White Widow

by Kaitlyn Cross

  But one thing is for sure…I’m getting stronger.

  “Are you okay?” I hear Lincoln ask, though I must be mistaken. Why would he care how I’m doing?

  Discreetly swiping at a tear, I avoid his eyes. “Are you?” Incredulously, he wraps an arm around me and pulls me against him. I can’t believe it and lose the battle with my tears. I just confessed to murdering his asshole brother and he’s comforting me? “I’m sorry,” I sob and it’s all I can say. It’s all I have left to offer. An empty apology that won’t fill a tea cup.

  Slipping the gun into its holster, he holds me close. We don’t speak at first and maybe that’s for the best. Instead, we listen to the crickets hiding in the dark. A shooting star scratches the night and I make a wish. One I will never tell a soul. Lincoln sighs and I can’t believe he hasn’t stormed off to the Chevelle parked two blocks away. I don’t want to lose him and now there’s a sexual war twisting my insides into mush. One Jack passed on to me like a virus. Not wanting to press my luck, I remain silent and collect my racing thoughts. My tongue and mind need to be on the same page now more than ever.

  “What happened, Sienna?” he finally asks, holding me out by the arms for a better look. “I want you to tell me everything.”

  My eyes fog over as I boldly travel back in time to that horrible day. It’s the last place I want to go, but I have to for Lincoln. It’s the only road to take, bumpy and lined with IEDs. My throat clicks when I swallow. “Jack came inside from cleaning the gutters for another beer, and I called him out on his affair with the blond guy.” My chest hitches, but I barely notice. “He started yelling and threw his beer bottle against the floor before chasing me upstairs…”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Slap!

  Two Weeks Ago

  Tugging on his collar to relieve some of the red building in his face, Jack glares across the king-sized bed at me and all I can think about is why the sleeping pills I ground up and slipped in his beer aren’t taking effect. I’ve done this before and, usually, they’ve kicked in by now. Contrary to popular belief, he’s fuming and wide awake and I am in trouble.

  “You want a divorce, Sienna?” he asks in a rhetorical growl, waving the divorce papers at me. “Here’s your divorce!”

  “Jack, please!”

  Tearing the packet to pieces, he tosses them into the air with my feelings. Together, they seesaw to the bed and floor and I see red. I want to kill him, plain and simple. Those documents took forever to round up, let alone fill out, and I just need his fucking signature. Curling his hands into those hammers I don’t ever want to see again, he spits to the carpet. “I’ll give you something alright, but it won’t be a divorce.”

  “Look, I don’t want anything from you,” I say, keeping the bed between us while trying not to cry. “I just want out.”

  “Oh, you just want out? Okay, I get it.” Hitting me with his signature grin, he unbuckles his leather belt and slowly pulls it through the loops of his dirty designer jeans, feeding my distress. He’s using his anger to make me feel small, to mask the fear I see hiding in the back of his eyes. He’s frightened and half drunk. Anything can happen. The gun in the nightstand flares in my mind’s eye and, as luck would have it, the nightstand is right next to me. I’m standing on Jack’s side of the bed and I may just get out of this alive yet.

  Folding the belt in two, Jack pulls hard on the leather, producing a sharp slap. A destructive smile sweeps across his face and if he thinks he’s going to beat me with that belt again, he’s got another thing coming. Divorce papers or not, this is where that shit stops. Forever.

  “Bend over and grab your ankles,” he whispers, letting the belt hang like a whip in his hand.

  “Put it down, Jack,” I whisper back, cursing the quiver in my voice.

  He takes a step closer and stops. “Bend. Over.”

  My eyes dart to the nightstand, exposing my intentions. It’s now or never. Yanking the drawer back, I grab the gun hiding inside and swing it around to him. My pulse takes off running and hope pushes through my fear. “You come any closer and I’ll shoot,” I say, my rapid heartbeat slurring my words. “Just like you taught me at the range.”

  Frowning, Jack looks up to the tray ceiling above and runs a hand down his face. “You disappoint me, Sienna.”

  “Drop the belt, Jack.”

