PART II, 1996
SEVEN
His lips were dry against hers; his breath stale from cigarettes.
Some things she should be used to but as hard as she tried, the acrid taste of cigarettes still made her nauseas. Maybe it was because it was him she smelled and tasted it on, or maybe it was because it was a constant reminder of how few choices and how little control existed in her life.
He signaled on top of her, again into her mouth. A grunt, like a pig she'd long ago taken to amusing herself by characterizing him. She bit off her own breath as his became deeper and rushed, polluting her mouth gush after gush. And finally—mercifully—a slap against her left thigh was his unmistakable indication that he was finished with her.
"Put yourself together. You're a mess."
Dee Dee nodded, running her tongue over her lips to moisten them. Rolling to her left as Elian climbed off of her and plopped down on his back, she slid her bare legs over the edge of the mattress and sat up. His hand wafted across the small of her back, eliciting a shockwave of shivers up the length of her spine. She hated the feel of his touches, the gentle ones, the harsh ones, but she'd learned long ago to accept all of them without fighting against them or allowing even an intimation of her repulsion to show. Some might say it was a means of survival, others might accuse that it was the coward's way out. But opinions didn't matter to her, not his and especially not those that were uneducated. Her own survival could be damned; she'd stopped caring about it almost as soon as she'd realized it was in jeopardy. And as far as being a coward… Screw the masses that believed giving up was a show of weakness. They didn't understand. Giving up, releasing control and allowing yourself to be recreated to fit someone else's standards, were strengths.
Indomitable ones.
She slid gingerly off the bed and headed toward the bathroom. Glancing back as he commanded from from the center of the four-poster bed, "Keep the door open," she nodded her acquiescence. It was odd, she thought, how little she actually spoke anymore. She mainly just listened, like he demanded. To directives, criticisms, opinions, or his late night, drunken tirades about any topic that had become his stressor of the moment. But she rarely said anything in response; her mind rarely even concocted cerebral responses anymore.
And that was the way he liked it. It was how he liked her.
Crossing into the bathroom, she flipped on the light. The bright rays instantly rained down on her, setting her sun-kissed skin aglow. She was confronted with her image in the long, rectangular mirror above the vanity, the sight familiar but still shocking. She looked tired; it was the first thought she always seemed to have when catching her reflection. Her hair, hitting a good three inches beneath her shoulders and a deep, rich brown in color was tousled from their afternoon in bed, the jaw-length bangs hooked messily behind her left ear. Her eyes held a hollowness in them, seeming darker in color than her memories remembered them once being, and her skin was far richer in tone than it ever used to be, the result of wasting long, mindless hours lounging poolside. But she didn't mind looking like this person, not really. Looking different—like his creation—made it easier to forget that she'd actually once been someone else entirely.
"I've told Graciela to serve you dinner in your room tonight. I'll be hosting a business dinner in the formal dining room. We don't need you showing up and spoiling the party, now do we?"
She caught his smile in the mirror and responded to it with a stone face. Dinner in her room meant a locked door and isolation. Nothing new, but also not what he had promised. Maintaining eye contract through the streak-free glass, she took in a breath through her nose. It wasn't that she ever relied on his word; at least not that it would be truthful. He took enjoyment out of taking away, and he found it the most enjoyable when it was her joy he took possession of.
She took in another breath, and another. "But, you said that today…that I could…with, uh. With Isabel and—"
"I said I would think about it," he interrupted, sitting up. Sliding to the edge of the bed, he dropped down heavily on the floor. Through deliberate steps, he made his way into the bathroom, coming to a stop behind her, against her. "Don't twist my words. You know I don't like that."
She maintained his stare through the mirror, just for a second, for as long as her confidence held out. Timidly, her gaze dropped, and she nodded in both apology and agreement, as his strong arms snaked around her waist. He squeezed, the tips of his fingers digging into her pelvis, but she didn't bristle or flinch. Instead, she cupped her hands over his stronger ones, beginning a soft caress to the topside of his right hand with the pad of her thumb.
Again and again, she stroked his skin.
Like the feel of him didn't turn her stomach.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, the tile-floor still the target of her stare. "You're right. I twisted your words."
Behind her, he chuckled, the sound lathered in victory. "Such a little mouse, aren't you?" he said, nipping at the lobe of her right ear and then nuzzling her neck with his face.
