by Hera August
He doesn’t move.
She stiffens and his shadowed brow follows her transparent reaction, seeming to know where she trembles. His eyes meet hers. It’s like watching lightning strike-open water. She’s never seen such brilliant blue. His eyes ignite her fear, piercing like eyes of a wild animal revealed in headlight beams.
The heaviness of his stare makes her uncomfortable and whatever rude comment tips weighty on her tongue, it melts right then and there. Her stomach ices up and bunches together, just as a warm tingle crawls over and curls around her backbone. She has to look away.
He might be dangerous…
Her instincts snap. Her eyes flare back at his. But his eyes dart down to her hands, her physical response to him evident as they continue to shake. She shoves them into her sweatpants’ pockets, not breaking her stare with his.
And then he does the unthinkable.
He runs a finger lightly, slowly, gradually, down her face, catching onto her top lip for a second. Her whole body goes rigid, but his voice cuts the tension, “Don’t worry, babe. Not my type.”
She’s too shocked to say anything. Too angry to run away, either. When her chin angles up, the heat in his stare evaporates, a tinge of amusement permeating through. The back of her neck burns. He breaks contact first and something intangible falls between them when he looks away. His teeth scrape his bottom lip in a measured step and his eyes narrow around the area as if contemplating whether it’s safe to look at her again. His head shakes slightly, his mouth never smiling.
Oh God. Is he looking to see if there’d be any witnesses?
After what seems like an eternity in Hell, he finally moves away in the opposite direction. She watches, making sure she’s not followed. His stride is arrogant and wide. He’s definitely not from these parts and Belle is more than glad.
A shaky breath escapes her body, the only breath she’s let herself have in the past minute. Her fingers pinch the inside material of her pockets before using the back of her hand to wipe the sweat on her forehead. Her feet feel stapled to the ground, but she forces herself to walk.
Out-of-towners, could be... Stop this. Don’t think about it. He’s just some guy... Just some big-city macho guy who thinks the world revolves around him.
She decides to head back home, busying her mind with unyielding thoughts of packing for college and buying the rest of the medical books she still needs to purchase. Stunning blue-eyed strangers, with haunting devil eyes and breathtakingly handsome features, that spell nothing but trouble—from nowhere—do not fit into her time at all.
When she reaches the quiet of her street, it doesn’t take long to step into the safety of her home and for the front door to click shut behind her. Closing her eyes, relief washes through her. She made it home. Safe. Centering her eye onto the peephole, she watches for any strange signs of life.
“Pumpkin?"
Her body jumps, clipping her head on the door. “Shit!” Her hand is frozen over her heart when she turns around. “Dad! Oh my God. Don't creep up on people like that,” she says, catching her breath. “Maybe a little warning next time.”
“I wasn’t creeping, Isabelle. What’s wrong? Did something happen out there?”
“I thought I, uh… no, nothing, Dad.” The thumping in her chest begins to fade as she ambles over to the landing.
“I really wish you wouldn’t run so late, you—”
“Dad, please. Not now. I thought you guys were still at the warehouse convention thing."
“I had to leave early... work…” he replies, rubbing the back of his neck and sighing. “I have a lot to do." His face is the color of ashen and his eyes are plagued with some unknown trouble. Belle's eyes squint, her head tilts, and a small trail of panic sets in.
The study, as though it had just plummeted down from the Sky, catches her eye. The whole room glows from his dinky desk lamp. She sees papers scattered and two different calculators with receipts long enough to hit the floor.
“Dad, everything okay? You never work this late."
“Fine,” he says, shaking his head.
Fine...
The ambiguous word ticks inside her mind, knowing ‘fine’ means the exact opposite of its definition: ‘I am totally dying inside, please save me from this utter hell that my life has become.' And that is exactly what she hears from her father.
“Dad, what’s going on? Is business bad or something? You forget to add or subtract a number somewhere?" Her small brittle laugh tries to lighten the thick air. But it just seems to make it stuffier.