  Tipping his chin down and blowing out a tired breath, his eyes find mine and there’s something glimmering in the far reaches of his pupils. Something dark and twisted. I can see it as clearly as the Stanford logo on his soiled sweatshirt he only wears for yardwork. His eyebrows go up. “You going to shoot your own husband?” He steps closer. “After everything we’ve been through together?”

  “Stop moving,” I warn, cocking the hammer back with a double-click that sends my nerves into a heightened sense of reality.

  He stops and studies me through pity-filled eyes, like he actually feels sorry for me. Like he feels anything for me to feel sorry about. Then, as I might’ve guessed, his teaching voice comes out and I hate when he uses that trick on me. “Sienna, put the gun down and we’ll forget this whole damn thing ever happened. I promise.”

  Holding the heavy gun out in both hands, my arms begin to shake. It feels like I’m holding a cinderblock. “I will never forget, Jack. And one way or another, this is where you and I part ways.”

  His face falls and when he starts to chuckle, my skin crawls on my bones. Filling his lungs with a deep breath, the smile stalls on his face. Boldly, he comes around the foot of the bed. “I said, bend over and grab your ankles.” Gritting his teeth, he cracks the belt again and I squeeze the trigger.

  Jack stops and stares at me, disappointment filling his eyes. “Looks like you forgot something, Sienna.”

  My gaze falls to the gun in my hands. Ejecting the empty magazine inside, my hope sinks like a wounded ship. Tossing the magazine behind me, I jerk my eyes to the open drawer. Other than some lube Jack uses when he makes me do anal, it’s empty inside. Like me.

  Jack pulls on the belt. Slap! “You’re going have to look a little harder than that, Sienna. In fact, you might actually have to put a little work into something for the first time in your life.”

  Breath racing, I glance at the open doorway behind him.

  Jack swings the belt down on the bed, making me jump. Laughter splits his lips. “You’re not going anywhere, Sienna,” he says, growing gravely quiet. “This is your home.” He comes closer and I back against the wall, gun hanging heavy in my hand. He smiles at my reaction and stumbles a bit, leaning against the footboard for support. The color drains from his face and sweat droplets pop out across his brow. Shaking his head to clear it, he pushes off and staggers towards me. It’s like he’s walking into a headwind and I want to laugh but I’m still too terrified to do anything but press up against the wall. Jack stops against our dresser to collect his breath and I almost smile.

  Head hanging heavy, he glances at me. “You make me sick just looking at you. Try getting a real job,” he says, dropping the belt to the floor and stumbling from the room. “You’re just bored!”

  His words fuel the rage burning in my chest. Tossing the gun onto the bed, I follow him out into the hallway. His crooked footsteps rattle the floor lamps and framed pictures against the walls. “Or maybe you just don’t have what it takes to satisfy a real woman,” I say from behind, ready for battle. My words stop him at the top of the stairs and when he turns to face me, there’s no masking the anger in his heavy-lidded eyes. I hit him where it hurts and it makes me glow.

  I stop in front of him and those hammers pop back out on the end of his arms. I want him to hit me because this time I will call the police. This time I will end it. “You’re not a woman,” he says, the smell of sour beer floating on his breath. “You’re a prop. Now, go back to your room, order another handbag, and shut – your – fucking – hole.” The hint of a grin brushes the corner of his lips in a brazen show of triumph just before he turns to go downstairs. />
  My anger climaxes into a blinding ball of fury I cannot contain. It’s bright and hot and, sooner or later, a smoking volcano has to erupt. There is no other way. Nature always prevails. Setting my jaw, I shove both hands into Jack’s muscular back. He pitches forward in slow motion and everything gets graveyard quiet. His arms pinwheel through the air and I pushed so hard, I nearly fell with him but I grab the bannister and stop my forward momentum at the last second. Jack, however, isn’t so lucky. He falls awkwardly, twisting through the air. A loud crack breaks the uneasy silence when his head finds a wooden step. His body follows, cartwheeling down the stairs and landing in a heap at the bottom. For the longest time, I just stare at the blood pooling around his head and all I can think about is how lucky I am we don’t have carpet. If we did, I could be in serious trouble. But we don’t. We have dark hardwoods running throughout and my chest relaxes a little. Downstairs, I step over Jack’s lifeless body, certain he will latch onto my ankle at any second. Knowing that if he does, I’m as good as dead. But he doesn’t. Instead, he just lays there and bleeds on the floor. Chasing my breath, it doesn’t take me long to figure out what to do next because it’s written on my reflection’s face in the French door.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Whores, Gold-diggers, and the Weak

