Chapter 17

Brooklyn, December, 1903

Spot wiped a gloved hand over his eyes, clearing the water and ice from his face before squinting through the darkness. The strengthening ice storm was making it more and more difficult to navigate the slick walkways let alone see if he was heading in the right direction. The weather had put out most of the streetlights around the borough an hour or so before, but lucky for Spot, traversing these streets was mostly second nature to him—an automatic instinct.

Like breathing.

So, when his sight began to fail him, his other senses easily took over. His nose caught the dank smell of sewage and soot, his skin feeling the stagnant, steady pulse of the rain and ice upon him. And he knew to keep pushing further north, until he could all but taste the combination of brine and industrial waste as the wind picked up to batter him from either side. Then he would finally be at the curve in the East River cutting between Brooklyn and Queens.

And inside that bend was a small, almost hidden inlet—a four by four-foot patch of rocky beach that, during the day, seemed just another natural piece of the landscape. But at night, when the water reached its apex, became a frigid, craggy, ten-foot-deep death trap.

It was the same place that Kate had brought her ever-growing group of like-minded change-seekers every "Lost Causes" day. The very spot she had met Leonora and her family at what she had described as one of the most desperate times in all her life. At the ripe fucking age of twelve, no less.

"She was going to that inlet to drown herself that day at high tide."

Julia's words from over a year ago made a chill run up Spot's spine, his pace increasing substantially in turn. When he had discovered her absence an hour before, even in his drug induced state, he had known with unshakable certainty where she was headed. Because it was here, at this seemingly deserted area of Brooklyn—a space used only for unneeded storage and trash heaps—where all of Kate's most life-altering events had taken place.

So of course, she would have picked it to be her final site of rest.

And so far, the old vendor woman on the outskirts of Brooklyn's residential sector and the fisherman he had just passed a block back had confirmed that he was heading in the right direction, having seen a short, strange-looking boy with brown pants, a blue shirt, and a gray cap a couple of hours before.

The only thing Spot wasn't sure of was why. Why now, after all this time, she had decided that it was too much. That she could take no more.

He supposed he wasn't clear on the details of what had led her to that same spot in a similar state of mind six years ago either. She didn't talk about it, and he had never felt comfortable asking. All of what he knew, he had heard from Julia's short addendum to the story behind "Lost Causes" day. But now, he was certainly none the wiser on any of it, past and present alike.

What he did know was that she had been taken. She had been beaten and abused to within an inch of her life. And, above all, the experience had left her more broken than he had ever seen her—making her virtually unrecognizable to him.

A stranger with the face and voice of a woman he had once known so well. A beautiful girl who he had loved for far too long in bitter, repressed silence—stoically watching her slip through his fingers, if not being the very push that had sent her sprawling, lost within that voided space himself.

And still, he had yet to tell her how he felt. Even after three months of doing everything he could to ease her suffering—of all but begging her to let him back in. He had still not found the strength, the vulnerability, to voice three short words to her. Not once.

When she had been taken, his world had shattered irreversibly—all his conscious thoughts and actions instinctively funneled into saving her. He had been willing to walk into hell itself—to make deals with whatever devil there was to ensure she was delivered to him alive.

But after all that—the terror and grief at the mere suggestion she might be gone—he had once more receded into himself, again too worried over his own fragile ego to do the one thing that might have made a difference.

Perhaps she would have disregarded him the first time he said it aloud. He honestly deserved as much. Especially after the way he had responded to her candid profession all those months ago, knowing damn-well he felt the same way. But that shouldn't have stopped him. It should have made him work that much harder to make her believe. To make her see that he meant it.

With every fiber of his being, he loved her.

Spot should have said it every day, as many times as possible, with every ounce of sincerity he possessed.

How many more nights would he have to stand on this terrifying precipice, at the absolute brink of losing everything—of losing her—before he finally stopped sabotaging himself?

He shook his head resolutely as the smell of salt-water hit his nostrils. No more. He had never been one to rely on luck before, always ten steps ahead of everyone around him. So why then, had he been so cavalier—so fucking reckless—with the one person whose presence had always made all the difference?

Never. Again.

Spot Conlon made this promise to himself as he slowed his gait to gather his bearings. The wind had picked up, whipping rain and ice at him from what seemed like all directions and the smell of scorched metal and brine nearly caused his stomach to revolt.

