by Ella James
The image of the candlelight on Brennan’s face and the curve of Kellan Walsh’s lips must sear themselves into my synapses, because I see them both in my dreams after I go home, eat nearly an entire re-heated chicken pizza, and fall into a cheese coma.
I run through my stash Friday morning, due in no small part to Kellan Asshole Walsh. I call Kennard again, and in addition to telling me no, he now seems annoyed.
Out of desperation, I call someone Lora recommends. His name is Matt, and he’s a junior in finance. His magic power: He’s a dealer who occasionally sells large amounts to other dealers.
On the phone, Matt sounds nice. He has a New Orleans accent and the kind of relaxed bass voice that makes me think he’s going to be a big guy. We agree to meet midafternoon Friday in the parking lot of the local industrial park.
I’m so nervous, I consider asking Milasy for one of her anxiety pills before leaving. Since I never take anything anymore, I probably couldn’t drive, though, so in the end, I hop into my car and drive the four miles to the industrial park blaring the free U2 album that popped up on my iPhone some months back.
I find Matt’s hunter green Four Runner where he said I would, in front of a biotech headquarters. I park beside him and unlock my doors. Then I watch with my breath held as a lanky, brown-haired guy in Wranglers, a ripped t-shirt, and work boots climbs into my passenger seat.
Matt is soft-spoken and relaxed, and he seems perfectly non-threatening. He’s happy to take the wad of cash I have on hand and give me two ounces, triple Ziplocked. The only problem is, he won’t sell me more until we meet up at one of his safe houses.
I snort. “Safe for who, you?”
He shrugs. “C’mon, Cleo. You know a guy’s gotta watch himself,” he drawls.
I sigh. “If you say so.”
After we shoot the shit for a few minutes—I find out that Matt is from Metairie, a little town outside New Orleans—he invites me to call him anytime. I just smile and tell him, “Thanks.”
Friday evening passes in a blur of frat parties, where I hand out pot to the few people I owe and try to avoid worrying about Kellan Walsh. If he was going to do something, he’d have already done it.
Once I’m back at the house, and safely in my room, I strip down and let my naked body enjoy the cool air. I take a seat at the desk inside my closet and dial Kennard.
“Hey, Kennard. I’m so sorry to bother you again, but I really need some more. Like...really bad. It’s an emergency for me. So Sunday...can I get a little more than my usual?”
“Psshhh.” I can see Kennard’s brown eyes roll. “I got nothing. I’m all out. My guy’s gone. I don’t know where he went.”
And just like that, my supply is gone. I’m up all night, feeling ill about my drought.
I toss around in bed, considering other high-dollar occupations. I could be a stripper—but I’m not phony enough. As Milasy has pointed out to me in more than one ‘sorority ambassador’ situation, I’m not very good at feigning interest—or anything, for that matter.
I never could convince Brennan that his ineffectual tongue-flicking felt good to me on the one or two occasions I urged him between my legs. There’s no way I could grin for a guy with body odor and wag my barely clad ass in his face.
Maybe I could sell a...what? Selling organs and other bodily fluids on the black market is illegal, so not that. I could sell my eggs, but that takes time. I don’t have time. A few weeks without my regular income could pull me under. Okay—not a few weeks; I do have some savings, but it would be gone in a month or two.
Shit.
I’m out of bed at 5:15 AM. I shower, brush and floss my teeth, work on cross-stitching a quote that, when I started cross-stitching it, I believed was attributed to Vonnegut. Since I started my project, I found it’s actually not Vonnegut, but some anon poetry-book person going by the name “pleasefindthis.”
“Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let the pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness.”
I arch my brows at the sentiment—which doesn’t exactly jibe with my mood right now—and put the piece aside after forming the “n” in pain. I debate going for a run, going for a swim, and working on a canvas before I finally give in and, a little after 8 AM, shoot my new friend Matt a text.
He calls me immediately and tells me we can meet up in the afternoon. He gives me an address in the middle of nowhere. I know it’s the middle of nowhere, because Google maps, which I’ve pulled up on my MacBook, has never heard of the address. I’ll have to go on Matt’s directions.