  Present Day

  Lincoln leans back into the sectional and runs a hand down his face, pulling a tired sigh from his lips. “Jesus Christ, you’re lucky he didn’t kill you.”

  “I know,” I glumly reply from an armchair, studying his body language from a safe distance across the living room.

  He pulls a pillow out from beneath him. “Third time’s a charm,” he mutters, tossing it to the side.

  With a whiskey sour wrapped in my hands, I watch his gaze climb the curved staircase and I know exactly what’s going through his mind. I can see the whole thing playing out against those eyes of his and it breaks my heart to see him reduced to stilted movements and phrases. Bringing a cold bottle of beer to his lips, he tips it back and takes a quick pull. My eyes trip over the black duffel bag lying next to the fireplace and it’s such a silly thing to wonder, I nearly laugh. The unreadable look on his face makes me squirm. A premonition of Lincoln going to the police creeps into my mind like a thief in the night – the dreaded worst-case scenario. Pushing the tormented thought to the side, another vision sweeps through like a summer storm. One of him grabbing that duffel bag and never looking back – second worst-case scenario. This one frightens me the most because, unlike the prior, this thought could come to pass. If he’s smart, and he is, he’ll put all this bullshit behind him and move on. That’s what any sane person would do and I’m surprised he’s still here.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, hiding behind my rocks glass.

  His eyes jerk to me and I melt into the chair. “Me too.”

  We grow quiet and I don’t know what that meant. I don’t know why he’s still here and I don’t know what to say next. So I drink. Warmth floods my turning stomach. The fridge kicks on, laying down a steady hum that’s so light you can only hear it in the dead of night. Like now. The thought of never seeing Lincoln again tears me in two but I have to start getting used to the idea because I’ve got a house to sell and a new life to begin. I’m going to need my wits about me to make it out of here in one piece.

  “Did he really use a belt?”

  I look away and shift in the armchair, unable to hold his heavy gaze. Out of everything Jack did to me, the belt was the worst. The most humiliating thing someone could do to a grown woman. “Sometimes.”

  “For what?”

  “Stupid stuff,” I reply, avoiding eye contact. “It was only a time or two.” Or maybe it was ten. At some point, I lost count.

  “Only?” Lincoln blows out an uneasy breath. “Why? Why did you stay?”

  I turn to find him staring at me. I should’ve left Jack and, for the life of me, don’t know why I didn’t. No, that’s not exactly true. “I was scared,” I whisper, cradling my drink in both hands.

  “Scared of what?”

  “Escaping.” Stockholm syndrome whisks through my mind and I blink it away. That wasn’t my survival strategy. Truth is, I didn’t have a strategy. I didn’t know what to do. I was scared he’d kill me if I left him, and scared he’d kill me if I didn’t.

  Leaning forward, Lincoln sets his beer down and buries his face in his hands. “I should’ve made you leave him after he hit you the first time and I’m sorry I didn’t.” He pulls his face from his hands and rubs them together. “I’m sorry I didn’t drag you out of here kicking and screaming.”

  His words echo in my ears and I can’t move. I’m frozen by his bold admission and can only speak in a frightened whisper. “Lincoln, you tried.”

  “Not hard enough! I should’ve called the police!”

  I shake my head. “No, people would’ve looked at me differently. It would’ve changed me.”

  “It already did!” he shouts, making me nearly spill my drink.

  Drawing a deep breath, I soften my tone. “Lincoln, look how people react when women come forward in cases like this.” I sweep a hand across the room. “They call them whores, gold-diggers, and weak. Until that changes, nobody wants to come forward. Especially me.” I pause to gather my thoughts. “Look, I don’t want to be famous or write a book. I don’t want to be the poster child for domestic abuse. I just want to be…”

  “Loved?”