Still laughing.
Reveling in reinforcing her powerlessness.
But what he didn't understand was that she had given up her power willingly, handed it over to him like it didn't have any merit at all. And maybe, all circumstances considered, it really hadn't ever had any. After all, what was power, other than the state of an over-inflated ego and the self-caressing that led to overconfidence? Maybe, really, true power lied in accepting that you had no power at all. At least that was what she tried to convince herself, especially during the bleakest moments, the ones spent trapped beneath him, or on the receiving end of one of his impromptu outbursts. Because during those moments he believed that she was submitting, bowing down to his power. But in reality, she was simply focusing all of her energy on hating him.
Like she knew was expected, she tilted her head away from his, opening up her neck as his kisses continued downward to the top of her shoulder. Before she'd given away her power, sex had always been on her terms, at her choosing. She'd had a variety of partners. Not enough to be considered imprudent, but definitely enough to gain her fair share of experience. But with each and every encounter—each that had been her choice—she'd wanted to live through the moment, to be a participant in it.
Before.
When that had still been one of her powers.
She'd traded that power for the skill of manipulation, and it was one she had mastered. When she closed her eyes, she became her old self again.
Willing.
In control.
And then it was he who was transformed into someone else. Someone not of his choosing, but that she chose for him to be.
But unfortunately, it was a skill that reached only as far as her own mind.
"Say it," he growled against her skin, his breath hot, stinging. "Tell me you're my little mouse."
"I'm your little mouse," she whispered obediently, her eyes closing to block out the naked images taunting her in the mirror.
"Look at me."
Hesitantly, she forced her eyes open, finding his stare still on her. Through the mirror, his dark eyes watched her, taunted her, as he continued to fondle her.
"I brought you a new book," he said. "I think you'll enjoy it. It's a crime story. The main character is a police officer—a female detective."
She saw the flicker of his smile, her own lips remaining flaccid. "Thank you."
He moved his hands to her hair, drawing the long strands together at the nape of her neck. "You should get started on it after your shower. Since you'll be spending the day in your room anyway, what else do you have to do?"
She tilted her head forward slightly, a small smile trembling to life on her lips. "Maybe I could read by the pool? Just for a while? It looks nice outside, too nice to stay cooped up—"
"I told you," he began, giving a sharp tug to her hair that forced her head back, "I'm having a dinner party. The last thing I need is for my guests to see you parading around, half-dressed."
She moaned softly, whisperingly, as his grip eased enough that she could right her head again. Pain lingered down the back of her neck, and she rolled her shoulders just slightly, her skin caressing his through the gesture. "You're right, of course."
He nodded and released his hold on her, turning towards the doorway. "I'll lay your clothes out on the bed before I leave. Oh, and Dee Dee…"
She glanced away from the mirror, over her shoulder to look at him. Before she could turn completely, his palm landed against the side of her face, hard, stinging, causing her to stumble backwards into the vanity. From both the force and surprise, she went down, crumpling on the floor, a hand cupped over her smoldering cheek.
"Don't twist my words again," he instructed callously, as her darkened gaze rose to meet his. "You certainly don't have the intelligence to question me."
xxx
Outside, the world was in motion.
Moving.
Whether forward or backwards, he didn't know. Couldn't tell. And he didn't care. After all, when you'd become idle the ability to move in either direction was a constant wish.
Hunter turned away from the front window. The television was on, the sound low. He heard the faint rumble of the crowd's cheers from the ballgame playing out on the set. A run had been scored, maybe a third out secured, an unbelievable catch made.
He didn't know which, didn't care about any.
Moving around the sofa, he plopped down on the center cushion. Staring down at a small tear in the navy blue fabric, his brows creased. He'd bought the piece of furniture secondhand from an estate sale. It was old and out of date, but considering the only owner had been an elderly woman who'd kept the whole, damned sofa hidden under a plastic cover throughout the forty years she'd owned it, he'd seen the seventy-five bucks he paid for it as a reasonable deal. It wasn't like he was all that picky, anyway. He just needed something he could sit on—and more often than not sleep on—that wouldn't leave his back feeling as stiff as a two-by-four.
