His gaze slide over his first real visual of the scars on her back and down her legs. The scantiness of her crop top and shorts revealed the majority of the scars. He wondered if that was her intent. Keeping her back to him, she lifted her arms and stretched her fingertips to the ceiling.
Yep. She’s testing you.
The file had photographs from police and medical reports. When the wounds had been raw and festering, they’d been worse. But not much. The circular welts were still purplish-red, raised, angry remembrances of that horrific night. Plastic surgery would have made the raised pucker marks better. The file indicated she hadn’t had one of the recommended five surgeries.
Lifting the lid off her bottle of water, she made a slow turn to face him. “Answer honestly, Agent Hernandez. Do my scars bother you? I can put on a t-shirt if you’d prefer.”
“No. I just wish the circumstances that led to those scars could’ve been different, wish like hell you never acquired them. So, no, Ms. Hutchenson, the scars don't bother me, only the fact that you have them at all. That bothers the hell out of me.”
“Ah.” She took a long swig of water, then replaced the lid. “There you go with that fairy tale theme again.”
“Excuse me?”
“Wishes don’t come true, Agent. Except in fairytales. You’ve figured out today that when I’m uncomfortable, I whisper. I figured out today that when you’re uncomfortable, you either joke or spout fairytale-ish nonsense.”
He smiled at her. “Well, with all due respect, ma’am—
“Don’t ma’am me when we’re working out.”
“Okay. Would you prefer Andi?”
She shook her head. “No. Don’t use my first name. No need for us to pretend that we’re friends. You won’t be here that long. Ms. Hutchenson will work.”
He nodded. “Got it. Well, with all due respect, Ms. Hutchenson, you’re wrong.”
“What exactly have I gotten wrong?”
“I haven’t been uncomfortable today. My jokes, and what you’re calling fairytale nonsense, well, that’s just me. And I don’t think any of it is nonsense.” He gave her a smile.
She gave him a cool nod. “So no t-shirt. What kind of exercise are we doing? I’m trying to become proficient with Krav Maga so I can use my own body strength and movements to subdue an attacker, no matter the size, then get the hell away.”
“Perfect. You’re preaching to the choir. This evening, I want to assess your strength. Three thirty minute sessions. I’ll call out the exercises. Follow my lead. I’ll be doing most of the exercises with you. Mat work first. Push-ups, sit-ups, then squats.”
They unfurled yoga mats, and got started. When they were through with squats, he asked, “Know a bear crawl?”
She nodded. “They’re hard. I just started them.”
“They’re great for mobility, stability, coordination, and total body strength. Can you do forward and reverse?”
“I’ve never done reverse.”
“Then let’s just do forward. Tomorrow we’ll work on reverse. By the end of the week, I’ll have you doing forward, backward, and lateral.”
He led her through a basic workout. There were no rules for Krav Maga fighting. There were also no rules he knew of to teach it to someone in a private studio, when the student didn’t want to be touched. In most workouts, casual touches just happened.
Keeping her aversion to physical contact in mind, he avoided contact, figuring that she’d warm up to the idea of him touching her in the exercise room. When they were through with forward bear crawls, he picked up tombstone pads and assessed the speed and power with which she was able to punch.
“Good, but give me more follow-through.”
Pausing for a breath, she asked, “Meaning?”
“Don’t stop at the point of connection. Whether you’re hitting pads or if you’re in a situation when you’re striking someone, don’t pull back once you touch. Power through. Aim for maximum damage. If you’re poking out someone’s eyes, try touching through to their brains. You want gray matter under your fingernails—”
“Ew.”
He chuckled. “Yeah. If you’re hitting the ribs, reach through their lungs so you can wrap your fingers around their spine. Inflict as much damage as you can. If you’re fighting, there’s a reason, right?”
A dark shadow crossed over her eyes. “I should’ve been able to get away.”
“You didn’t know how to fight. And there’s no shame in that. Most people don’t.” He lifted the pads, and nodded to her. “But now you do. You’re good. Fast. Strong. Smart. As long as you don’t hesitate, and power through, you’ll be able to fight effectively. Now...go!”
