by Soto, S. M.
“Mom,” I say sharply, cutting her off. “I haven’t worked in two months. I’ve had no cash inflow. Which means I’ve had no money to pay for bills. I haven’t paid for anything.”
Her brows dip. “Well, someone has been paying for you.”
For one small second, I let hope gather in my chest…could it be? No, there’s no way, right? But that hope is suddenly deflated when I think about it more thoroughly. Arthur gave his word I’d be under his protection. I guess paying for my little bakery is part of that. My shoulders droop, and I slouch back on the bed.
“Are you ever going to tell me what happened on that vacation? You took the time off so suddenly, and now that you’re back…”
“What?”
“You seem different.”
I shift my gaze out the window to the quiet street beyond. “I am different.”
“Come on,” she says, patting the bed beside me. “It’s time for you to get up, out of this bed.”
With a groan, I allow her to drag me out of bed for the first time in four weeks. It’s not much, but it’s progress.
* * *
PERCIVALE
Two Months Later
With my cigarette dangling from my lips, I watch Blossom drag her feet through the baking process. Even from here, hidden in the shadows across the street, I can see the concentrated look on her face. I can read the frustration by the way she purses her lips. She’s been trying new recipes. Anything to bring in more customers. Last week was her first time opening the bakery in fucking months. She’s been dragging, hurting—even I can see it when I watch her. What’s hurting her even more is the time she took off from the bakery hurt her business. Her usual customers who stopped by regularly were lost when she closed down for months. Now she’s working overtime just to bring in more people and bump up the inflow of cash.
She needn’t worry about money. I’ve paid an advance on the bakery; whether she wants to keep it or not is up to her. By the way she’s tossing things around in irritation, I’ll say she isn’t going to last long.
I still remember that first day. It’d been days since the death matches, and even though I looked like shit and had no business sneaking around, following her, I did it anyway. I told one of Arthur’s men that I could take it from there and watch over her from now on. She was mine—she always would be. Even if she thought I was dead, I’d keep it that way just to protect her and give her the life she deserves.
“Chick is mental,” one of Arthur’s men says. “Came in here last night, throwing shit around, trashing the place.”
It takes me a second as I glance around the shop, and I realize he’s right. It is trashed. There’s glass everywhere, and there in the middle of it all is my sweet Blossom, curled against the wall, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs. It makes my chest tighten.
A better man would reach out to her and reassure her that I’m okay, but I’m not a better man, never have been. Chances are, that will never change.
So now, that I see her at least trying to pick up the pieces of her life, it gives me a weird sensation in my chest. As corny as it fucking sounds, it’s like watching her blossom back into her old self.
* * *
I’m here again.
It’s not necessary to watch her every night, but I have this perverse need to see her. To watch her. I have jobs to do. People to kill. Men to extort for money, but all that can wait until I’ve had my fill of her tonight. A few hours are all I need.
In my usual spot, sans car, I light up a cigarette and watch my sweet girl as she works. Unbeknownst to me, a smile lightly tips the corners of my lips as she sways those fucking hips to the beat of whatever music she’s listening to.
I shake my head. For fuck’s sake.
A Living, Breathing, Dead Man
Blossom
I knead my fingers through the dough, not really sure what I plan on doing with this bread yet. I just finished with several batches of macaroons, but my busy hands were itching to start something new. Business has been picking up, and I’m slowly starting to get back into a routine. It still hurts. God, it hurts every single day, but the best I can do is lose myself in work, not hole up in my apartment where I risk losing everything I’ve worked for. I owe Percivale and myself that much.
Before coming back to the bakery, I placed a few calls about the bills, trying to figure out who was paying and how I could revert all of it back to me. Surprisingly, the rent and fees on the lot and the space of the bakery was paid in full by an unknown source. My loans that I had taken out prior to starting my business? Those were all taken care of too. The only things left for me to pay were groceries and electricity. Everything else—all my other bills and debt that I’ve spent years stressing over—were suddenly gone. I guess I had Percivale and as much as I hate to say it, Arthur, to thank for that. I know he has his men watching me, just waiting for me to screw up. I can feel them, the way their eyes sear into my skin. I know they’re there, but I never see them.
As I’m sprinkling more flour, a chill travels down my spine. It’s an awareness of sorts. I glance at the clock along the wall, noting the time. Half past ten. I always get this sensation every night around the same time, like clockwork. Swallowing thickly, I dart my gaze outside of the window, but it’s impossible to see into the night. Even though I know I shouldn’t, I still look for his car. Any sight of him. But of course, I don’t find it, and all it leaves me with is more heartache. A tear glides down my cheeks, and I wipe at it angrily, focusing back on work.
As I work on the bread, I think about the first time I laid eyes on Percivale, the first time I ever met him. I think about how he burst calmly through those doors on a night just like this. My heart suddenly screeches to a halt, and my hands freeze. I jolt my head up and stare into the shadows, my heart pounding as my eyes search the darkness. And that’s when I see it. It’s barely there, just a small orange glow. It looks eerily like the glow of the end of a cigarette butt. And I know without a shadow of a doubt that’s exactly what it is. Even more? I know who it belongs to.