He propped his feet on the coffee table, crossing his ankles and reclining. Behind the TV, he glanced through the kitchen doorway. He really needed to spend less time staring at the TV and more time picking up. It was what he should do, he knew, and what Mallory always bitched that he never did. Dishes lined the counter, most stacked, all with remnants of tasteless meals dried to them. Even without being able to see it, he knew that the trashcan was overflowing—it was at least a week past when it should have been emptied—and inside the refrigerator was only beer. It was the only thing he actually took the time to shop for, the only thing he ever made sure he had on hand. As far as food went, when he actually found himself with an appetite, 'take out' and 'delivery' were his main dietary staples.
He glanced at the television again, the announcer commenting that a run had been scored. He doubted he'd move for the rest of the day, laid out across the secondhand sofa was how he preferred to spend the majority of his Saturdays, when he could get away with it. Not relaxing exactly, it'd been over six years since he'd managed to achieve even a remote feeling of relaxation.
Instead, he filled his time trying to forget.
Or more exactly, trying like hell not to remember.
Hunter's neck went slack against the back of the sofa, his eyes closing and breathing steadying. Over the past six years, sleep had become more of a luxury than something dependable. He didn't miss it, really. It was an untrustworthy bastard, anyway. When he finally relented and gave it another chance to redeem itself, it always shoved the same end result in his relaxed mind's eye.
Dreams.
About her.
Flashes of fantasies that would never become reality where she was back, life was their version of normal again and nothing had changed.
Not her.
Not him.
Hunter opened his eyes, his stare targeting the white ceiling overhead. He'd logged more than his fair share of hours staring at it, willing its blankness to blank his mind as well. But it never worked, not as fully as he hoped it would. His thoughts kept whirling, stomach stayed in knots and what ifs shot through his brain like pinballs.
He knew that almost everyone was stuck living through someone else's version of hell. Some, eventually, were lucky enough to dig their way out, others never were. And he supposed—or more accurately, the past six years had taught him—that getting stuck in the past was the worst version of hell there was. Letting go was the only way out, or so he'd been told, but what no one had bothered to take the time to explain to him was how he was supposed to do it. How did the process start—with acceptance, maybe by adopting ignorance as your means of thinking? Or did you finally just have to throw your hands up, say "what the fuck" and make a conscious decision to give up? And if you were able to push yourself to that point, how in the hell were you supposed to incorporate no longer caring into the progression?
He dropped his gaze back down to the television set. His own version of hell… Some accused him of purposely dropping himself into it, of forcing himself to live in it even though there was an obvious way out. It wasn't that easy, though, as just walking out, or walking away, because throughout the past four years, his selected version of hell had become his home. It was where he felt safest, the most settled, like he belonged even though he hadn't felt for a long time like he really belonged anywhere.
His own version of hell or not, it was the only place where he could still feel her.
Maybe all things considered, willingly dropping himself smack down in his own private version of hell could be considered morbid. That was what Mallory had told him, at least. Right before she told him that he should get counseling, maybe even take an extended leave from work, if not retire all together. But he didn't take any of her suggestions. Instead, he moved out of the beach house and straight into hell.
It had made sense, to him at least. For two years he'd paid her mortgage, anyway. He didn't know why really, just that it always felt wrong—like a betrayal somehow—to think about handing over what little she had to a stranger. She'd lost enough already, hadn't she? It wasn't fair to take her home and possessions from her, too. So, even though he'd had to empty out his retirement fund in order to do it, he'd paid her mortgage.
And after he left the beach house, he moved into Dee Dee's house.
Except for having to haul off her sofa—after spilling a plate of spaghetti on it—and replacing it with the secondhand one, everything else had remained the same. Her clothes were boxed up in the bottom of the closet; her toiletries were crammed into one of the drawers in the vanity. At night when he got home from work, he slid out of his shoes and sat them beside the doorway where a pair of hers still sat. He ate off of her dishes, dried off with her towels, chilled his beer in her refrigerator and muted her television when the noise interfered too much with his thoughts.
All things considered, maybe he really was living in hell.
But what no one seemed to understand was, he didn't mind because he wasn't living there alone.
xxx
Dee Dee pushed her palms against the sun-warmed glass, lifting the windowpane. She reached through the opening, curving her hands around the thick, black bars bolted to the outside of the sill. Beneath her second story window were acres of plush, green grass. How many acres exactly, she didn't know, but the green seemed to stretch forever. Trees bordered the estate, thick, looming, their copious leaves canopying the yard.
