by Rachel Leigh
It’s quite the change from the confident Knox that had his hands wrapped around me last night.
“Let’s just forget about last night.” I tug my robe tighter and feel the heat rise to my cheeks. We can forget about last night, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m inches away from Knox’s morning wood and still not fully dressed. I jerk my head up quickly when I realize I was staring.
A smile grows on his face. “Never happened.”
His arms fold over his chest, and I peel my eyes off of him. “Good. Now that that’s settled. I have a question for you, but first, could you maybe...” I nod toward his boxers, with my eyes strayed to the side, trying not to look, again.
He looks down. “Oh. Yeah, of course.” He walks downstairs, and I follow behind him, leaving some distance between us.
“I’ll just be in the kitchen,” I tell him, as I turn in the opposite direction. I don’t feel that it’s necessary to watch and see which leg he puts in his shorts first.
I take a seat on a stool at the kitchen island and take a deep breath, feeling the need to fan myself. I never expected Knox to get me this hot and bothered. Maybe coming here was a bad idea. I just have to know. If it wasn’t Knox who had my car fixed, then I’m in trouble. There is only one other person who could have done this, and I refuse to let my mind go there. Not yet, anyway.
Knox walks in, and the tension is slightly less thick. At least he has shorts on now; he seems to have forgotten his shirt, though. He must have caught a glimpse of my reaction. “Sorry, my shirt is all wet, I must have spilled something on it.”
“It’s fine.” I swallow down my spit, wishing it was coffee. Everything happened so abruptly this morning that I suddenly remember that I haven’t even brushed my teeth.
“Coffee?” He grabs the empty pot from the coffee maker, as if he read my mind.
“Oh no, thanks.” I shake my head. “I can’t stay long.”
He slides the pot back into its place. “What’s up? Are you here to talk about last night and my drunken stupidity.”
I smile thinking about the feeling of his arms wrapped around me. “Actually, no. This is going to sound silly, but did you have my car fixed by chance?”
“Your car?” he questions, pulling out a stool and sitting down next to me. He prompts his head up on his fist with his elbows on the marbled countertop.
“I had it towed to a mechanic here in Redwood, and somehow, it ended up in Tulsa and is now parked out front. Someone took care of the entire bill.”
His perplexed expression leaves me feeling like an idiot. I don’t know why I even assumed an eighteen-year-old boy would go through all that trouble and financial strain.
“Oh, cool. It’s fixed. I bet that’s a relief.”
“Yeah, a huge relief. So, you’re saying it wasn’t you?”
“I wish I could say it was, but no, it wasn’t me.”
My heart drops deep into my empty stomach. It’s time to go there. I have to assume it was Malcolm. Unless….Jorge. It had to be.
I push the stool back and stand up abruptly. “I have to go.” I pause at the door. “I’ll see you...around.” And, I’m out. Walking quickly back the way I came. My slippers slide across the hay-like grass that could use a shower, much like myself.
Once I’m in the house, I head straight to my phone and don’t even bother trying to text, it takes too long for a response and time is not something I have right now.
“Jorge. Oh, thank God, you answered.”
“Claire, why are you calling me? You know it’s too risky,” Jorge whispers into the phone.
“Is he there?” I ask, pacing back and forth in the kitchen.
“Shit has hit the fan, Love. He’s lost any small bit of sanity he had left.”
“Where is he?”
“In the study. Where he has been for the past month. He’s created a shrine for tracking you down. I hate to say it, but I worry he’s getting close.”
I stop pacing and press my head against the cold steel refrigerator. Cooling me off and also bracing myself because I feel like I’m going to pass out. “Did you fix my car?”
“Your car broke down?”
Shit, it wasn’t him.
“Jorge, I think it’s too late. I think I’ve been found.”
“Now calm down, don’t go there just yet. If he knew where you were, the hunt would be called off. The way I see it, it’s still on, because he’s bringing new men in daily. His focus is solely on you.”
“Ok. You’re right.” I agree. “You’re right. Everything is fine.” I head to the counter and pull the half full carafe from the coffee pot, dumping the old stuff.