This was it.

He just hoped he wasn't too late.

Brooklyn, November, 1902

As the noise died down some within the pub—the now fully debased and dirty upper-class group of five slowly making their way out of the space—Spot saw that Kate was nowhere to be seen. So, assuming she had already walked out of the barroom during the ruckus that she herself had started, he made his way to the exit as well.

And sure enough, as he stepped out into the cold night air, shrugging his coat on, he spotted Kate's form leaning against a neighboring building looking up into the sky. He meandered over toward her slowly, taking in her thoughtful face and somewhat relaxed stance. However, his breath caught in his chest as her eyes met his through the darkness, the same lustful feelings from earlier resurfacing easily the nearer he got. Kate nodded shortly toward him as he leaned next to her and put a rolled cigarette to his lips, lighting it.

"The rabble-rouser strikes again," he murmured with a smirk, taking a puff off his smoke before passing it to Kate. "Or should I call you Susannah now?"

Kate rolled her eyes, but eagerly accepted the cigarette offered. "You said you wanted a show. And those two assholes deserved it."

"Sounds like it," he conceded, watching somewhat unabashedly as she put his cigarette to her lips and inhaled deeply.

Upon exhaling toward the sky, Kate noted his stare with surprise. She raised her eyebrows, looking somewhat uncomfortable as she passed his smoke back to him. "What?"

A smile grew on his lips as he gave one final puff to the cigarette, flicking it into the distance before pushing off the wall and moving to stand before her. His fingers gently ran over her cheek to tuck a loose dark curl behind her ear. Her corresponding shudder only made his grin widen.

"Come home with me."

Her bright eyes flitted up to his as he leaned in closer, reveling in the sharp intake of her breath at the movement. But she seemed to gather herself after a moment, looking away before muttering, "I can't see why you'd want some naïve kid as a bedmate. Don't you have a long list of women waiting for the honor?"

He gently grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger to pull her eyes back to meet his. "I hope you know it's been just you and me since we talked about it all that time ago," he murmured, "I wasn't lyin'."

"Neither was I," she whispered back, reaching one of her own hands up to touch his cheek, running her thumb softly along his cheekbone in a way that made him almost come undone right there in the street. "But I know you're still holding back so many things—that you still don't trust me."

He closed his eyes, sighing through his nose as he leaned further into her hand. "I didn't mean it—that shit I said before about you bein' a scared kid, not knowin' anything."

"Then say you're sorry."

His eyes opened slowly as he felt her hand comb through the strands of hair that had fallen across his forehead. He studied her face but found no anger or resentment there—just honest concern.

"I'm sorry."

"Me too," she easily responded, her fingers continuing tenderly down the side of his face, slowly tracing the angle of his jaw. He shuddered leaning in closer to her, tilting her face toward his and relishing in the intermingling warmth of her breath within his mouth.

"So, you don't think I'm a coward?"

He tried to make himself sound confident and nonchalant—as if her words had not taken the emotional toll that they had. But she seemed to know the truth despite his stoicism, her body tilting closer into his, her thumb softly reassuring as it stroked gently along his jawline.

"No. I was just trying to get your gander up," she said with a soothing smile. "What I do think is you settle with ordinary far too often. Maybe because it's easier, or along the way someone made you feel less than. But when I look at you, I can see it—how you were built for something more than you allow."

Her eyes reflected an admiration that bewildered him. Because she was right about one thing. There were too many details she didn't know about him—too many events and people he had purposefully skipped over. Too many horrible sins he had committed to ever hope for the type of devotion he knew Katherine Moore could give him.

And would she still stare into his eyes with such affectionate abandon if his whole life story were laid bare and chaotic for her to see?

He couldn't answer that question. But for now—for tonight—he'd allow himself a rest from that deep-seated shame. Because, God, he had missed her and the softness of her skin.

And he just wanted to drown himself in the way her eyes were so unreservedly taking him in.

"Come home with me tonight," he murmured once more into her slightly parted lips.

As if in response, her fingers grasped the nape of his neck and pulled him down to her, warm lips covering his and wet heat consuming his thoughts.