It was peaceful, quiet.
But most of all, it was isolated.
In six years, she hadn't made it from one end of Elian's estate to the other. On the good days, she roamed somewhat freely throughout the house, and on the really good days she was allowed to venture as far as the swimming pool. But on the bad days, she remained in her room, locked inside. The solitude didn't bother her, though, not really. In a lot of ways, her years before Elian had prepared her for it. They'd gotten her used to her own company and made her self-reliant, both of which were character traits that had become necessities.
Turning away from the window, resting her back against it, her gaze flitted around the room. Snuggled inside of the armoire, the television set was on. A baseball game played out on the screen, although she'd muted the sound as soon as she turned on the set. Generally, she kept the TV on but rarely the sound, unless it was late at night and an old movie was on. Something she remembered watching before, enjoying before; something that strengthened her memories instead of helping them fade.
Sighing, she stepped away from the window and around the wicker sofa, retrieving a paperback book from the corner of the coffee table. New York Nightmare, another crime drama Elian had selected for her. With a sigh, she plopped down in the center of the sofa, pulling her bare feet up onto the cushion. She fanned through the two-hundred-plus pages, the typed words blurring as she flipped quickly to the end. It wasn't the type of book she would have ever found any interest in, before at least. But it was what Elian liked her to read. He thought it hurt her, that it put one more crack in her psyche. To bring her things that reminded her of her past, to shove into her face how unreachable that past had become. But it didn't bother her, not really, not as deeply as Elian assumed. In truth, all his little jabs did was remind her that she didn't want to go back anymore. Not to being who she had been, or living the life she had lived, or knowing the people she'd known. Not because she didn't miss any of those things, sometimes she still did. But because she knew the person who she'd been was gone, dead and buried for six years.
Just like everyone she'd cared about most.
She let the book drop into her lap and turned her right hand palm-up. With her left index finger she traced the jagged scar that crossed the length of her palm, rose onto the base of her middle finger and ended at the knuckle of her index finger. Time had faded the scar somewhat, softening it from the puffed, crimson-colored stripe it had once been. But still, its ability to remind her of her vulnerability was as strong as the day the wound had been sliced into her skin.
When Elian had finished with her that day, leaving her drowning in pain and bloodied on the floor, he'd walked out of the bedroom without saying a word. As usual, the door was locked behind him, and it wasn't unlocked again for four days.
And by the time he returned, she'd lost her grip on her fight completely.
Dee Dee dropped her head back, nestling into the sofa cushion and staring up at the white ceiling overhead. Balling her right hand into a fist, she blanketed it with her left hand. Squeezing gently, massaging, trying not to remember but unable to forget.
That day he'd found her on the floor again, curled up against the wall, too exhausted to cry any more. Acceptance had settled over her mind, and she'd found it more painful to co-exist with than desperation had been. For a few minutes he'd paced in front of her, not speaking, merely staring down at her like he was a half-starved vulture and she was his dying prey. Which in reality had been exactly what she'd been.
"You need to learn."
He'd dropped a manila envelope beside her onto the floor. She hadn't wanted to but she'd looked up at him, and the smugness she'd seen staring back at her made her stomach turn.
"Open it. See what you've done."
Hesitantly, with shaking hands, she'd broken through the envelope's seal and pulled out the photographs—three eight-by-ten, color prints. The lanky figure lay sprawled across the ground, his plaid shirt riddled with holes. A revolver hung loosely from the fingers of his right hand, and his face was partially obscured by a sheath of fresh blood. But the eyes were what she saw—open and empty. Lifeless. And she knew instantly that it was him—Hunter. Like the son of a bitch had promised, he was dead.
Her hands had begun to shake, and she'd dropped the photos. They'd fallen to the floor, and before they landed she'd scrambled to her feet and staggered to the bathroom. Diving onto her knees in front of the toilet, she fought to empty herself of the pain and disgust and humiliation. She choked out tearless sobs as Elian berated her in the background, blaming her, threatening to hurt more. She kept her face hidden and her eyes closed as he stomped behind her, watching her struggle.
"Are you ready to stop playing these ridiculous games?" he'd finally asked, his voice low and void of emotion. "Are you as tired of them yet as I am?"