He steps toward her, placing his hands on her shoulders. They’re warm and protective. “Everything’s fine. Better than fine. I just fell a little behind that's all. I want to make sure everything gets in on time so… This is part of the job, Pumpkin. Being an accountant never stops.” He taps her chin with his fist. “You know that."
She hears herself saying, “Okay,” but it clashes with the alarm bells ringing in her head. The small drops of perspiration over her father's brow, the sunken gray bags under his eyes, it all speaks—screams—something horrible is happening.
“Hey, don't you go worrying about this. I have taken care of this family pretty well so far. Remember, I promised you and your mother we’d never have money problems again. So no loan sharks breaking down the door this time. Don't go thinking the worst like your mother. We’re safe now."
Her mouth moves to trip over her brain. “I'm nothing like Mom, please."
“Go to bed.” He tries to smile but it doesn’t reach his cumbersome eyes.
“Sure you don't need any help?" He shakes his head. “Never off the clock, I guess. Right, Pops?" A half smile pushes at the corner of her lips.
“Never,” he sighs, rubbing his forehead. He points at the stairs, then at her, like she’s eight again. “Get some sleep—a good sleep. Your mother’s worried about you. Thinks you’re a social recluse.”
“Mom's always worried,” she yawns, as her father begins to head back to his study. “And I prefer my own company than Wentworth Creek School of Neanderthals,” she calls out.
“Up. And don‘t wake your baby brother.”
Belle rounds the small foyer, her toes slipping in between the stairs, desperate for words of encouragement. Her father must think she’s already gone. He doesn’t see her examining him. His shoulders shake heavily. Belle doesn’t see any tears spill, but his eyes—two black clouds of hopelessness—close and remain that way for the few minutes she watches. She’s seen this before.
The last time their family fell apart.
“If you need anything…” she whispers, but the rest die in her throat. He can’t hear her, but she says it anyway. For herself, for his problem, for the naïve hope that it will reassure him, comfort him in some way.
Something is definitely not right.
She makes her way to the second floor but passes her bedroom. She will go to sleep. Eventually. Ascending the final set of stairs that lead to the third floor, she opens the door to a whole other world. Her very own portal to Narnia.
Her escape.
Her hiding place.
The attic.
She spends the next three hours on the canvas. Every streak and slap of paint clears her somehow, drains her of all the anger, the hurt, the regret in all its brilliant nonsense. The paint splatters one last time before she steps back in reflection, her eyes squinting.
Focusing on the blue paint, it drips down on the long white canvas in a musical sort of swaying way. The Moon's beams strike against it and like a ghost, the blue—sharp and loud—almost provokes the same reaction a certain set of blue eyes had done earlier.
Belle scratches her cheek, the thick liquid streaks down in a line where her finger had been. Her emptiness goes from hollow to an alarming buzz. Wired and nowhere to go. She tosses the old paintbrush into her bin and takes a few steps toward the only source of light. Here, she can always look out at the Sky for hours at a time, undisturbed.
Leaning her chin on th
e base of the window her eyes scan the surrounding darkness. She enjoys the after-sunset world, watching the star-speckled Sky, listening to frogs and crickets. Darkness soothes, softens the sharp edges of the world, tones down too harsh colors. Her hand comes up and she watches her fingers press into the glass, strum the transparent barrier that separates her from the rest of… everything.
The pain she carries never rests. Heart or mind, she hopes going away to college will cure it. Take away the ache in her core, the bitterness under her skin. It’s lonely being so out-of-tune with everyone.
The vantage point up here makes everything closer and more intense. It’s like a framed painting come to life. Her fingertips tingle with the need to reach out and touch what lays so close before her. A slow and steady breath from her nose steams the window. The Moon is brighter than most nights, and its reflection turns the outside surfaces silver. The leaves on the trees rustle together like an orchestra. Life on her street is still and eerily dead, waiting for dawn, for life to come back and saturate nature again. Like her, there isn’t a single thing moving—
Belle's eyes halt. Something dark moves in the left corner of the window. Her head slants, coming up on her toes. For a moment nothing changes and she’s back to relaxing, her tension fleeting as quickly as it had pounced on her.
