The Debt

by Sara Hubbard

  Chapter 7

  Luna: When I wake, my head feels like it’s vibrating, though the ache in my stomach has finally subsided. I’m in the bed, tucked in like a little girl from neck to toes. My last memory is falling asleep on the cold, tile floor by the toilet after repeatedly vomiting. I move my tongue around in my mouth. It’s so dry, and my breath is foul. I need a toothbrush and a shower and something to squash this headache. I push the sheets away and touch my hands to my head.

  Ugh. Why was I so sick? It had to be stress. It’s the only thing that makes sense. After all, who wouldn’t be ill after everything I’ve been through? As if being abducting and watching my father be murdered wasn’t enough, now I face an uncertain future with a man I hardly know. I still don’t know what he expects from me. Truth be told, I’m not sure he does either, which makes this situation even more confusing.

  He saved me. I don’t want to admit that to myself, but I’m pretty sure it’s true. Should I be grateful? I touch my fingers to my sore, throbbing neck. It’s hard to feel that way. The situation is so completely messed up, I don’t even know how to sort through it all. All I know is that, now, he’s keeping me against my will, and he doesn’t have to. If he truly wanted to help me, he would let me leave and find my mother so we could go far, far away and never come back. But the chances of him allowing this are so slim. Because for that to happen, he’d have to trust me, and men like him don’t trust easily, especially when it comes to their freedom.

  I don’t care what my odds are. I’ll convince him. Though after he put a gun in my hands last night and I pulled the trigger, I’m not sure I have the slightest hope. The look on his face when we heard the click. Immediately, I regretted doing it, but I knew I couldn’t take it back, and I was afraid. I purposely pulled it again and again, fearing what would follow. There was hurt in his eyes immediately, but then it was replaced by something else entirely. Looking at him then, was like looking at a man whose soul had left his body. He was empty. Vacant.

  I never want to see that look again. Not on him or any other man or woman.

  He seems to think he owes me a debt. I don’t see it that way, but if it keeps me alive, then he can go on thinking that. That’s not going to get him to see reason, though. I need him to care, more than he ever has. That’s the only way. The thought makes my stomach turn again. I can’t let myself get close to him again. No matter what’s at stake. I just can’t.

  I sit up in bed, and the room spins. I brace myself, and when it slows and stops, I get out of bed and sit on the edge of the bed. Wait. How did I get into bed, who tucked me in? I want to believe it was that woman—Yara—but I doubt very much she had the strength for it. I’m small, but so is she. I heave a breath and stare at the bathroom through the wide-open door. The towel I had over me is gone.

  Maxim. Last night, because I couldn’t help it, he crept into my dreams. He scooped me up into his arms and hugged me in tight against his chest. I protested and weakly slapped at his chest, but he only held me tighter before the dream faded into something else. It was a dream, wasn’t it? Only, the more I think on it, the more unsure I am. This man—this monster—cradling me? And ignoring my futile attempts to fight him. Did he say something to me? I squint like it might make the memory come easier, and somehow it does. “Go back to sleep, Angel.” Angel. Before, when he called me this, it made me blush. Now? I don’t know how it makes me feel. No, that’s not true. It makes me angry. He doesn’t get to hold me intimately and with such familiarity—not anymore.

  I push up to my feet, and my head throbs again. I could use medication, but I will never ask him for it. I don’t want to ask him for anything. Slowly, I amble to the bathroom, and when I reach the sink, I bend over and put my elbows on the marble countertop while staring at myself in the mirror. Oh, my god. I look even worse than I did yesterday. My eyes are blackened, and my eyelids are swollen as are my lips. There’s a big goose egg on my temple, and there are cuts and bruises over most of my face. Gently, I wash my face and hands. Then I stand tall.

  Be strong. Fix this. You know you can.

  I march to my bedroom door and slowly reach out to test the handle. It moves easily. I glance back at the clock by my bed. It’s nine a.m. and it’s Friday? Saturday? I don’t even know. I open the door and peek outside. Is he testing me to see if I’ll run? He said the doors are alarmed and the windows are shatterproof, but there has to be a flaw in the system. I almost got out of the window in the bathroom the night before last. It’s bolted shut now.