With my heart pounding and my chest tightening with each breath, I run to the door and throw it open, stepping outside. The cool air slashes across my skin, but my eyes are riveted to one thing: the orange glow. Slowly, I cross the street, following the sweet smell, and I suck in a sharp breath when the shadowed figure materializes. I let out a cry when he steps out of the shadows, his face illuminated by the streetlights.
“You’re alive,” I half sob, half laugh. So many emotions roll through me all at once it gives me whiplash. I’m elated, confused, and so freaking angry.
Percivale smirks at me, taking a puff from the cigarette. His gaze rakes up and down my body almost like he can’t help himself, and I do the same. I search his face. He looks exactly the same as I remember, but there’s something about him that’s different. He has new scars on his face that weren’t there before. His too-perfect nose is no longer so perfect; there’s a scar across the bridge, like it was split across the center and stitched back together. He’s dressed in his usual clothes: black shirt, leather jacket, dark jeans, and boots.
Before I can think better of it, I throw myself into Percivale’s arms and hold on to him for dear life, the tears coming harder and faster now. Much to my surprise, his arms wrap around me and he squeezes me to him.
I soak him in. His smell. The feel of his touch. His body against mine. All of it.
As if my brain is barely processing everything, I jolt away from him and shove against his chest, my tears still trailing down my cheeks.
“How dare you! How dare you take so long to let me know you were okay! You’ve been watching me for how long? I thought you were dead, damnit!”
Percivale takes a drag, lazily glancing around the darkened street. “You’ve tried to kill me once—didn’t think you’d mind someone else finishing the job for you.” He smirks, and I stumble back, his words like a blow to the face. My chest tightens and my chin quavers with emot
ion.
“That’s not fair,” I whisper. “Didn’t you see how much it hurt being here without you? How much I needed you? How could you?”
His face tightens. “Because you’re better off if you think I’m dead. You don’t need me in your life.”
“Too bad! I want you here!” I snap, losing my patience.
He’s been alive this whole entire time. He’s been paying the bills. Watching me suffer. All of it.
“It’s not a choice. I’m not staying.” His voice is cold and indifferent. My heart cracks open in my chest; that ice pick stabs the organ over and over.
“You’re leaving me again?” I ask incredulously. He flicks his cigarette and steps into me. My body trembles at his proximity, and when he palms my face and rubs his thumb along my skin, I almost cry.
“I am, Blossom. You’ll thank me one day.” Like two hands on either side of a wound, pulling the skin apart, he rips me in half. “You can go back to your life,” he says casually, as if talking about the weather.
Once upon a time those words would have been met with relief. Now I can’t imagine anything more horrible. I’ve spent months thinking he was dead, thinking I’d have to go without him by my side. Not even the threat of death hanging over my head is worse than this.
“W-what?”
“I’ve taken care of things. You no longer have anything to be worried about. You’re safe,” he adds, like that’s the only reason I’d want to stay with him. He has to know how I feel, right?
“No.”
There’s a weighted pause, as if Percivale’s giving me time to reflect on my disobedience. To grasp what he’s saying.
No, I’m not letting him do this.
“You don’t have a choice,” he says lightly.
“You said I was yours,” I hiss, growing angrier by the second. “I gave my body to you willingly, something I’ve never given to any other man.”
He cocks his head to the side, challenging me. “But did you really? Think about it, Blossom. The mind will adapt to its surroundings, and when it knows its host is in danger, it gives in far too quickly.”
I suck in a sharp breath. Pain slices through my chest. It feels like someone dropped a block of dry ice in my chest cavity—the pain is both an unbearable iciness that spreads along my heart in a numbing effect, but also burning, the sensation of my body on fire with anger.
“I’m yours, Percivale. We both know this.”
He nods agreeably. “Okay. You’re mine for as long as I want. And now? Time’s up.”
It shouldn’t be so hard to pull steady breaths into my lungs, but it is. God it is. At least my gasp is silent, my pain only rippling across my features.
“I can’t do this again,” I choke out, already thinking of the pain. I barely made it past my grief without him before; I can’t do it again, not now that I know he’s alive and well.
“You will. You’re going to live a long, happy, healthy life. You’ll find someone to fix your intimacy issues, and he’ll marry you and give you a couple of babies. You’ll live every girl’s dream.”
I shake my head, in denial. “Not me. That’s not what I want. That’s not my dream. I want you, Percivale.”
He starts backing away, looking at me like I should’ve known better.
“Oh, sweet little Blossom Jaymes. It doesn’t matter what you want. It never did.”
Checkmate
Percival
Six Months Later
I slam the metal door leading into the tunnels below, then shut and slide the bookcase back in front. The room is back to looking like a study. Grabbing a cigarette and a glass of bourbon off my desk, I walk up the stairs until I reach the balcony. The second I open the French doors, the smell and the sounds hit me first. The willow trees along my property drape over the estate, shielding the street lookers from seeing what’s on the other side of the greenage.
Up here, I can see over the trees, along the busy streets of New Orleans. Always crowded. Always lively. Always fucking awake.