He didn't know how they got back to the lodging house that cold night, but somehow, they managed to move their feet in the right direction through rough kisses and hands roaming indiscriminately over any and all available body parts. But once he had maneuvered her into the private sanctity of the attic, shutting and locking the door behind him as he always did, the lustful fog in his head cleared and his movements became much more decided and precise.

He slowed his touches, softened his kisses, and reached to undo Kate's skirt. He felt her smile against his lips as her hands moved to the buttons of his shirt. And as articles of clothing began to pool upon the floor around them, Spot knew exactly what he wanted tonight. More than anything else.

He pulled away gently to look down at the brightest green he had ever seen her eyes shine, taking inventory of where things stood. He was shirtless, in only his underwear, and Kate in only her chemise and bloomers, which is how he normally left things for her comfort. But slowly, his hands caressed down her arms as he bent to grasp the hem of her underdress.

Her cheeks reddened as she breathed, "Tom, wait."

He pulled back and cautiously looked up at her, unsure of her hesitation. "You don't have anything to be embarrassed by."

Her eyes darted to the ground for a moment as she took a deep breath. But then she nodded, and slowly lifted her chemise to just below her breasts. There was a sad look in her gaze as she turned to the side to let the light of the gas lamp glance upon her skin.

He allowed his eyes to scan the bare flesh of her abdomen, hips and back for several beats before his stare snapped back to hers in shock. A myriad of welted scars lined the pale skin of her back and front, and her eyes reflected only shame and embarrassment, though her voice attempted indifference. "It's from a few years ago. I just—didn't want you to be caught off guard."

She released the fabric, her eyes wide in apprehension as the white cotton fell silently back to her mid-calf. Spot straightened, running a hand through his hair, thoughts racing faster than he could speak. "Did—I mean—does anyone else—has anyone seen this before?"

Her face paled as she shook her head. "Besides Julia. She was the one to—I guess to help clean me up afterwards. And now," she bit her lip for a moment, her gaze darting downward. "You."

His eyes searched her face as a pang hit his chest—a hollow pulse of grief for the battered girl standing before him. The woman who had clearly endured unspeakable pain during her short time in the world already, but still sturdily persevered despite it all. He found that the more she allowed him to peel back the layers of everything that had transpired, the more he was shocked by how profound her darkness and anguish had been.

Truthfully, it made him wonder just how much deeper it went. Because a small part of himself, however shameful, valued each new dark addition he uncovered within her. Not as a means of belittling her, but as a way of shining light—reflecting a sliver of hope that perhaps he was not so far beyond saving.

Perhaps there was someone else in the world who could accept him wholly—darkness, sins, and all.

"I know it's not particularly nice to look at, and it's a bit of an awkward conversation starter," Kate began shakily, attempting a wry laugh. But her insecurity quickly won out as she wrapped her arms around her midsection, her eyes shining bright with unshed tears.

And that's when Spot shook himself from his overwhelmed stupor, moving immediately to her trembling form. His arms softly wrapped about her, pulling her to his bare chest, one hand holding her securely against him, the other stroking tenderly through her loose hair. Minutes passed silently between them as he felt her warm tears against his skin, her hands eventually enclosing themselves around his waist. Her cries were quiet, her shaking body the only real evidence of her suffering.

But suddenly, she pulled back, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands before saying, "I'm sorry. I—I don't normally—I don't talk about these things—I—"

"There's nothin' to apologize for," Spot steadily interrupted, offering her a reassuring smile.

She shrugged uncomfortably, looking unsure of what to do or say next. So, Spot stepped closer, his eyes finding hers before he posed, "Can I ask—" his hand gently grasped her shaking limb, interlocking their fingers and lightly pulsing her palm. "Who did that to you, Kate?"

Her gaze darted from his, her face paling significantly as a tremor passed through her body. And just before Spot opened his mouth to retract his question for fear he had taken it too far, her eyes slowly made their way back to meet his, her voice barely audible.

"My mother."

And he knew then—with a certainty he would have bet his life on—that the darkness within her was fathomless.

Just like his.

At this heady realization, his mind went suddenly blank. But his body—as if on instinct alone—capably supplied the only consoling response there was to give. Because he knew all too well there were no words that would ever afford the comfort denied to her by the one person who should have been the source of such things.

He pulled her firmly to him as her eyes widened in surprise. His hands found her face before his fingers entwined themselves into her soft hair, tenderly leaning her head back so that he could lay his mouth brazenly over hers. Her surprised inhale allowed his tongue easy entry through her well-trained lips, her arms wrapping tightly about his neck in the lustful aftermath.