But then she sees movement again… Across the street, between the sidewalk and the tree on the neighbor’s yard...
There it is.
A figure in black.
Her ribs suck in, her skin singes with some sort of fear she doesn’t know what to do with, and a thousand ants seem to crawl over her skin. Whoever it is looks right at her house; the form never wavers, just stands and stares.
Watching.
She’s been day-dreaming out the window for at least five minutes now…
Has he been there all this time…? Watching me...?
She feels stripped, a little violated, and a sudden urge to check the locks downstairs clunks in her mind. But she can’t move. Stricken with fear, it takes her prisoner.
A moment later—a moment too long—the man turns, slowly, and walks away. He heads in the opposite direction, vanishing without a trace.
Nothing about him is distinct enough to make out any sort of identification to the police. Besides, what will she say? A figure in the dark was staring at her house past town curfew? Whispers in a small town are hard to block out; the town already thinks of her as strange, a recluse.
His clothes were black and his hair looked black, but then everything at night appears black. Belle tucks her bottom lip in her mouth, the thudding in her chest softening.
That’s strange. She knows he was watching the house. His head was facing in that direction and it never moved, like he was studying something.
She strums her hands on the bottom of the window. He’s gone now. He could have been a drifter looking for a place to stay—or homeless. No matter what her creative mind conjures up, nothing makes her feel better. And that’s the oddest thing. If there’s one thing Belle is good at doing, it’s convincing herself something hasn’t happened, whether it’s true or not. Hell, she’s been doing it since she was thirteen-years-old.
She checks the old clock hanging on the attic wall. It’s nearly 1:00 AM. She never likes to leave this place. It’s her haven. Everything about it and everything in it—from the peeled gray paint, the woody smell, to the dusty antiques—it’s all hers and no-one can take that away from her.
No-one can take away her hiding place.
THREE IN THE MORNING his cell phone wakes him out of deep thought—not sleep. Judas sits in front of the window, his long legs perched on the wood, his motorcycle boots crossed over each other. His view is of a small parking-lot with ten empty spaces save for his Harley-Davidson Dyna. He’s watching nothing, but he keeps doing it anyway.
He leans against the back of the chair making the hind legs tilt to reach the table behind him. The scratch of the two-day-old stubble on his face has his other hand occupied as he presses the talk button.
He doesn’t answer, just listens. “What’s the deal?"
Judas doesn’t blink. His eyes train on the black Sky, the dingy streetlights and the buzz of the neon motel sign. No-one is on to him. Yet. His lips shift, puckering hard in thought. “As expected."
“Good.” Judas likes things done clean and cut, but when your back is against the wall, you have to face the music whether you’re ready or not. “You're the only one I trust to do this right. Can’t have any fucking slip-ups. That's how we got here in the first place."
“I know what to do."
Judas hears Vladimir swallow on the other end. They've been sidetracked for far too long and it’s cost them. Someone from right under their nose has betrayed them. And Judas is here to make them pay.
“Shut down the factory first. Don't want any trace left. Then finish what that bastard started. For good, Judas. Finish him.” There’s a loud bang, the crack of an open palm against wood. Judas doesn’t flinch at the bite in Vladimir’s command; he can practically hear his boss salivating. He knows Vladimir’s thoughts are consumed with nothing else but of bloodshed.
Sweet revenge.
“Yeah. Need to go."
Vladimir doesn’t argue but his words come out short and hesitant, “Check in with me tomorrow. Before everything goes down, all right?"
“Yeah."
Judas ends the call, lost in thought. His mind's eye a straight line of concentration. Vladimir’s words echo in his head. There’s a lot at stake here. But it needs to be done or they risk an even greater chance of being fucked from all sides. Competition, law enforcement, even an insider—they’re always ready to pounce when the iron strikes hot.