“I’ve gotta get off now. Things have been fucking crazy. I’ll be in touch if I catch wind of anything.”
“Thank you, Jorge. Really. You are my rock in this storm, and I don’t know what I’d do without you.” A single tear slides down my cheek.
“Hey, you don’t have to thank me. It was always my job to keep you safe. Now it’s an honor.”
I end the call and set the phone down gently on the counter, before continuing to make a pot of coffee.
Jorge’s dutiful words bring me comfort. A sense of security. And, I believe him. I trust that Jorge will always be in my corner. He’s proven that to me time and time again.
I’ll never forget the first words Jorge said to me. It was the morning after I met Malcolm. I woke up in a California King bed with a satin sheet draped over my naked body. Malcolm was sitting on the edge of the bed with a tray full of breakfast foods and a single white rose in a vase. I didn’t know until that day that white roses were my favorite. It’s probably because he molded me to believe they were. The first couple of weeks, that’s what I woke to.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he whispered in my ear, as he pressed a chaste kiss to my cheek. Leaving me feeling on top of the world—like the queen of his castle. His italian accent had me squeezing my thighs together under the blanket.
I didn’t speak out of fear that he would get a whiff of my morning breath and toss me out. I wanted that breakfast. After losing myself to him over and over again the night before, I had worked up quite an appetite. It smelled amazing, and living on a very low budget, I was used to only buttered toast every single morning. I simply smiled, and that was enough for him.
I pulled the sheet up, gripping it tightly in my fists, as I tried to hide what was underneath. I felt vulnerable—intimidated.
“You are simply breathtaking in your natural beauty.” He stroked my hair with the back of his hand. “I have to run out for the day. I’d like you to stay. If that’s what you want?”
It wasn’t a question, really. That was Malcolm’s way of manipulating me. He’d first offer me a compliment, then he’d tell me what he wanted, then he would ask what I wanted.
“Ok” is all I managed to say. I can’t figure out why I’m even here. Why this man has an interest in me. The poor girl who spends her days hanging out at an art gallery, working as a janitor, just so she can use their studio and survive through college.
“This is for you.” He hands me a Visa card. Your car is waiting out front for you. Please, buy yourself something nice to wear and meet me in the formal dining room at eight o’clock sharp.”
I look down at the card, puzzled. Excitement overcomes me at the idea of going out to buy myself something nice. And, a car. I don’t even own a car. Why did he call it my car?
“Oh, and Jorge will be waiting for you downstairs. He will go with you wherever you go.” He stands up and walks toward the door.
“Jorge?” I finally speak.
He stops and turns around. “Yes, Jorge. He will keep you safe.”
That was the first and last truth Malcolm ever spoke to me.
9
Knox
The warehouse is packed body to body with students. The overhead lights shine down brightly on the center of the cage. Girls gather around it in tight little shorts with crop tops and signs in their hands.
Axel has gone all out tonight. Leave it to him to bring ring girls into this. I’m feeling pretty relaxed tonight, knowing that it’s not my night. If it were, I’d be freaking the fuck out right about now.
Dane Rivers bounces around in the cage, popping his mouthpiece in, and then begins doing air punches with his eyes focused on his opponent—a guy I don’t recognize but holds the same size and frame as Dane.
“Bets are closed. The first round begins in two minutes,” Axel announces on the speaker.
It’s all pretty professional. There is one referee and the trainers on each side by the fighters. There are three rounds, each lasting five minutes, and a row of judges announce the winners. Attendees pay to get in and that money goes toward paying the fighters. Bets are placed and the payout is 2:1. Axel has actually set things up pretty nicely, and if I were a fan of this shit, I’d be impressed.
“Looks good, man.” I join Axel at the sound table. He presses a couple buttons and “A Little Bit Off” by Five Finger Death Punch blasts through the speakers.
“Hell yeah, it does. I live for this shit.”