For once she found herself agreeing with him, because she had been tired. Tired of failing, of losing to him.
The door had opened again then, for only the second time in four days. Isabel just barely stepped into the room, carrying a paper plate with a ham and cheese sandwich balanced in the center of it. She deposited it on the corner of the dresser, her gaze lowered and hands even shakier than Dee Dee's were. She didn't say anything, just delivered the sandwich and then left again, closing the door behind her.
"You must be hungry," Elian had taunted, a smile crooking his lips. "Are you hungry, Dee Dee?"
Had she been hungry? She couldn't remember anymore. She didn't even remember if, in the end, she'd eaten the sandwich or left it to rot. All she remembered were the pictures, the blood, and that that had been the exact moment when she'd finally given up. On her knees in front of the toilet, still wearing the ripped nightgown the son of a bitch had left her in, reeking of his four-day-old stench and feeling so damned empty, she had given up.
Just like he had wanted, she'd given in.
"In all of our lives, Dee Dee, there's a moment of truth, and this is yours." He'd come to a stop behind her, towering over her, still wearing his damned smile of victory. "Which is the stronger desire for you, to live or die?"
She liked to think, in the end, it was intuition rather than weakness that convinced her to give up that day. A little voice whispering somewhere deep inside of her that death wasn't her choice any longer.
Sometimes, it was what she tried to believe.
xxx
"You do know what a conversation is, right? It's when I say something, then you say something. You know, a back and forth sort of thing, not a let's both listen to me talk sort of thing."
"Just because I haven't said anything doesn't mean I haven't been paying attention," Hunter responded. "You were talking about the wedding—again."
"Again? Wow. You say it like you're tired of hearing about it."
Hunter pushed the backs of his shoulders into the sofa back, hesitating for a split second before sliding his arm around Mallory Trask's shoulders. He was being unfair, he knew. Not listening to her like he should, not participating like he knew she wished that he would. It was their wedding, after all—the wedding he'd instigated by proposing to her. So, the least he could do was act like he was as excited about it as he felt. And he was excited.
He kept telling himself that he was.
"I'm not tired of talking about it," he disagreed. "I'm just…uh." He nodded at the TV set across the room. "Trying to watch the game. Sorry."
Mallory glanced at the television set, a commercial coming on the screen. "No. I'm sorry," she said, tapping her palm against the center of his chest and then leaving it to rest above his heart. "I guess it won't be that big of a deal if we wait until the game's over to decide whether we want chicken or beef served for the entrée at the reception."
He smiled, nodding his agreement. Any other woman would be jealous—she would have been jealous. But the most Mallory ever seemed to react with was disappointment. Disappointment because their evening so far hadn't proven to be any different than the majority of others. At best, she only ever received a third of his attention, but never more. Never as much as all of it, because he always kept some portion of it reserved for the face he still spent too much of his time searching for.
"It wasn't her, you know." She dropped her hand away from his chest. "The brunette at the coffee shop. I saw her, too."
His expression tightened, his eyes narrowing. "I didn't think it was her."
"Maybe not, but you hoped it was." Mallory sighed weightily, making it clear she wasn't buying into his halfhearted attempt at a lie.
"Why don't we finish talking about the reception?" Hunter suggested. "Beef sounds good to me. What do you think about beef? Maybe, uh...what's it you like? Prime Rib?"
It had been just over two years that Mallory had been co-existing with Hunter's divided attention, wandering eye and hopefulness that bordered on delusional. Their relationship had originally begun out of a simple need—the need for truth. They'd both been forced on a quest in search of it, but instead of finding what they needed, they found each other. They were similar; two lonely people who needed to share their grief with someone who could understand their pains and questions. Mallory had lost her husband, and Hunter lost everything that mattered most to him. And in the end, the only truth that either of them stumbled across was that, of the two of them, Mallory was the luckier, because she'd been given closure.
In the years that followed the failed Velasquez mission, their need for each other became stronger, and without planning or before either realized it, it became too big to walk away from. Both unfairly and unintentionally, though, Hunter forced Mallory into a competition with Dee Dee's memory from the second she accepted his invitation for a first date. He shared stories about Dee Dee like she was still a relevant part of his life, lived in her house, and made love in her bed. It was unfair, he knew. But it was the best he could do, and thankfully, Mallory seemed to understand that about him.
