Only so long I could do that for.
I had some kind of interior self-preservation switch that forced me to alter my behavior to my surroundings, but not my personality.
I wasn’t a talker, naturally. I couldn’t stand the closeness of friendships, of boyfriends, or even my family. I was terrified to let anyone in, to have to watch them crash out of my life.
That’s probably a big reason why I became a reporter. I got the contact I needed, but no commitment. None of that loss. Because I felt for those people I’d interview. The ones who I knew may very well be dead in the next day, the next hour. I’d go in knowing that, and it was almost comforting. Freeing.
It wasn’t this way here.
I knew, given the seriousness of this war that any of these men, or women, could die in an hour, a day, a week.
There was no comfort in that.
So I distracted myself with the story.
Or tried to.
Apart from watching one man get tortured and murdered and another shot in the alley, all high-ranking members of the Fernandez cartel, I didn’t have much. Well, I had a shitload, but not enough narrative for it all.
Telling the Scottish prospect about the quick holiday I had in Scotland while I had four days free between an assignment in Ukraine and Turkey, wasn’t serving my story but I was going crazy in the silence.
“I went to Edinburgh, obviously,” I said. “Because I love Harry Potter and the cemetery where JK Rowling got some of the names was so cool. And then I went to Glasgow, it was different. Less magical. Gritty.”
“Glasgow’s a shithole,” he grunted.
I glanced up at him. He didn’t make eye contact. “I liked it. It was real. Honest.”
Now he looked down at me.
But we didn’t get to have that moment because a small person wearing a printed and bell sleeve maxi dress all but tackled me as we made it into the common room, eerily quiet at midafternoon—men only emerged from whatever they were doing toward the later hours.
“Finally!” she snapped, glaring at Elden, then grinning at me and yanking me into her arms before I could do anything, namely stop her.
I was not a hugger.
Unlike every single other member of my family.
They showed affection often and easily. Maybe I used to as well, in the time before, I couldn’t exactly remember.
But now, the me I had to painfully remember every day, was not a hugger. Not with friends. Definitely not with strangers. And despite what my research, what word of mouth told me or the sheets and magazines that I got from the woman, Macy was still a stranger.
A stranger who hugged.
Whether I liked it or not.
I tried my best not to flinch away from her touch, she’d done a lot for me without knowing who the heck I was, I could handle a hug. One that told me she had a good but subtle taste in perfume and that she was warm and strong for her small size.
She let me go, kept hold of my shoulders and her gaze ran over me. “You are even more beautiful in person,” she declared. “How is that a thing?”
I didn’t quite understand where her words were coming from since she was easily one of the most stunning women I’d ever seen. Up close, her dress was even more kick-ass, even to a woman whose fashion sense was limited to jeans, slouchy tees, and red lipstick. My only splurge was hideously expensive sneakers, I thought of the majority of them fondly, back in my small apartment in Castle Springs, almost taking up a whole wall.
There was one LBD dress in my closet. Not for dates. For funerals.
I had tight, sexy and slutty clothes in my closet at the motel. I wondered if they were even still there since I paid weekly, cash—because it wouldn’t have done well paying with a credit card registered to me if the Sons looked into me.
Those were not chosen because of an interest in fashion.
Originally, they were chosen for an interest of not getting killed.
Fashionista I wasn’t. And Macy was.
Definitely not in the way Scarlett was.
Her dress up close was the most beautiful shade of turquoise with a circular flower pattern, long sleeves, and a plunging neckline. She had about three chunky necklaces slung around her neck, wedged cork mules and her choppy hair was messy in an effortless beautiful kind of way.
Her makeup was light because she was naturally beautiful with soft features that went with her kind smile and warm eyes.
Her warm eyes cooled and narrowed as she glared at my ever-present, hulking, Scottish, roguish shadow.
“Right. You can leave now. We’re having girl talk and I’ll be sure not to plan an escape with her.” Her eyes went back to me, warm again, the transition was flawless and totally adorable. “As a rule, I’m totally against these guys holding women hostage, but I’m secretly kind of happy about you being a hostage and I’m a big fan. Big.” She enunciated the word with a wink. Then she transitioned to a glare at Elden. “Run along and torture some infidels,” she demanded.