  I tiptoe out into the hall and stand still, careful not to make a sound. I hear nothing. Not the tick of a clock, a single footstep, or even the hum of the lights or a radiator. Absolutely nothing. I take a step, and the floorboards creak. The sound is so loud it makes my ears hurt. Though, surprisingly, my headache has now settled to almost nothing since I washed my face with cold water.

  This could be my chance. My moment. I hurry forward, careful to step lightly. The floors still strain, but I don’t care. I jog down the stairs and straight for the front door. I pull on it. Nothing. There’s a large deadbolt at the top of the door and also on the bottom. More than that, there’s a chain chest-high. That one I can open. Quickly, I fiddle with the deadbolt near the floor, trying desperately to move it. There is nothing on it that will allow it to move. It looks to be automatic. Same with the one on top. I stand up and run to the kitchen, through the small hallway to a back entryway. The door here has the same locking mechanism, same keypad, and speaker that Maxim’s friend used to get us in here.

  Damn it. Feeling defeated, I walk back to the kitchen and spy the block of knives. I stare at it good and long, wondering if I could surprise him just enough to drive it into his chest. A mixture of emotions follows. I would be free, but then he’d be dead. I hate him, but I don’t want to hurt him—I don’t want to hurt anyone, not really. Except maybe his father.

  I leave that knife where it is and tiptoe back to the hallway. I need a phone or a computer or something. He has to have one here somewhere and I—

  I let out a gasp and stop dead in my tracks as I pass the living room. Sitting on the couch, Maxim stares at me. In pants and a shirt, he almost looks respectable and business-like. But sitting here like this, shirtless with all of his tattoos on his chest and arms, in a pair of faded gray sweats, he looks like something else entirely. I won’t lie. There is a flutter of desire somewhere inside of me, like muscle memory from what he inspired in me years before. It sickens me.

  “Feeling better?” he asks. There is no trace of anger or suspicion in his voice. He’s as calm as can be.

  “Yes.”

  He points to the chair across from where he sits. As I step closer, I notice his hair is stuck up in parts and his eyes are bloodshot. His knuckles are cut up, and I wonder who else he hurt since I saw him last.

  When he catches me staring at his hands, he frowns and then lets out a long sigh.

  The pillow at the end of the couch is folded in half. He must have slept here, which also means, he must have been here while I tried to get the front door open. If he was awake and saw it, he seems rather unbothered.

  “Rough night?” I ask.

  “Average.”

  “This is average?”

  He shrugs.

  I lower myself into the seat across from him.

  “You look afraid.”

  I clear my throat and try to keep my voice even. “Should I be?”

  Slowly, he shakes his head. Every look from him is as intense as the last. It’s like all of them have a million different meanings. “I don’t blame you for trying to leave. In fact, I would be disappointed if you didn’t try. You’re a fighter, like me.” He holds his hand up and flexes his fingers. “I respect that.”

  “I’m nothing like you.”

  He smiles, but it looks sad. “No, perhaps not.” He makes a face. “Were you really sick last night or was that an act?”

  “I was. I’m really good at a lot of things but vomiting on comma
nd is not one of them.”

  “Are you hungry?” he asks.

  “No.”

  He stands and walks over to me. My heart thunders in my chest as he towers over me. “Come on. I’ll make you something to eat.” He continues to the kitchen, leaving me alone. I don’t understand. He’s going to make breakfast?

  I march into the kitchen where he sets a frying pan on the stove.

  “My cooking skills are limited, so will it be eggs or eggs?”

  “Neither.”

  “Sit,” he says.

  “No.”

  He eyes me, and the chill of his stare bites at my flesh. I stand tall, though. I can’t fight him or run away, but this is one battle I can win.

  His intensity fades as he chuckles. “Or stand. I don’t really care.”