She hit the pads with a force that was beauty to behold. Again. And again. And again.
“Water break,” he announced, when she was breathless. “Fantastic job. Great follow-through. My arms are tired.” As she took a long swig of water, he added, “You’ve got good strength. But there’s still a bit of hesitation. Remember, victims hesitate. Survivors don’t.”
“What’s the work around?”
“Strength building, practice, and,” he said, smiling, “more practice. Keep your mind clicking with your plan, even if you’re not moving. Don’t cower. Play possum. Trick your opponent.”
“Meaning?”
“Even if you’re acting like you’re not going to fight, keep thinking how you’re going to kill. Plan, then implement. Think fast, plan, then implement. Have confidence you will get out of any situation you find yourself in. Exercise drills will give you confidence in your moves. Drop to the mat. Let’s start over with sit-ups, then more squats.”
After another hour, she was dripping with sweat and he was impressed with how fit she was. Her reflexes, though, became slower as the session progressed.
“Let’s call it quits. We’ll continue tomorrow.”
“No.” Prone on her yoga mat, where she’d just completed her hundredth sit-up, she gave him a headshake. “I can do more.”
“I know.” Standing about a foot away from where she lay, he extended a hand to her, wondering if she’d take it for an assist up. “But I’m starving.”
She stood without using his offer of help. “Fine. Thank you, Agent Hernandez. I’ll clean up in here.”
“I’ll help. It’s my sweat too.” He sprayed the mat he’d been using with antiseptic spray. “I’m ordering dinner from Pugs. Want anything? I could have it delivered here, rather than to the apartment across the street. We could eat downstairs, in your gorgeous kitchen.”
She gave him a wide-eyed look of surprise.
He chuckled. “What? Ms. Hutchenson doesn’t eat with the hired help?”
The corners of her lips twitched. Her eyes lightened with her almost-smile and the unmistakable gleam that came with wanting to laugh. It lasted long enough for him to know he was getting to her—in a good way. Long enough to reach into his chest and steal his heart like no one ever had before.
As the light disappeared, she pushed a clump of sweaty hair behind her ear. “I don’t think I would’ve said it quite that way.”
“Yes, you would have. No worries. I’ll order a salad and an extra po-boy for you. Trust me, I’ve looked in your fridge and freezer, and, aside from apples and peanut butter, nothing looks appetizing. You had one hell of a workout. Carbs and protein should help you sleep.”
At the mention of sleep, she shot him a doubtful look, which was quickly replaced with one he’d come to expect from her in their afternoon and evening together. Brow slightly furrowed, she broadcast a cross between cool disinterest and plain annoyance. “Really? Now you’re offering advice on sleeping?”
He chuckled. “Consider it part of your training regimen. To build strength and endurance, rest is as important as what we do in the exercise room. I’ll leave your food on your kitchen island. I’ll eat in the security room, so you don’t have to fraternize with the help.”
“Thank you, Agent Hernandez. You may leave now. I’d like to be alo
ne for the rest of the evening.”
Chapter Ten
Pic
Saturday, February 13, 10:30 p.m.
Greyhound Bus, en route to New Orleans
‘You’re strong. Brave. Smart. Remember that, Lucas.’
Pic’s mom used to say crap like that with a heartbreaking smile. Her blue eyes had seen through to his very soul as she wished for a hopeful and positive future for her only child. ‘You’ll grow to be a good man. You’ll live a wonderful life, filled with joy and love.’
It was a prediction that hadn’t come to pass. Half-asleep, and pretty thoroughly miserable, Pic coughed. His mom’s voice faded, no matter how hard he tried to hold onto memories of her whisper and the sweetness in her eyes. She had been equal parts naïve, self-destructive, and solidly lacking common-sense, but that was the side he worked hard on forgetting about her.
Pic became aware of the older lady sitting beside him on the crowded, noisy bus as she stirred. He was riding from Austin, Texas, to New Orleans, Louisiana, on a direct route that had taken only one stop in Houston. He’d been stupid to think the streets of Austin would offer a better life for a homeless guitar player than New Orleans.