"Prime Rib? Really?" She scrunched her nose. "So, that's a no for Chicken Marsala?"
"It's a…" He frowned, shaking his head. "Why don't you decide?"
She accepted his indecision silently, snuggling in beneath his arm. "There's something else," she said, her tone hesitant. "Um. We need to talk about…you know. Houses. Specifically, this one." She took in a breath, Hunter tensing noticeably beside her. "Look, Rick. I've never pushed this with you, but. Come on. It's time, don't you think? This house, it's too small for us. I mean, what if we decide to have kids?"
He couldn't argue that the house on Mesden Drive was practically too small for the two of them, and if a couple of kids were thrown into the mix, they would end up on top of each other. But knowing that didn't make letting go any easier. In the beginning, the house—Dee Dee's house—had been a source of comfort, albeit a twisted one. But then, as time inched by, he kept it for a different reason, the same reason that Dee Dee's parents refused to move from their house, and Charlie refused to move from his. They were familiar—familiar to Dee Dee. And they were the places she would go first. They were the only places she would think to go, and the hope that one day she would end up at one of their doors stopped them all from moving on.
"You can't hold onto it forever," Mallory lectured, understanding in her voice.
"I like this house. I don't want to sell it."
"Be realistic. What, do you honestly believe you'll wake up one morning to find Dee Dee knocking on the door?" Mallory shook her head, her brows dipping critically. "I wish it would happen, you know? I do. But it's not going to." She slid sideways, facing him. "I wish even more that I could tell you what happened to her, that I could give you that answer, that…peace of mind. But even without all the little answers, you still know the big one. Oscar Velasquez killed her, just like he killed Jordan, and hanging onto her house—her things—can't change that. All of this stuff has just stopped you from accepting it. And after six years, don't you think it's time to finally accept that she's gone?"
"I don't know what I need to accept," he grumbled, hating that their conversation had veered down such a familiar and uncomfortable path. "Because I don't know for sure what happened."
"Yes, you do. We all do." She took one of his hand in both of hers, tugging his arm onto her lap. "I wish things had turned out differently. But this is what we got. It ended exactly the way we didn't want it to, and pretending anything different isn't healthy. Not for you, and not for our relationship."
He slumped further, ignoring the stare being directed at him and focusing on the television set, instead. "Let's talk about the wedding, huh? About the Chicken—"
"Why? The three of us can't get married, you know. It's a husband and wife, not a husband, wife, and memory of an old partner."
He shot a sideways glance at her, frowning. "Just because we're getting married doesn't mean I have to give up on Dee Dee. Not until I know for sure—"
"Until you know, right," Mallory muttered through a roll of her eyes. "There was a telephone call this morning while you were in the shower." She nodded as he looked her, her expression drawn. "It was Riley Porter. I remember him; he was one of the agents that worked on the Velasquez case. He said he was confirming some meeting for tomorrow?" Her brows arched tautly, conveying her irritation. "There's only one thing you have to talk to him about."
He exhaled heavily, Mallory loosening her grip on his hand. "Hey, look. He called me, I didn't call him."
"This time," Mallory returned. "I know, all right? I know how often you call Riley Porter, how often you—"
"There are still sightings. Tips still come in."
"And in six years, not a single one of those tips has panned out."
"Yeah, well—"
"Yeah? Well?" She flopped back against the sofa back, dropping his hand and twisting her arms across her chest. "You know, when we first met, I was cheering you on. You know I was. Every trip you took to Colombia, or Miami, or Mexico, every lead you chased after, I thought it was the right thing for you to do. But now, I mean. Come on. Can't you agree it's gone on too long? You've already made, what, five trips to Colombia, double that many to Mexico, and I've lost track of how many times you've gone to Florida. And you still haven't found her. You've never found her in St. Maarten or Brazil, either. You haven't found her because she isn't there." She tapped the tips of her manicured nails against her forearms, sighing. "I don't like ultimatums, you know that. But I've got to tell you, I can't keep living like this. You're practically broke, and each time you come back from one of these trips empty handed it takes that much longer for me to get you back. So. I don't know. Maybe you're not ready to get married."