  Looking away, I sip my drink and wish I was somewhere else.

  Coming over to me, he takes my hand and pulls me next to him on the couch. He’s warm and smells like a man. His steady eyes excite my insides and I’m unable to look away. “You can’t stay here,” he tells me. “You’ll be looking over your shoulder the rest of your life. That guy will be back when the money from the car runs out.”

  “I know,” I confess, envisioning a future of sleepless nights and triple-locked doors.

  “You need a fresh start, far from here.”

  Quietly, I nod my agreement.

  “And I know exactly where we should go. I’ve already researched it.”

  Blood rushes into my cheeks. Pulse bangs in my neck. Words won’t come and I want to scream because I need to talk now more than ever but I can’t get anything out. It’s like someone punched me in the stomach, knocking the wind from my sails. Finally, through a rolling fog of disbelief, one tiny word escapes my red-stained lips. “We?”

  He tips his chin down and squeezes my hand. “We.”

  I don’t know what to say. I can hardly believe it. After everything I just told him, there’s still a we? How can that be? What kind of love is this? And how can I get more? My walls come crumbling down and now I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, there will never be another man like Lincoln McConnel. I could spend the rest of my life searching and never come close. When Jack was here, I sometimes felt sorry for myself, asking what I did to deserve this and how I got here. Inevitably, my answer was always the same. Nothing. I did nothing to deserve this and it is time to stop punishing myself for it. It’s time to grab the bull by the horns and do something for me for once. Something I deserve.

  “Unless you’ve got a problem with that,” Lincoln says, pulling me from my daring thoughts. “I can always keep making moracin carrots and lamb sliders at Lou-Lou’s for the rest of my life.”

  “No, I…” Stopping to breathe in a calming breath, I set my glass down and can’t believe I almost missed him. He was standing right in front of me this whole time and, like two ships passing in the night, I almost didn’t see him. After what happened with Jack, I want to believe in love again. I long for the days when I still thought love could happen. Inhaling a sliver of a breath, I barely find my voice. “I killed your brother.”

  He twists on the couch to face me, swiping his thumb across the back of my hand. “Sienna, if I’d known everything that’d been going on between you two, I would’ve killed him myself. Jack was a little prick who got exactly what he deserved.” H
anging his head, he studies his shoes. “You came to me for help more than once and I failed you.”

  “You didn’t fail me; you were the only one I could count on.” I cup his cheeks in my palms and tip his head up to face me. “You saved me.”

  He barely kisses my lips, lighting me on fire. “Not until I get us out of here.”

  “Lincoln, this is your home.”

  “Not if you aren’t in it. I meant what I said before, I love you,” he says, faces just inches apart. “I’ve always loved you and I’m sorry I can’t fix the past. I can only fix the future and if you’re not in it, it’s not worth fixing.”

  His words bind my tongue. No one has ever spoken to me like this before and I can tell by the glimmer in his eyes, he means every damn word. If I push what everyone else will think off to the side and look past the stigma and shame, I can see the forest for the trees. It’s as clear as the sincerity in his eyes. “I love you,” I whisper against his lips. In the blink of an eye, the weight of the world falls from my shoulders. I’m fifty pounds lighter and the colors are rich and vibrant. There’s a glow around him and I can’t tell if it’s from the floor light behind, or some supernatural radiance gifted by God Himself.

  My words catch us both by surprise and Lincoln’s following silence is indicative of the shock swimming in his eyes. We stare at each other with my heart throbbing in my ears. A slow-moving grin eats into his scruffy cheeks and I smile back because those three little words have never felt better on my lips. I’m warm and tingly and letting myself go. Then we kiss. Electricity speeds up my bloodstream and it’s like I’m on some nightclub drug at three in the morning. His lips are hot and the house lights flicker as something incredible rolls through my body, fusing us together. We become one. Two lost pieces returned to whole. Drawing apart, we stare at each other to the soundtrack of our beating hearts.