He isn’t lying. After his mom passed away, he was drinking all day, every day. He’d show up to school looking like shit. It wasn’t until he started this ring that the life in him came back. Not the best way to find happiness, but who am I to judge.
“Sorry about last night. I was fucking wasted, and you know... Harper and shit.” He keeps his eyes on the sound system, as he talks. I know apologies aren’t his strong suit, but the fact that he’s even giving one is enough for me.
“Nah, don’t worry about it. It wasn’t my house to invite her to,” I tell him. They do need to squash this for the sake of the group, but I can’t force it on them.
“Alright. Time to get this party started. Ready to see some blood, sweat, and tears?” His tone shifts from mildly sincere to pumped up and raring to go.
He’s not fighting tonight. Last weekend, he fucked up his hand, and I can’t say that I felt sorry for him. He might run the joint, but he also partakes in the action. He’s been going hard at this every weekend, and while he’s got skills, he’s also taken some beatings.
The referee stands in the middle with the fighters on each side, as the ring-girl struts around the cage with the first-round sign over her head.
Once she’s out, the ref waves his hand in the air, and the clock starts. These guys don’t waste a second. Dane takes a jab right into his opponent's nose. Blood flies out, as the crowd shrieks.
Dane’s in a heel hook, held on tight by his opponent. His arms gripping firmly onto his leg, and next thing I know, he’s falling to the ground.
“Oh, shit,” I mutter under my breath. Dane takes some heavy blows. One after another.
Then the buzzer sounds.
Round one is done.
I’m glad I didn’t place any bets on this one. I would have went for Dane, and it looks like I would have lost.
Dane is still lying down, as his trainer goes to his side, rubbing Vaseline on his face and pouring water into his mouth. Once he’s up, the crowd goes wild. Aside from a small group who are booing.
“Who is this guy?” I ask Axel, as he resets the clock.
“That’s Marco Wilton. Graduated last year from LV. Don’t you recognize him?”
“No way! That’s Marco. Damn, he’s really packed on the muscle.
Marco is Jasper’s best friend. He’s always been ripped, but he’s hardly recognizable now.
“Yep. Unfortunately for our buddy Dane, he’s lit in the cage.”
Axel starts the countdown for the next round. This time, it’s Taya walking around the cage. I’ve never seen her like this before. She’s usually very reserved, but tonight, she’s killing it in her skimpy black mini skirt and white tank top. Just as she turns to face us, my jaw drops to the floor.
“Holy fuck.” Axel drags in a breath.
“I didn’t know she had it in her.” I pick my jaw off the floor, after she rounds the corner and steps out of the cage.
If you told me last night that our Miss Priss, Taya, would be strutting around in a see through white tank top with no bra and her hard nips would be poking out, I’d have laughed in your face. But, sure enough, there she goes. At this point, I’m pretty sure all eyes are on her and half of the crowd just missed Dane going down again.
“Damn. Get up, Dane.” I stand up and cheer him on. But, he’s not getting up. In fact, he’s not even moving.
The ref calls a stop of action, and Marco takes his corner, but he’s on fire—hungry for more.
“Fuck,” Axel huffs, “I gotta get out there. When I give you the signal, start the clock back up.”
I sit back down and watch, as Axel makes his way up to the cage. The ref is hovering over Dane, and just as he makes a move and we think he’s getting up, Marco comes out of nowhere and gives him a blow to the head.
“What the hell?” I shout.
The crowd is outraged. Axel grabs Marco by the arm, screaming in his face, and is about ready to throw down himself.
“Not fucking cool, man,” I mutter under my breath. Who in their right mind hits a man when he’s down? I know this is a competition, but that was uncalled for. Dane is, obviously, out at this point. The man is barely conscious. He’s hanging on by a thread. Marco looks like he’s about to go postal. He’s fuming—pacing back and forth, as he struggles to maintain his adrenaline rush.
The ref calls the fight, and Axel hurries back down to the sound system and control panel. He grabs the microphone. “The referee has called the bout. Marco has been disqualified for unsportsmanlike conduct. So your winner is..Dane Lewis.” He emphasizes Lewis, and the crowd stands up to support him, as he gets carried out of the ring by a security guard and his trainer.