“Four-thirty okay with you?” he asks.
I bite my lip, staring at the spot on the Google map where I think his place is located. “So it’s down near the river, kinda south of town?”
“My friend’s place. Yeah, by the river.”
I tap my fingers on my chin. “Hmmm.”
“You good for it?”
“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “I don’t usually go to strangers’ houses without taking someone with me. Especially strangers like you.”
He laughs. “You gonna bring someone with you?”
“I’ve got another idea.”
A few minutes later, I receive a texted photo of Matt’s license. I shoot it to Lora, along with a text: ‘Hope I can trust your homeboy. Meeting up at 4:30 at a house on a dirt road off that county road with the big, red barn. Send a search party if u don’t hear from me by 7. Srsly.’
I wriggle into my favorite black stretch jeans, pull a loose red blouse over my head, and slip into my silver Manolos. I drive through at my bank, at College Corner, and withdraw three thousand dollars. Then I point myself south, toward where the river weaves its way along the Alabama-Georgia line.
The drive is shady and nice, with lots of pastures, big trees, and a few glimpses of the winding river. I have the top down on my Miata, and I’m feeling kind of excited. If I can start buying from Matt, it will be even better than Kennard. For one, no weekend trips to Albany. Assuming Matt’s not lying to me, or a freaking cop, he’s got a big supply. To top it off, on our first and only deal, he was cheaper than Kennard—and the shit was higher quality. Like...a lot higher.
I turn down the dirt road Matt mentioned, and my car starts bouncing. Some of the dust I’m kicking up ends up in my mouth, and I wish I’d left my car’s top up. I take it a little slower, shut my mouth, and squint, then look down at the directions I punched into my phone’s notepad.
The dirt road forks, and the dirt gets a little wetter—like it’s rained out this way recently. I’m going so slow, I can hear the river rushing through the trees somewhere nearby.
Matt seems nice, like a normal guy. A good ole boy. I hope he really is.
Finally, I see my signal: a large, brown mailbox tacked onto the side of a towering oak. The road forks yet again. I veer right, and the sound of the rushing river amplifies. A black bird flies overhead, sailing into the fluffy, white clouds then dipping down, where he soars ahead of my car.
I drive between a few pecan trees, and there it is: an elegant brick mansion situated in the middle of a lush, green pasture. There’s a spacious porch, overflowing with plants and rocking chairs, plus four stately, round, white columns. Classic Southern farm digs.
This is nice.
Like...really nice.
I strain to see how many cars are parked in front, but there are too many trees to get a count. I drive slowly, telling myself that if it seems sketchy, I can turn around and leave.
When I get to the end of the drive, I see two cars, plus a motorcycle. The porch is scattered with white rocking chairs, topped by ceiling fans, and framed by big azalea bushes. Maybe the safe house is owned by a little old lady.
I spot a humming bird feeder hanging from the limb of a mid-sized Maple tree, and that seals the deal for me. This place is fine. I’m going in. I park my car beside an SUV with our school’s sticker on the back and spend a moment finger-brushing my hair.
Then I grab my
bag, step out onto the red dirt ground, and walk up to the porch. I’ve got a little .357 Taurus tucked into my jeans pocket. I’d hate to use it, but I’m a good shot, and I need to be able to protect myself if Matt’s friends turn out to be creepers.
I hold my breath and ring the doorbell.
Panic swells in my throat. What kind of people live so far out by the river? My eyes are searching through the glass panes framing the sleek wood door, looking into a wide, hardwood hallway for Matt’s round face and redneck clothes.
As I’m watching for him, something comes over my eyes. Hands. I whirl. I try to whirl, but my captor does that for me, spinning me on my heels as my hand flails for my gun. “What the—”
“Cleo Whatley.” The hand moves. I blink at—KELLAN WALSH!
“Oh fuck.”
I try to change my course of action—what I want to do is run—but my hand is already in motion. I’ve grabbed my gun and I can’t seem to stop my arm’s trajectory. The nose of my Taurus comes in line with Kellan’s collarbone.
His eyes don’t even widen. He rips the gun from my hand like a professional fighter.