  “Maxim, are we really just going to pretend like I’m a guest? Is that what you want? For us to be friends? Maybe something more? Was I not clear about how I feel about you?”

  “Oh, yes, you were clear.” He cracks some eggs into the pan, and they quietly sizzle. “Sunny side up?”

  Frustrated, I glare at him and have a strong instinct to run over to him and slap him across the face. But we tangled with a gun already, and I remember the feeling of his hands around my throat. Lashing out at him won’t save me. I heave a sigh and tiptoe close to him. We’re perhaps two feet away with my front facing his side. Other than turn his head to look down at me, he stands perfectly still.

  His scent. That aftershave that makes him smell like Christmas trees and a burning fireplace. It brings me back, but I don’t want it to. “Maxim,” I say softly. “Help me.”

  Emotion bubbles up inside of me. My heart breaks suddenly for how I once felt about him. I touch one hand to his arm, over the tattoo of the wolf’s head on his bicep, and I let it stay there. Another mistake. He’s so warm… I remember how he felt when he first touched me. The back of his hand sliding across my cheek. Touching him now should repulse me but doesn’t. It only serves to make me upset with myself.

  The eggs continue to sizzle, their distinct smell drawing me back to the world we live in today.

  “I am helping you. You just can’t see it.” He shakes his head, and his face relaxes as his expression turns sad. As if musing to himself, he softly says. “You have no idea.” His eyes roam over my battered face. “Killing you would make my life so much simpler.”

  I swallow hard. “How do I respond to that?”

  He tips his head down and inches closer. Every nerve in my body seems to fire at once. The longer we stare, the stronger the sensation.

  I take two steps back and remind myself of my situation and how I can’t lose my head. “I need my family, and I need my work. I don’t want to just exist, and that’s exactly what I’ll be doing if you force me to stay here. You don’t know me well, but didn’t you learn enough about me when we were together to know that I live for my work and my family?”

  He ruminates, looking away as he scratches his ear. I wait for him to meet my gaze, and it happens suddenly—the intensity returns. “Six months,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Give me six months.”

  My jaw drops just a fraction. “For what?”

  “Let my friends and family forget about you. Then you go to your mother and leave this city, just like you said.”

  “Now or six months from now? What’s the difference if I'm going to leave the city anyway?”

  Spatula in hand, he turns to face me. He closes his eyes and rolls his shoulders. When his eyes flash open, there is a change in his expression. “In six months, the world will assume you’re dead. People won’t be actively looking for you. You’ll be a forgotten face in a sea of missing people. Give me six months. And then I’ll let you go.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He shrugs. “That’s the best I can offer you.”

  “And what do I do while I wait? Knit? Paint? Be your housekeeper?”

  “Whatever you want. Read a book. I’ve heard they’re entertaining.”

  I scoff at his attempt at humor. “And you want me to believe you expect nothing from me while I wait?”

  He nods his head.

  I narrow my eyes. “Nothing at all?”

  “I do have a condition.”

  “Of course, you do,” I say angrily.

  “I can’t let you leave unless I trust you to keep quiet and stay gone. So somehow you need to make me trust you.”

  I expected this. Quietly, I exhale, grateful he’s not asking for something more. Then again, maybe this isn’t a good thing. Maybe he’s asking for the impossible. “Do you trust anyone?” I ask.

  He considers that before shaking his head. “Not completely.”

  “Then how the hell do you expect me to gain your trust?”

  “I guess you have your work cut out for you.”

  “Or maybe you’re setting me up to fail because you never intend on letting me leave here alive. Maybe you just want to toy with me a little longer.”

  His jaw sets in a hard line. “In six months, if you convince me that I can trust you, I will open the door and let you go. I swear it. Do the impossible. If anyone can, it’s you.”

  But I can’t. Because how could I ever hope to convince him to trust me when I could never give him the same?

  Chapter 8

  Maxim: I’ve waited long enough. In the early hours of the morning, when the sun is still down, I take the bag of evidence from my security room and walk down the gentle incline of my backyard to the lake. Near the jetty, I have some lawn chairs surrounding a fire pit. I put this here thinking I’d use it. I haven’t. The only person I invite into my home is Yara. The odd time someone might show up unannounced, but it’s rare.