He rises to his feet and peers out the window. His hand comes up spreading over the glass like a fleshy spider. Judas is a ghost; the perfect man for the job. A ghost that moves in-and-out of towns so quick and quiet, not even the tumble weeds stir from the aftershock.
He reaches behind his back, the semiautomatic tucked in his jeans is cold against his skin. He brings the .45 up to eye-level and studies the edges, completely aware of how dualistic the gun is to its owner. Cool hard edges all over. He inspects the clip, draws it back and sighs when it snaps into place.
It’s only been two days, but he itches for action. Two days, too long, in one place. His fingers close over the handle, then slips the gun back under his shirt at the base of his spine. Undetectable.
His eyes don’t leave the window. It’ll be dawn in a couple of hours. Tomorrow is the day.
These are the moments he comes alive. Payback. Torture. He pummels men half-to-death in illegal no-holds-barred, underground, bare-knuckle fights—just for fun. But really, it's the killing Judas lives for.
It's the only way he can drown out her screams...
Chapter Two
“WHAT ABOUT THIS?” Looking ahead, her eyes fix onto the skimpy black frock hanging in between Cleo’s two fingers. “Hello?"
Belle chews on the inside of her gum. “Yeah, I’m thinking."
“And not paying attention.”
“That's not a dress, Cleo. It's a piece of stretchy leotard.”
“Exactly. It's so you, it’s not you. Get it?"
“No,” Belle replies, “and I... don't think I want to.” She moves past the younger girl, side-stepping the dress as if it will bite her.
“B, hold up." Belle glares at the clothes Cleo brought over to her house, cursing each one that lays on her bed. “Belle?"
Belle wipes her brow with her sleeve, and bites her lower lip. “What, Cleo?"
“You're going to the ball, right? It like, starts in an hour."
Belle leans her weight on her hip. “Right now… I don't know… I’m only going because somehow my mother persuaded me to.” She looks at her watch. Fifty-minutes stands between her and mingling with the very people she’s done her best to hide from. What is she thinking? “No... No, I’m not going."
Cleo places a gentle
hand on Belle’s arm. “You’ll only regret this if you don't go."
“No I won’t."
“You’ll always wonder what could’ve been—"
“No I won’t."
"—What tall, dark stranger you could’ve met."
“Cleo."
"What fascinating things took place that you missed all because of a little wardrobe trouble.”
Belle picks up a white slip dress. “I'm the adult, remember? I used to babysit you."
“Yeah, yeah—look, it’s about time you show this hick-town they’re wrong about you. Take a risk for once."
Belle trails her fingers down the silk detailing of the dress in her hands. “I... just don’t think I can pull this dress off... It’s too… pretty—"
“Hey, hey—stop it. Do you hear yourself? You are beautiful. I can’t believe you haven't caught on by now. You’re—"
“Stop.” Belle’s throat tightens and strains.
“You’re gonna look super-hot and when you get there—O.M.G!—the guys aren’t gonna know what to do with themselves."
Belle shakes her head, laughing, “Let's not get carried away, Cleo." She places the dress back down on the bed as her only true friend smiles back at her.
“You're gonna rock, Belle! I promise, this is gonna be a night you'll never forget."
“CHECKIN’ IN."
“Everything ready?"
“The guards are making rounds on the other side of the factory. Goin’ in five."
“Remember, I want everything destroyed. I want the hardware, software, all the files burned—all of it."
Judas’ eyes glow in the dark. “Done."
“Once you've done—”
“Shit. Gotta go. Check back with you."
Vladimir’s voice wavers. Judas can’t decipher if it’s in anticipation or anxiety. “When?"
“When I'm done.” Judas’ response is signature. Concrete without forethought. The line goes dead and Judas slides the cell into his front pocket, his hand going back to brush the gun underneath his shirt. It’s a habitual act, but it calms him.