I press a cigarette between my lips and flick open my lighter, bringing it to the end, and I inhale. My hands are still bloodied from a job earlier. But I don’t care. I suck in a lungful of nicotine and breathe it in, holding the chemicals in my lungs and closing my eyes.
I see her. Always her.
Doesn’t matter who I’m with, where I am, or what I’m doing, I always see her. Fucking Blossom Jaymes. It’s been months since the last time I saw her. That day on her quiet suburban street, I walked away and haven’t looked back. I kept to my word, having someone else I trusted keep an eye on her to ensure she wasn’t ever in danger or harm’s away. I didn’t trust myself when it came to Blossom. The urge to throw open the entrance to her fucking bakery and bend her ass over the counter was all consuming. It was also why I forced myself to keep my distance.
Over the last six months, I lost myself in revenge. Booze. Blood. None of it has helped push her from my mind. She’s always there, those goddamn unique blue and green eyes piercing me.
I pull the cigarette away and grit my teeth, frustrated with this shit. When I open my eyes I pause, still seeing her. She doesn’t look the same as she does in my head. She looks different now. Fucking whimsical. I wonder, idly, if I’m losing it.
But no, I’m not.
The woman gliding across the grass, beneath the willow trees, is Blossom Jaymes. Only she’s different. I can tell just by looking at her from up here. She’s holding herself differently; with her shoulders squared and spine ramrod straight, she looks like a woman on a mission. Not a woman who was raped or even a woman who was kidnapped. Her gold-spun blonde hair isn’t long and wavy anymore. It’s cut short, in a sleek cut that makes her look younger, yet sophisticated. It’s not as long and beautiful as it used to be, but even from here I can tell it’s still just enough to wind around my fist as I fuck her. I knock back my bourbon, reveling in the smooth burn on the way down.
Almost as if she can sense my presence up here, she looks up, craning that delicate neck back toward the balcony, and freezes. I can’t tell what expression she’s wearing, not from here. But I wish I knew what it was. What she looked like. I feel her gaze burning holes into me. I can’t see her eyes, but I can picture the vibrant colors swirling in both.
I place the tumbler on the railing and back away from the balcony. I take my time walking down the stairs, puffing on my cigarette. By the time I open the door and step out into the glass porch, opening that door too, she’s already standing there on the top step, waiting.
After six months, she shows up at my door and it’s like watching an angel. A goddess. A smile spreads across her beautiful face. It’s so out of place. So fucking unique.
Just like her.
I take her in from head to toe. Her body is tighter than I remember, her skin a little tanner than I recall. Her blonde hair grazes her chin, framing her face, softening her features while sharpening them all at once. She’s dressed in a light pink sundress that brings out the creamy color of her skin and the freckles. The July weather in New Orleans has her shoulders looking sun kissed. A slight sheen of sweat is on her skin, and all I can think about doing is licking it off.
“Hi.” She’s still smiling. Like she has a fucking secret. And fuck me if I don’t want to know what it is.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say, watching her with a bored expression as I take a drag from my cigarette. She looks down at her sandaled feet and tucks loose hairs behind her ears before she looks back up at me. Those blue-green eyes look so strong and vibrant, they’re practically fucking glittering.
“And you shouldn’t be smoking.” She counters.
For fucks sake…
“For the first time in my life, I made the decision to be happy. That started with travelling. I wanted to find my happiness while travelling the world. And want to know where I found myself, Percivale? Here. I found myself right here.” I grind my teeth together at her words. “We tried it your way. Now we try it mine,” she say
s, strength coating every syllable, like she actually believes that. I keep my expression even, not giving anything away. There are so many thoughts going through my head, but the most important is her. It’s been six months. Long enough for her to move on.
“Why are you here, Blossom?”
“Because—” She clears her throat, squaring her shoulders. “That happily ever after you want me to have so badly? It doesn’t exist without you. Don’t you get it? That happiness I want for myself starts and ends with you.”
My hands curl into fists, and my lips tighten around my cig. “You’re making a mistake,” I warn her. And she smiles. She fucking smiles.
“I’ve made mistakes my whole life, Percivale, and you are not one of them.”
A foreign sensation settles in my chest. It’s heavy and light, and all I know is I don’t fucking like it.
“I won’t be gentle with you. I can’t.”
We’re already backing inside the house, into the foyer, blindly turning corners. She’s wearing that triumphant look on her face.
She shakes her head at me, licking her plump, pink lips. “I don’t want gentle.”
“I’m going to keep killing people, and chances are they’re going to want to kill me too.”
She pauses, her eyes sharpening. “Will you protect me? From the danger, from the fallout?”
Steel enters my voice. “Always.”
“Then that’s all that matters. The rest is just semantics.”
I raise a brow. “Semantics?”
She grins. “Semantics, baby.”
Then I kiss her. Like my entire life depends on it. I’ve missed her soft, plump lips, soaking in the way she tastes and smells. I’ve missed the way she pants into my mouth and her body molds to mine. The way her sexy little tongue plays with mine. The way those fucking hands roam across my body, like it’s her property. Like she owns every fucking piece of me. And fuck me, she does.