  The pit is surrounded by gray stone. I find some branches and twigs around the perimeter of the treeline and bring them back to the pit. Snapping most of them in half is effortless, although some require a bit more force. I light the fire, and I sit.

  It takes a few minutes to get the fire roaring. While I wait, I enjoy the scenery. Why don’t I ever come out here? I know the answer. I don’t have the time, and I’ve had no one to share this with. I glance up at the house, to the dark windows of Luna’s bedroom. I imagine her with me. Smiling and chatting and telling me stories. Full of life. She had an energy that was contagious. Now she’s miserable. Because of me and my family. That’s a tough pill to swallow. I feel like I broke her.

  I shake my head and open the bag, then toss her clothes onto the fire. The fire shoots up and spits orange and black embers out at me. I brush them off of my shirt and sit back. When her clothes are ash, I toss in her purse. I wait for that to burn too. The video tape I hold in my hand. She asked me to wait to destroy it, but I can’t wait any longer. I shouldn’t have waited as long as I did. I guess I figure if she wanted to see it, after all, she would have told me by now.

  I toss it in. It’s better this way. She should never see it. Having her dickhead of a father trade her life for hers was bad enough without seeing him take a life. I’m pretty sure that would have ruined her. Once all the evidence is gone and I’m satisfied the remains are nothing that could be used against me or my family, I sit a while longer. The sun eventually starts to rise, painting the horizon purple.

  Then it’s time to start my day. I haven’t seen Luna in a day. Her room is unlocked, and she knows she can come out, but she chooses not to. That’s fine by me. Seeing her distracts me. Makes me question a lot of things. I don’t need the added weight to my shoulders.

  I duck out of the house as Yara is coming in.

  She beams at me. Then, she says, “Wait! Where is your lunch? You’ll be hungry.”

  I grin back at her. “I’ll grab something at work.”

  “But I made all that food. It’s just sitting in the fridge and freezer.”

  I nod and follow her back in. I would never buy a lunch bag, but Yara bought me one years ago and makes me take it. Not wanting to offend her, I often take it and leave
it in my car. I’ll empty everything out before I come home at the end of the day. Her food is awesome, but the lunch bag she bought me is massive and orange. Let’s just say, I'm not the kind of guy who people would torment to my face. And it would piss me off to think they were doing it behind my back.

  “Thank you,” I tell her as I head for the garage again.

  I hit the gym first. Two hours every morning except Sundays. It’s a routine I’ve stuck with since I graduated high school. I make no exceptions unless my dad demands otherwise.

  The gym is my sanctuary. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve wanted to hurt people who’ve wronged me. I broke a kid’s arm in grade six because he called me a name. My father was proud, but the school insisted on therapy, and therapy insisted on finding healthy ways to channel my anger. To me, learning to fight for sport seemed like a great outlet, and it’s helped me keep my cool when I’ve needed to.

  Niko drinks his coffee while he watches me. He understands me because there is a beast inside of him, too. Unfortunately for him, he had to go to jail first before he learned the control that he’s been able to teach me. He barks out orders between sips and strolls around the gym. I punch a bag, spar with a regular, and then do some cardio. When I’m done, I hit the shower. On my way out, I look for Niko to say goodbye. He’s nowhere.

  While the gym is wide open, there is a small space smack dab in the center that has a second floor. It’s small in comparison to the total area. That’s where the owner has his office space, and it gives him a bird’s-eye view. The owner happens to be Niko, so I assume he’s hiding out up there. I trudge up the metal stairs, the steps clinking under my Italian shoes.

  When I knock on the open door, he looks up at me from over his newspaper.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Good practice today,” he says. “You’re almost ready.”

  I chuckle at him. He’s talking about the fight with Emanuel. “I was born ready.”

  He rolls his eyes and sets his paper down. After running a hand through his silver hair and scratching his nose, he eyes me. “He’s no joke.”