His face is hard as he snatches my wrists, thrusts them over my head, and uses his legs and his free arm to nudge me toward the door. I don’t even see him open it before I’m jerked through the doorway.
“What are—”
“Quiet,” he snarls.
The next few minutes are surreal. My dazed mind marvels at how strong and deft he is as I am dragged down a high-gloss, hardwood hallway that runs alongside an elaborate staircase. Better Homes & Gardens comes to life around me as I’m spirited through a flawless kitchen and hauled into an enormous living area with top-notch furnishings, Oriental rugs, and yawning ceilings striped with exposed wood beams and long, glass skylights.
He sets me on my feet behind a white suede couch, still holding my wrists tight enough to bruise. It’s weird to see Perfect Kellan look so...furious.
Fuck, he’s glaring daggers at me.
“Where is Matt?” I screech, jerking against his hold.
Who would have thought that pretty face could be so cold? I hold his gaze, praying it will soften. When it doesn’t, my heart throbs sickly. “Let me go!”
He shakes his head and locks his jaw. “I want an explanation, Cleo.”
“What are you doing here?” I bleat.
“This is my house.”
FOUR
Cleo
I’m breathing hard and fast, like I just snorted something. With my arms above my head and his angry face so close to mine, I feel tears sting the corners of my eyes.
“W-what do you mean...your house?”
I hear a thud from somewhere in the rooms behind us, and my heart stops. All the blood must leave my head, because the living room careens around me. Am I busted? I can’t breathe. I jerk against the hands around my wrists, because I want to grab my throat. He lets me go abruptly, but before I can regain my balance, he scoops me up and throws me over his back.
He stalks toward some built-in bookshelves, then cuts between a wing-backed chair and a pretty, stone fireplace. Stairs. There’s another staircase here at the back of the house. Kellan starts taking the stairs two at a time.
A frenzied sob bursts from my throat. “This is a set up!”
“Calm down,” he snaps.
My mind races as my cheek slaps the fabric of his shirt. I get a bird’s eye view of the living area below and marvel at how extravagant it is, even as I wonder: where is Matt, did Matt sell me out, what will Kellan do to me? And why the hell did I say ‘this is a set up?’ That was fucking stupid.
The bounce of Kellan’s footsteps levels off, and the dark wood staircase with its plush, green runner morphs into the flat plane of a hall.
I take in the décor—wine-colored walls that stretch to tall ceilings, framed by elaborate crown molding; contemporary landscape paintings mounted between doors; a table with a lamp and palm tree beside a large bay window—while my arms flail in the air. I don’t want to grasp his back despite my need for balance.
Fucking Matt. My stomach clenches as I question Lora, too. I’m feeling about three strides from barfing when he curves slightly to the right, pushes one of those schmancy wood doors open, and steps inside what looks to be a bedroom. My heartbeat throbs in my eyes as I blink at a plush rug, and the bottom half of a dresser. I struggle to lift my head, catching a glimpse of tall, plum-colored walls, a giant Monet reprod, and the top half of a burly oak dresser.
I’m filled with what-the-fuck as Kellan lowers me onto the rug. It’s a big bedroom, dominated by an enormous canopy bed, but that’s all I note before my eyes are glued to him. He’s standing right in front of me with his arms folded, his face set in a stern, avenging look. With his well-built body clad in a pale blue button-up, dark jeans, and brown leather boots, he looks as righteous as ever: Chattahoochee College’s very own morality enforcer.
He also looks pissed off to behold me. Like I’ve wronged him. This makes me feel both angry and breathlessly afraid. “Why’d you bring me up here?” I manage in a froggy voice.
I glance again around the bedroom.
The wall in front of me is nothing but a sheet of glass, offering a stunning view of the tops of pines, and the river rushing over rocks below them. Above the treetops, the pale sky stretches on and on, broken only by a soaring hawk.
I roll my gaze around the room, taking in its deep plum walls, its high ceilings. There’s a fancy indention at the center of the ceiling, something that looks right out of a magazine. To my left is the bed: a deliciously masculine oak monstrosity, with tree-trunk posts, a deep green duvet, and curtains that drop down around it.
