BP: I like you, feisty. And yes, I was hard looking at you. All I could think about was painting your pretty face with my seed. And I craved it. I told you, Beauty, I’m not a good man. Not at all. I’m broken, and my mind tends to lead me into dark corners when I wish I could be normal.
What does that even mean? I stare at the screen for a long while, trying to figure out what he’s talking about, but before I can respond, another message comes through from him.
BP: Let me keep you safe. From everything.
Safe. It’s a relative word to me because nothing I can do will ever keep me safe forever. Eventually, they’ll find me, and when they do, my life will no longer be my own. What can another man, perhaps just as dangerous, offer me? Nothing more than a bodyguard who would be taken down the moment Herbert and his men step into the ring with him.
SB: I can’t ask you to do that. It’s my life, and I need to live it out the way I choose.
BP: Meet me in the park. Just once more, and I’ll try to show you that I’m worthy of your trust. Please.
The sun is high now, streaming through my living room windows, which overlook the meadow, and I take note of the bench where I sat only hours ago. It feels like a lifetime. I consider his offer, if he wants to meet, perhaps I can give him that much.
SB: Okay. Give me an hour.
BP: Why? You going to make yourself look pretty for me, Beauty?
I laugh out loud, but I also feel heat blooming in my cheeks. I’ll get to see him. The thought of finally seeing his face makes my stomach tumble wildly.
SB: Perhaps. I’ll see you soon.
I log off before I’m tempted to ask him any more questions. I head into the bathroom to freshen up before I make my way into my bedroom and find a pretty summer dress, along with a denim jacket, which I shrug on before pushing my feet into a pair of Doc Martens that have seen better days. I look like a crazy hippie with my mismatched colors, but I don’t care. This is who I am now, someone so opposite of who I was that at times I don’t recognize myself.
With fifteen minutes to spare, I make my way out of the apartment and onto the road, taking the path up toward the same bench from earlier. My phone is in my pocket if I need it, and I have a small pocketknife chained to my keys.
I’ve been wary for a long time, and even though I’ve come out here before, I’ve always kept my knife on me. It’s tiny, but it will do some damage. I’m definitely not trained to fight, but I can hold my own.
I settle on the bench, taking in the people heading out for a morning run or breakfast at the local café, and even those walking their dogs. This is fine; I’ll be okay. I swallow the lump in my throat, forcing myself to calm down, but the flip-flop in my stomach doesn’t ease.
I’m about to take a short walk toward the trees when someone slumps beside me on the bench. He’s wearing a dark hoodie, along with a baseball cap, which hides part of his face.
“You came,” I speak. My voice is scratchy, filled with both excitement and trepidation. Why won’t he show me his face?
7
Logan
Those two words are the balm to my ever-aching heart. I made a mistake with her all those years ago, and I promise myself now that I won’t do it again. When she agreed to meet me, I decided it’s now or never. If I show her my face, she’ll hate me.
I can do it right now, and while I wait for her to recognize me, I know I’ll hold my breath, and it will be the end of my secrets. Can I let go of that part of me? The desire that coils itself around my veins, thrumming through my blood. If she does know who I am, I’ll have to explain why I walked away from her.
Silently, I weigh my options, but I don’t move. The hoodie covers my face, and I don’t turn to her, yet being beside her makes me want to show her who I am. Need fires inside me, sparking the coldness into heat that sears every inch of my body.
I want nothing more than to look into her eyes and see her beautiful face without hiding. But for now, I sit and look ahead of me. I can feel her staring, waiting. I know the moment I look into her eyes for the first time in nine, almost ten years will be jarring.