Most of the crowd that is. All except a few LV guys who are losing their shit. Something tells me that Marco won’t be letting this go—that they won’t be letting this go.
“They're pissed.” I look at Axel, who is brushing a bead of sweat off his head.
“Yeah, no kidding.” He slams the mic down on the table. “Rules are rules. He knew better. We fight. We don’t annihilate.”
I keep an eye on Marco’s crew, and all at once, they look over to us, shooting daggers, which I know means trouble. Axel’s had problems like this before, and he’s handled them well. But this feels different. Something bigger than a football game or a girl stuck in the middle. This feels like a war being waged.
10
Claire
I’ve spent my day walking back and forth from window to window. Peeking out at blow of the wind. My bare feet hit every inch of this floor in a matter of minutes. Insanity kicking in, as I make my way to the west window once more.
Nothing.
My mind refuses to settle, and every time I try to relax, something has me sprinting to make sure I’m not being watched.
I knew that leaving would be hard. I knew that, at some point in time, I’d have to face the reality that he could find me. I just didn’t expect it so soon. I just want to live freely. I want to find happiness. Maybe date a man someday and not worry that Malcolm will find out and destroy him—destroy us both. I want kids. I want it all, and I deserve it damnit.
Anxiety and worry mix with anger, and I find myself fleeing toward the bedroom. I tear the white sheet off the small oak desk in the corner. A sheet that has remained in place for months. Underneath it, my escape.
I pull open the drawer and grab an angled brush. I don’t even stop to think about what I’m painting. That’s the beauty of art—there doesn’t have to be a plan, there is nothing that separates an artist and her work. It’s just me, the brush, and the blank canvas. I take the top off the pallet and dip in. The brush strokes leave a slipstream of blue, painting the sky of another lifetime. One I have yet to take residence in. A life with no fear. A life where my reflection is more than an unnerved face.
I keep at it for hours. Just brushing along lines and arrays of nothingness. I step ba
ck, looking down at my paint stained skin—then to my canvas. No longer blank. It’s now full of life and has a future. It might just sit in the closet, hidden from the world, but it has meaning.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and stare for what feels like minutes. If something as empty as a canvas can transform into something full of life, why can’t I?
I throw myself back, fully aware of the fact that I’m likely getting paint all over. I listen intently to the sound of my beating heart, wondering what its purpose is. This can’t be all that it’s meant for. Hiding out in fear. Lying to people. Avoiding any possibility of getting close to another person.
A head-splitting thud has me springing off the bed. My heart’s in my throat, as I tip-toe to the bedroom window behind the desk. I lean over, peering through the vinyl blinds. The sun has set and not a fraction of daylight remains.
“What the hell was that?” I mutter under my breath.
I really need to invest in a security system, or a big dog. I walk featherlike across the room, trying not to make a sound. I make my way over to the living room window and look out across the lawn, and that’s when I see him.
Knox is standing shirtless in Blakely’s yard, in a pair of gym shorts and old sneakers. The bright yard lights shine down on him. He doesn’t see me, but I see him. He lifts a small ax in his hand over his head and brings it down forcefully, splitting a chunk of wood in half.
Maybe he’s having a bonfire tonight. For once, I wouldn’t be opposed. If he has a group of people out there, that means witnesses. Which also means Malcolm or one of his goons will not be snooping around. I might actually get some a good night’s sleep.
Either way, I find myself slipping on a pair of flip flops. I close the door behind me and walk toward him, crossing my arms over my chest. I’m dressed more appropriately this time, but I still can’t help but feel underdressed. He does that to me. I’m not sure why, but I always feel slightly inadequate in his presence. Here I am, a bony and frail woman who has the build of a thirteen year old girl. Straw-like hair that’s piled in a messy bun on the top of my head, and him—his body is one that belongs on the cover of a sports magazine. I take note of his v-line that runs into the waistline of his shorts.