A bed for sex.
I’m still shaking slightly, so I fold my own arms, mirroring his stance. “I want my gun back.” I wait a beat for him to speak, and when he doesn’t, I scoff, as if all I feel right now is irritation. “Where is Matt?”
My eyes flick to the window-wall. I notice there’s a balcony outside it. Something about the balcony makes my knees wobble. Or maybe it’s that bad look on his face.
Shit—I’m starting to feel faint.
His jaw flexes, and I may be going insane, because I think I see his features soften.
“Matt’s not here right now.”
“He set me up.” There’s no way around that fact, although I wish there was. I pulled a gun on Kellan Walsh. I’m at his fucking house, loaded down with wads of cash. A horrible thought steamrolls me. “Are you a secret agent? Like an...FBI?”
He laughs at that. The asshole actually laughs. He takes a small step closer to me, his eyes never leaving mine. “You think I am?”
“God, just fucking tell me. Don’t keep playing games.”
He’s close enough to touch me now. His arms uncross. His face goes calmly neutral as he shifts his gaze around the room. It pauses on a wing-backed chair in a corner on the opposite side of the bed. I freeze as Kellan steps toward me. He steps around me. He strides over to the wing-backed chair, hefts it over his shoulder, and brings it to me.
He sets it near the foot of the bed and waves at it. “Sit down.”
I shake my head. Out of nowhere, tears spring into my eyes. “Don’t drag this out. It’s cruel.”
I grit my teeth as hot saliva pools in my mouth—as if my tears are being redirected.
“Sit down,” he says, more sharply.
I do. I don’t know why. I tuck my arms around myself and fix my gaze on the glass wall. The balcony is stone—expensive-looking, as if gargoyles ought to perch on its railing. I can see the river gleam between the pines. I’m so damn fucked. I’m so stupid. I drop my head into my hands, because the tears are falling and I hate to be caught crying.
“Cleo?” He sighs, as if he’s irritated. I feel his hand close on my shoulder. “Look at me.”
I can’t. “Just let me leave,” I whisper to my knees.
Why did this happen? Matt seemed nice. I wipe my eyes and look up at Kellan. “Did you g
uys set me up for...some reason?”
His eyes, on mine, are calm and blue. I find no malice there. Also, no outrage at the question, at my insinuation that Kellan Perfect Walsh is in cahoots with Matt, a known unsavory.
Kellan shifts his weight. His gaze drops to his feet, then drags back up to mine. “Not in the way you think.”
“What does that mean?”
He lifts his chin. He tilts his head at something past me. “See that vase?”
I turn around. I half expect something hard to come down on my head, but Kellan just waits while my gaze drifts over the built-in bookshelves lining most of the left wall of the room. Just beyond the mini library, set close to the corner by the top, right bedpost, is an antique wash table—also oak—that holds, among other items, a black glass vase.
“Yes,” I rasp. I see the vase.
“Go get it.”
I turn back to him, so I can see his face. Perfection. Warmth spreads through me, chased by nervous cold. He nods toward the vase.
“Why?” I whisper.
“Just do it.”
“Where’s my gun?”
He reaches down and pulls it from his left boot like a cowboy. He holds it out to me. I swallow as I take it.
It’s too light. Fear rips through me. “You disarmed my gun?”
He huffs a laugh. “Of course. You shoot, I bleed—and we’re a long way from a decent hospital.”
“I want my bullets back!”
He nods past me. “Go get the vase, Cleo.”
“Are you going to give my bullets back?” I tuck the gun into the waist of my pants.
“Drop back by here one day, without the gun.”
I glare at him and walk around the foot of the bed, past the curtained side of it, and to the table. The vase is vaguely fishbowl shaped, about that size as well, and it looks empty. As soon as I pick it up, I can feel it’s not. There’s something fuzzy in the bottom. After only a second, I realize... “It’s my stuff.”
A glance behind me reveals that Kellan’s got his poker face on. I reach in and curl my hand around my long lost nuggets—but…they’re not nuggets. This is one long bud? I draw it out and frown down at it. Not mine. “I don’t understand.”