Plus, cheap food tastes better in NOLA than Texas. I’m sick of Tex-Mex refried beans and tacos. And the bigger goddamn reality is my problem isn’t where I live. My problem is…me. Because I’m so sick of living on the streets, I wanna die.
He knew Andi wanted him to move into her guesthouse so that he could get on his feet. It was a move he was dying for, but it was one he couldn’t make. It came with too much risk that someone—like one of the armed security agents who were always with her—would figure out who the hell he was, what he was running from, and send him back home.
Without lifting his head from the cold window, he checked the large-faced watch Andi had given him.
Almost there.
His cough once again pissed off a man one row ahead of him, who grumbled, “Shut up, asshole. I’m goddamned sleeping.”
Pic coughed again, more to piss off the guy than to clear his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying for a few more minutes of sleep, before he’d have to get off the bus and walk for miles to the place on the river he planned to spend the night. The dreams of his mom came with a steep price, because his good memories were like battery acid, opening a fissure in the hard shell he’d built around his heart, a crevasse into which bad memories poured.
Clarence. His mom’s dickhead boyfriend. Pic had hated him at first sight. He usually hated all men his mom brought home, ‘cause they typically looked at him like he was a pain in the ass. They made it clear they were coming over for one thing, and Pic had nothing to do with it. He hadn’t realized until Clarence came along, though, that he should’ve counted his blessings all the times his mom was the only one the slime balls wanted to fuck.
When he’d been twelve, they’d been new to town. His mom had promised him West Virginia would be different. But after one look at Clarence in their second week there, entering the trailer at two in the morning, and listening to them behind the bedroom door as he lay on the pullout couch, Pic knew two things. One—West Virginia wasn’t going to be any different. Two—Clarence was just another in the long stream of losers his mom brought home.
It took him a while longer to realize who, and what, Clarence was. The closest town to their trailer park with more than one stoplight was Mapleton. Clarence Adams Walker was Chief of Police of Mapleton. Clarence had money and a way of inspiring fear and hatred with just a glance. He was known to play favorites as he enforced the law, was married, and had a family.
Pic had learned how to quickly fall asleep. But now, though he tried to fall back asleep, even though he knew he was safe on a bus and far from West Virginia, his meandering thoughts prompted a flashback image of Clarence’s beefy hands unzipping his jeans. The memory of Clarence’s strong fingers fondling Pic’s cock, with hoarse whispers of all the vile shit that would happen if Pic wasn’t a good boy, still inspired heart-pounding terror.
Clarence’s threats had usually involved the difference between living under a roof with running water and heat, or living in their old, stinking car. And Clarence knew how to drive the point home in Pic’s young brain. And then the fun would start. ‘Give me your hand. Yeah. Wrap it around me. Like this. Squeeze. Hard. Now your mouth. Relax your jaw, kid. Yeah. That’s it. Oh, ye—
Giving up on sleep, Pic sat up. Clarence-inspired cold sweat dripped down his forehead. Pic hated that he’d ever been so weak, hated that he’d let it go on for so long.
Grow a pair and shake it off. You were twelve, for God’s sake. And thirteen. And fourteen. Aw. Fuck.
Wide awake, he fought the urge to puke from the too-real memories. As the disgusting images receded, he was better able to focus on his current, and comparatively lightweight, hell.
Chest aching from his stinking cold that wouldn’t go away, his eyes gritty and mouth tasting like he’d eaten mentholated bird shit, Pic wiped his snotty nose on one of the tissues the lady beside him had handed over earlier. Yeah, he felt like crap, but he was happy to be going back to New Orleans, and Andi, his only friend who wasn’t homeless and on the run from a shit existence with the guarantee of a shittier future. Plus, on the bright side, he’d managed to sleep—a little.
The bus was packed with Mardi Gras tourists, families, businesspeople, and road-weary travelers on their way to good times. He was aware of the two half-drunk guys a couple of seats back who’d passed out moments after climbing aboard. He was also aware of the girl, probably a runaway, with too much makeup and resignation in her haunted eyes, curled in a ball in her seat in the very back. She was pretending to be asleep, probably afraid to be noticed, but more afraid that no one was even noticing she was there.