Hunter peeked at her; it was all he could manage. Because he didn't want her to see that he was more irritated than frightened by her first-ever-actually-spoken ultimatum. There had been a hand full insinuated over the years, said through a glare, or a couple days of her ignoring his phone calls, or an evening spent with him on the receiving end of her silence. But she'd never actually put one out there. Made it too damned blatant for there to be any room for misunderstanding. And all she was doing was sticking him between a rock and a hard spot. As annoying as both her implied and outright ultimatums could be, he couldn't imagine trying to go on without her. Over the years, she'd become his touchstone, maybe even his everything. And he needed her. He needed her just as much as he needed to continue to believe that, one day, Dee Dee would come home. He just wished that Mallory and his belief could somehow learn to co-exist harmoniously.
"Well?"
He shook his head, his frown deepening. "Let's not get into this right now."
"Then when?" she pushed. "After this meeting with Riley Porter? Or when, maybe after your next trip to Colombia? Or no, I know. How about after the trip after that trip?" She glared, not intimidated by his glare in response. "Why don't you tell me when you think I'll actually be more important to you than Dee Dee is?"
"You're not playing fair."
"Neither are you."
"I'm playing the only way I know how," he muttered, copying her closed-off stance and folding his arms across his chest. "Look it. Why don't we forget about all this for tonight? We'll finish watching the game, then I'll take you out to dinner. How about steaks? Sound good?" He backed his temporary solution with a grin, his smile widening fleetingly as she reciprocated with a hesitant smile of her own. "And after all that, we'll find some boring, old movie to watch on TV."
"The steak dinner I'll take you up on, but I don't like old movies. You know that."
He nodded, silently berating himself for once again pushing Dee Dee's interests onto Mallory. She didn't like old movies, she didn't care much for the new ones, either. She was more of a sports' fan. She liked hardcore rock music versus the old fashioned rock 'n roll Hunter preferred, and would rather spend an evening out dancing than curled up at home in front of the television or with her nose buried in a book. Their differences separated them, if only slightly. But Hunter chalked it up to their twelve-year age difference. He'd just made the transition into his fifties, had his prime behind him, some said. But Mallory was finishing up her thirties; she was just a few years younger than Dee Dee.
Or she should be a few years younger than Dee Dee. Should be.
"Okay, fine," Mallory said, rousing him from his thoughts with a tug on his hand. "You go change, then we'll run by my house so I can." She smiled fleetingly, with a hint of flirting but even more retribution. "And dress nice—suit and tie, the whole nine yards. It's not going to be a cheap evening for you, buddy. You owe me."
He climbed off the sofa to the background resonance of her laughter. Somewhere nice, he could do that for her. A nice dinner complimented by the best bottle of wine the restaurant had to offer, and one hundred percent of his attention versus the seventy-five percent or less that she generally got from him.
He owed her that much.
And he knew just the place to make payment in full. The little place on Melrose, what was it called—The Golden something-or-other? Oyster? Pyramid? He didn't remember for sure, but he did remember it—the ambience, the food. The company.
It had been Dee Dee's favorite place.
xxx
The click of the deadbolt didn't startle her anymore.
Once, it had. What felt like a lifetime ago. But anymore, she rarely even noticed it, and she'd stopped listening for it. What was the point? Nothing good ever came through the door, anyway.
The door glided open almost silently. Dee Dee sat nestled in the corner of the sofa. In front of her the television played and behind her the curtains billowed and danced in the breeze that rolled between the bars on the outside of her raised window. The day was warm and she'd dressed for it, comfortable in a pair of linen shorts and a tank top, with her hair swept up and held in place by a pearl-studded clip.
"Ma'am, please. Don't scream, okay? You don't need to be afraid."
Her gaze shot up instantly, the unfamiliar voice echoing in her ears like it'd come through a Megaphone. Frozen in place, she stared down the man across the room, watching as he stepped further inside and pushed the door halfway closed behind him. No one came into her room, ever. Other than Marcus and Isabel, Elian didn't allow it. He didn't even like anyone to speak to her. She spent the majority of her time alone, and she was used to it. Most of the time, she even preferred it.
"I won't hurt you, ma'am, I promise. I just need to talk to you, ask you some questions."