This time there was no hesitation on her part when he lifted the chemise up, pulling it over her head and disposing it on the floor behind him. The heat in his body rose to a peak when she dug her nails into the nape of his neck and pulled his mouth back down to hers, his hands caressing every inch of flesh on her now exposed chest and back, scars and all. And as she more fully responded to his intensifying touches, he allowed himself a moment to revel in the feel of it all—her bare body flush against his, her sweet-tasting mouth now an intoxicating essence within his own.

The heightening sensations were almost too much for him to control, his body's need for release outpacing his want to facilitate hers first. So, he slowly sat them down on the cot next to them, laying her back amongst the assorted quilts and sheets as he tempered the aggressive push from within him. He leaned over her form gingerly, meeting her dark, wanting gaze as he attempted to catch his breath.

She breathed deeply too, one hand gripping his forearm tightly while the other ran absentmindedly up and down his back. And after a pulse, he leaned down to kiss her before he whispered against her lips, "I want to touch you."

Her eyes widened, first in surprise and then slowly fear and insecurity crept within her gaze. "Tom, I—I told you. I—my body—it's not—it doesn't—"

"It's beautiful," he said firmly, over her anxious rebuttal. "And it's built for more than you're allowing."

Her mouth opened in shock at his use of her earlier phrasing, but he quickly kissed her again. And as his lips gently meandered upon the skin of her jaw and then neck until he reached her ear, his hand caressed its way from her breasts to the top of her bloomers, playing with the edges of the fabric upon her lower belly.

"I want you to trust me, Kate," he murmured into her neck—her body naturally pushing closer into his grasp. "Let me be the one to take you to that edge—I want you to have that part." He lifted his face slightly to meet her unreadable eyes before breathing, "Because it belongs to you. It should've never been taken from you in the first place."

She stared silently at him, hushed breathing and pounding heartbeats supplying the only sound between them for the several tense moments following. But as her eyes searched his, he saw a slow shift in her gaze, a want grow beyond the fear and hesitancy that had initially taken over. And then he felt one hand gently cup the side of his face, her other solidly intertwining between his fingers at the base of her stomach.

"If you don't let me fall into that darkness at the bottom."

"Never," he murmured with a smile, before pushing his lips harshly against hers as he felt her hand lead his under the fabric of her garment.

And thus, her body became an instrument—him the expert musician tasked with producing majestic music from her perfectly tuned strings. And while his fingers—so well-practiced at this part of the song—built a steady rhythm above her center, his own body pulsing in heated tune against her wandering hands and arching back, her soft sighs grew into a quiet chorus within his mouth.

But he nearly gasped as a new sensation crept its way into his chest. Between the sloppy kisses he placed along her jaw, neck, shoulders, and breasts, and her cries of pleasure as his fingers penetrated her core, something he had never felt before grew powerfully throughout his insides. And as he led her to the pinnacle of her release, the strange feeling within him compounded so intensely, all he could think to do was kiss the beautiful girl coming undone at his hands while she wrapped her arms tightly about his neck, holding on to him until the pulsing waves of pleasure had all passed.

Her eyes were closed when he broke their kiss, her breathing slowing with each passing second. But when they opened, a vibrant shade of green meeting him, he noticed that same, nameless, feeling in his chest, now pulsing all on its own.

"The way you're looking at me right now," Kate whispered, jolting him from his confused thoughts. "I don't know what to make of it. But I don't think I want you to stop."

She smiled at him, her fingers playing gently with his hair. "You're beautiful, Kate," he said simply.

And I love you.

His face blanched in panic as he had to all but swallow the words that almost forced their way out of his mouth next. But Kate seemed not to have noticed anything different. Because when he fell awkwardly onto his back, his breathing somewhat uneven, her body easily rolled into his grasp as it always did.

"Thank you," she whispered into his chest. And within minutes she was sound asleep.

But Spot didn't sleep at all that night. Or the two nights following.

Because the words that had almost spilled from his lips with the force of a tidal wave, were ones that he would never normally utter—to anyone—simply for the fact that they were never true. But the sincerity he had felt as they had almost fallen freely to Kate—

That terrified him. And it had to stop.