be in the den if you need me, Tristan.”

  “Thank you,” Tristan says after dropping our bags to the floor. He meets Mateus’s gaze briefly, and I swear something passes between them. An understanding, a wordless exchange.

  “Good night, Isabel.” Mateus bows his head before retreating, leaving us alone again.

  I walk to the window. Through the bars, all I can see are trees and the winding drive up to the house. I wrap my arms around myself and turn to face Tristan.

  “Are you going to give me my phone now?”

  My first two requests were refused, which only ramped up my panic on the ride here.

  “Not yet.”

  I tense with renewed anxiety. Then I remind myself that I know Tristan. Maybe he doesn’t know me, but once upon a time, he was a man I could trust. A good man.

  “I left with you without telling anyone. I have a job and a life and friends who—”

  “I’m sure your boyfriend can live without you for a few days.” He stands in the middle of the room with his arms crossed. The muscles in his jaw tighten, and the air becomes thick with tension I don’t understand.

  Then I remember the photos of Kolt and me together in his file. “Are you talking about Kolt?”

  He shrugs slightly. “The American who can’t keep his hands off you.”

  My cheeks heat like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. “Kolt isn’t my boyfriend.”

  He lifts an eyebrow but otherwise maintains an inexpressive countenance. In an instant, I want him to be jealous, because it means something still exists between us. He was so possessive once. So convinced that we were meant to be together, two halves of a whole that no amount of time or distance could keep apart.

  I drop my hands to my sides. “Would you care if he were?”

  “No,” he says flatly.

  His blunt answer lashes back at me, reward for an indulgent moment of yearning for his affection again after such an absence. “What do you want from me, Tristan?”

  He stares at me a moment before turning toward the crushed-velvet couch that lines one wall of the room. He sits down and drops his head into his hands. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

  For the first time since he kissed me, I sense his vulnerability. I fight the urge to go to him and wrap my arms around him. My fingers itch to touch him. But what good can my touch do when he doesn’t know me? I still can’t fathom that our entire history has been erased. A part of me refuses to believe it’s true.

  I swallow over the painful tightness in my throat. “What really happened to you?”

  “I don’t know very much,” he says. “When I woke up… Everything was kind of a blur. Jay—” A deep groove cuts between his dark brows. “I had been on a tour overseas, on a special ops team. A mission went wrong…really wrong. I guess it was bad enough that my life in the military was over and my freedom would be in jeopardy if I didn’t disappear. Someone on the inside pulled strings to give me a second chance. A chance to start over as someone else.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Three years ago. Everything before that…it’s just flashes. So small that I can’t tell if it’s real or just my imagination. Kind of like a dream you can’t fully remember.”

  The last letter from Tristan had come to me six months after his enlistment. Long before this incident occurred. When he said goodbye and ended things between us, he had his memory. Six agonizing years compound onto my heart. The emotional pain turns physical as my chest constricts and pinpricks cut into my palms.

  He looks up at me, his eyes clear and wide. For the first time, I’m convinced of the emptiness of his memories. I push my pain away and reach for compassion. If he brought us here to fill in the gaps, I’m probably the only one who can help.

  “Why did you bring me here?”

  His lips thin and his features tighten. “It’s not safe for you in Rio. Not anymore.”

  I jump at a knock at the door. Tristan rises as a beautiful young woman arrives with a tray full of dishes in her arms. He relieves her of it, and she closes the door. He sets the tray on the table by the bed and gestures toward it.

  “Eat.” He turns away and shoves his hands into his pockets.

  “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “No.”

  I huff, cross my arms, and ignore the pang in my stomach. I powered through my lunch, but the stress of the afternoon and the hours passed have me starving. Still, bigger issues loom. I’m not ready to accept his silence and avoidance.

  “You need to talk to me, Tristan. You can’t leave me in the dark.”

  He spins back, his eyes narrowed. “In the dark? My past is pitch black, Isabel.”

  I hesitate, momentarily thrown by his anger. “I’m sorry, but—”

  “You’re sorry? You have no idea who or what you’re dealing with.” His tone is low and, if I didn’t know better, threatening. “And I don’t need your goddamn pity. Eat your dinner.”

  My temper flares at his words. In an instant, I forget that Tristan is essentially a stranger off the street. I push to my feet and get so close our faces are mere inches apart.

  “You either talk to me or I’m going home. I don’t care how dangerous you say it is.”

  I expect anger, but his expression flattens into a hard calm. Somehow that’s even scarier.

  “You’re not leaving here, Isabel.”

  There’s something final about his tone, nearly knocking the wind out of me.

  I maneuver past him and go for my bag. Before I can get to it, he’s between me and the door.

  “I don’t think you heard me. You’re not leaving.”

  I place my hands on his chest to push him away, but the second I attempt it, I’m stumbling backward. He bands his arms around my torso, dragging us toward the bed. My hands are free, so I pound against his shoulders and struggle against his massive strength.

  “Let me go! Let me go, or I’ll scream!”

  I’m already yelling, but he doesn’t seem to care. My heart is racing, and hateful tears burn behind my eyes. Inside, I’m at war with my innate trust in him and the fear he inspires.

  Any possibility of escape is squashed when I realize he’s got me entirely immobile—hands around my wrists and his hard, heavy body pinning me flat to the bed, my legs kicking feebly off the edge. He repositions my wrists into one of his hands, reaches behind his back, and retrieves a sliver of plastic.

  I scream and pray that Mateus’s earlier affection might save me now.

  But he never shows, and Tristan has deftly cinched each wrist to the metal bedposts. The cable tie is thin enough to sting me when I test it but thick enough that I don’t have a chance of breaking it without really hurting myself.

  As quickly as he secured me, he lifts off me twice as fast.

  He paces once around the room.

  “Why are you doing this?” My voice is weak and watery. I can’t fight him now. I can only appeal to his humanity.

  He stops and pivots in my direction. His eyes are ice. N
o shred of the man I knew. A second later, he’s out the door and I’m alone. I cry and then I scream. I scream until my throat burns. Until the sky fades into a black night and sleep overwhelms me.

  TRISTAN

  “Who is the girl?”

  Mateus shuffles barefoot toward the sideboard that holds a few bottles of his favorite liquors and a set of cut glasses. His linen clothing hangs loosely on his short and stocky frame. His calm expression and easy movements are perfectly relaxed. He’s at home, appearing so comfortable that I have no choice but to feel at home myself, as much as I ever could.

  Part of Mateus’s gift is his ability to put people at ease. That’s also what makes him lethal. No one ever sees him coming.

  “No one of importance, as far as I can tell,” I say.

  An old girlfriend. I chastise myself for this new fact as a smirk curves Mateus’s cheek.

  “You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”

  He brings me a tumbler of clear liquid muddled with limes. One sniff, and I identify the local brand of cachaça. The essence of sugarcane fills my mouth, but the lime clears it away, inviting me to another taste. I swallow, welcome the sensation, and exhale a sigh.

  I close my eyes and think about her taste. The way it consumed me when I had it on my tongue. Then doubt and rational thought wash it away.

  When I open my eyes, Mateus is sitting on the adjacent couch watching me. Tan leather cracked with wear and use slides under his palm as he rests it on the arm.

  “She is very beautiful,” he says.

  I nod. Isabel’s beauty is indisputable. I just wish it was the only thing drawing me to her.

  “She looks at you like you are precious to her. I had no idea such a creature could exist in your world.”

  I take another swallow and weigh my next words. Everything about this situation is uncomfortable for me. My past is foreign soil, a battleground I’ve never seen before. I’m unarmed and completely unready for it.