Dee Dee swallowed, her voice lost. She knew the faces of most of Elian's employees, but she didn't remember seeing the man before. Not in the house or on the grounds. He was tall and thin, not bony but not muscular. His hair was a dirty shade of blonde and cut short, and when he smiled, she noticed that one upper, front tooth slanted inward and overlapped the other one a bit. Shuffling forward a hesitant step, he pushed his hands out in front of him, like she'd suddenly become hysterical and he was trying to calm her down. Which she found odd, considering she hadn't moved or made a sound since he walked in.
"I need to know, ma'am, are you Dee Dee? Dee Dee McCall?"
Something shot through her, some type of current. It was hard and fast and made her shudder. Dee Dee McCall. No one had spoken her full name in she couldn't remember how long. She hadn't even said it herself.
"Please, ma'am. I really need to know. Are you Dee Dee McCall?"
Her eyes narrowed, but she never released the stranger's stare. There was something different about him, something less edgy than she generally found in Elian's other men. It was in his eyes, she decided. They stared softly, with empathy versus indifference. She wasn't invisible to him; he actually saw her. And he was studying her just as intently as she was him. Like he was looking for something specific, something familiar, something he needed to remember and couldn't risk forgetting.
"You can talk to me, it's safe. I promise, whatever you say will be kept between us. Nobody else will know."
He wanted her to trust him? She almost laughed, but instead buried the sound alongside her voice. Maybe he'd been sent by Elian to test her. She wasn't supposed to talk to anyone, and he wanted to make sure that she wouldn't. Rules were to be followed, not ignored. Never ignored.
"Okay, all right." He sighed, running a hand over the top of his thinning hair. Flashing a tight smile, he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and retrieved something small, black. "I get it, okay? You're scared. But with all due respect, I have my orders."
There was a flash, bright and unexpected. Dee Dee jumped to her feet and staggered backwards, stars spotting her vision as a second flash sparked. She raised her hands in front of her face, her back popping against the wall and stopping her. Spinning around, she slammed her eyes closed. A shiver shot through her, almost dropping her to her knees, and she flattened her palms on the wall to steady herself.
"Pictures, ma'am, that's all," the stranger said quickly, lifting the small camera into view. "I'm sorry, I am. It's just. There're some people who need to get a look at you."
She glanced over her shoulder, seeing him slip the camera back into his pocket. Pictures. People needed to get a look at her. Her? Dee Dee exhaled shakily, her legs still unreliable supports beneath her. She stared at the stranger, wide-eyed, confused. Afraid. Elian had threatened it before, to send her away, get rid of her once and for all. Damn it. She'd been stupid to talk back to him earlier, to argue with him. Why did she always have to push him? Elian was right—she was stubborn. Too stubborn for his patience and her own good.
"I didn't mean to frighten you," he said, his hands raised again in surrender. "Just following orders, that's it. I'll, uh. I'll…" He shrugged a shoulder toward the door. "I'll go. But if you don't mind, could we keep this just between us? It's important for both of us that no one else finds out I was here."
She turned a little as he stepped up to the door, and turned fully as Marcus stepped into the room. He gave her a nod and then motioned at the door, sending the stranger into the hallway.
"He wasn't here," Marcus said. "Got it?"
"Who is he? Why'd he…he, uh. He took—"
"No, he didn't. He didn't do anything, because he was never here."
She studied him, tried to read him. In a lot of ways, Marcus had always been her biggest source of confusion. One day he would completely ignore her, the next he would not only talk to her, but listen while she talked. He was a friend, or at least she liked to think he was—although she thought it only cautiously. Because for as much as she liked to think that she could trust him, she knew that she couldn't even more. At the end of the day, he reported to Elian. And he'd made it clear to her early on that was one loyalty he wasn't brave enough to turn his back on.
Not for any reason. Including her.
"You hear me? Understand?" He nodded, encouraging her to agree.
"But—"
"Make this one time you just take what you're told and go with it. Okay?"
She hesitated, before nodding her agreement. She didn't always trust Marcus, but she never trusted Elian. And if she had to choose one, it made sense, didn't it, to pick the one that gave honesty the occasional chance versus the one that was inherently deceitful?
"Good." Marcus nodded with her, firmly. "That's good. Just don't forget it, though. Okay? Don't forget."
"I won't," she promised, as he sidestepped toward the door. "But, who is he? Why'd he—"
"You don't need to know," Marcus interrupted, stepping over the threshold into the hallway. "It's better if you don't know. A lot better for all of us."