Been there, done that.
The grandmotherly-looking lady beside him had boarded alone. She smelled like home-cooking and mothballs and seemed to knit as easily as she could breathe. The air in the bus hung heavy with the smell of desperation, booze, and day’s old sweat. The passengers had mostly dozed off after an hour or so. It had been quiet once night fell as they traveled Interstate 10. Now, as the interstate wound its way through suburbs, phones beeped, chirped and serenaded as people yawned, talked and stretched.
The bus took a right fork in the interstate. Pic saw cemeteries. Acres and acres of floodlit tombs, with crosses and winged angels, lined either side of the roadway. It was a fitting sight for the kind of dreams he’d been having.
Though he was now wide awake, he was seized with a sudden longing for his mom. Mostly, she’d called him Luke. Or, if she had something important to say, she’d call him Lucas. She’d never known him as Pic. Sometimes, when she’d been distracted, irritated, or tired, she’d use his full name—Lucas Tanner McShane.
Clarence’s brand of evil had vaporized all the white light from Pic’s life. When Pic’s suicide attempt didn’t work, and knowing Clarence was just going to dish out more of the same, Pic planned the exact words he’d tell his mom. Her reaction shocked him. She accused him of lying. She yelled at him to take back the words. Then Clarence arrived. Everything became a blur of swirling darkness as his mom continued her rant, slapping and punching Pic while she told Clarence what Pic had said.
He’d let his mom hit him, disappointment rocking his core with each blow. If Pic started hitting her back, he didn’t remember. There was a lapse in his mind, blank space he couldn’t fill. Then his mom was lying on the floor, and Pic was trying to wake her. Blood ran over his fingers as he smoothed her hair.
He didn’t remember what happened, but Clarence was there to tell him all about it. Clarence stood across the room, leaning against the wall with a sick smile on his face, and a simple statement that sealed Pic’s fate. ‘You killed her, kid. Now you’re mine.’
Pic had frozen for a few seconds, then he’d sprung forward. Not towards Clarence, but towards the door. He’d run, and he was never going back.
Pic looked betw
een the two seats in front of him. Through the bug-speckled windshield, he saw the city skyline. He hoped Monica was still in town. He’d blown it with her, he knew, but maybe she’d still look at him as a friend. And God, but he was looking forward to seeing Andi. Yeah, he knew not to get too close to Andi. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. But she was nice. She cared, and he knew he could trust her. But he didn’t trust the security that was always around her.
Plus, in some weird way, he understood that jumping in the river to save Andi—a move based on pure gut instinct—had been his first step towards altering his own life. He’d told Andi he’d be back for Mardi Gras.
It was high time to check on her again, ‘cause if her yearning for suicide was like his, it was never going away. Pic knew firsthand that sometimes a friend saying ‘see ya tomorrow’ was all a person needed to make it one more day. He’d started the ‘see ya tomorrow,’ thing with her and it was time to make an appearance. As much for her, as for him.
“Five more minutes,” the lady on his left said, her face lit by the glow of light from her cell phone. “You feeling any better now that you slept some?”
The gray-haired lady had boarded the bus when he did in Austin. By the time they’d passed through Houston, she’d given him cough drops, tissues, and advice on how to get rid of his cold. “Think so. Your cough drops helped. Thanks.”
“You going to get your Aunt to take you to the LSU Health Center like we talked about?”
Pic nodded yes, ‘cause that was the right answer. When she’d asked earlier, he’d made up a story about visiting relatives in New Orleans.
She gave him a doubtful frown, evidently seeing the lie for what it was. “If you don’t, you’ll end up with pneumonia. That’s what our humidity does to that kind of cough. You make sure you go, okay? Like I said, health services are free there. You may as well use them.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He wasn’t going. Free didn’t mean no questions, and word on the street, which Pic knew from having spent time on the streets of New Orleans, was that the LSU Health Center asked a lot of questions. Not happening. He’d been sick before—sicker—and he’d lived.
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