Michael watched and waited, a smile on his face,
no doubt enjoying the anger and frustration in Sage's expression.
Could he really be all that confident she wouldn't actually throw
him off the damn building? Obviously, he didn't know her very well.
Sage dropped the cell phone to the ground beside her and bolted
forward. There was still a fair distance between them, and she knew
he'd see her early moves coming, but she didn't care.
She went for
a shoulder grab upon reaching him, which he met with a
shiho
nage,
effortlessly turning and throwing her away. She tried again, the
fluid movements coming easily to her, and again he met her with a
reversal. Shifting tactics, she rushed him once more, feigning a
simple jab, then throwing a right hook his way. Not only did Michael
anticipate her, but he ducked out of her way and countered with a rough
punch to her side. She'd been struck the odd time in her life, but
now she stumbled back a few steps, feeling as though a truck had hit her.
Not once did surprise ever register in his eyes. No fear, no
worry…he expected everything she did, everything she tried. He
frequently pointed out her weaknesses in training—he had an eye for it,
and she had still been working on correcting the problems. Of course
he'd see it now, though; of course he'd anticipate her thoughts.
She gripped her side and winced. Pain fueled her on, pushed
her forward. She straightened and leapt at him, barreling into him
at full speed. Once again, he pivoted from her path. This time
he grabbed her wrist and swung her arm around so he held it twisted at an
awkward angle against her back.
"You know…" His breath
tickled her ear, and she could almost hear the smile in his voice.
He wrenched her arm further and Sage couldn't help but cry out.
"Even your boyfriend put up more of a fight than this. I'm
disappointed—"
Pinpointing his head's exact location while he
spoke, she slammed her own head backward. Pain shot through her as
her skull connected with his face, but she pushed it aside. Surprise
had loosened his grip on her and she pulled her arm free.
As
Michael regained himself and moved toward her, she grabbed his wrist,
hitting a pressure point and using the
yonkyo move to force him to the
ground on his stomach. A glance to his waist revealed a sheathed
knife at his belt.
Sage went for the weapon. As her fingers
clasped the handle, Michael broke from her hold and threw her off
balance. Recovering before he could attack again, she leapt at him
and pinned him on his back, thrusting the point of the knife to his
throat.
Panting, she met his eyes. He didn’t look the least
bit scared. She pushed the blade closer still, nicking the skin but
not completely tearing flesh. Sweat soaked her brow despite the
cold. The fight was brief, but at least she had the upper hand.
"I'm waiting," he said coolly.
Sage responded with another
threatening push of the knife, but still, she didn't kill him.
A
second later she wished she had as she heard the click of a gun cocking
and felt something cold and metal under her chin. Where he'd gotten
the revolver, she couldn’t say as she hadn't seen it on his person
earlier, but it was here now and there was nothing she could do.
"Put down the knife, sweetheart—we both know you're not going to
use it."
Hot tears formed in her eyes that she tried to blink
back, but to no avail. Her chest tightened, throat constricted…she
failed. God, she failed.
"Put down the knife," he repeated,
shoving the barrel of the gun into her flesh harder.
She squeezed
the hilt of the weapon, bit savagely at her lower lip until she tasted
blood, mentally prepared herself for the blood and screams when she
finally pushed the blade forward, and the shot to her head that would
inevitably follow…
With a frustrated sob, she tossed knife aside
and slid off of his chest. Crumpling into a heap, she waited there,
head down, for him to kill her or whatever he planned to do. The
fire was gone—it didn't matter anyway. Nothing mattered.
Michael would put a bullet in her head, and then she'd be gone too.
"Will you just shoot me and get it over with?" she mumbled.
His shoes scraped on the roof as he moved to collect the knife,
and then stood.
"I'm not going to shoot you," he replied.
"I think maybe you should."
He said nothing as he walked
away from her. Seconds later, he called her attention. "Head's
up."
She glanced up to see him toss Hayden's cell phone her way.
Unable to muster the anger she felt before, she gazed down at the
phone and cried as grief swept over her. She swallowed hard.
"Why don't you open the bag and have a look at it," he suggested.
"Why don't you leave me the hell alone!"
"Just do it."
Tears blurred her eyes as she pulled the plastic bag open and
pulled out the phone. She turned it over gently, running her
fingertips over dried bits of blood…
Her gaze settled on the
keypad. It looked like new…but a few of the numbers had rubbed off
of Hayden's phone. Confused, she hit the power button and tried to
cycle through the stored numbers, but found none.
"It's not his?"
she said suddenly, gazing up at Michael.
"No," he replied.
"But it looks like—"
"I took the description you gave me
and found one on eBay."
She looked down at the phone again,
relieved but still confused. Casting the object aside, she glowered
up at Michael again. "What the hell—"
"I didn't kill him,
Sage."
"But you said—"
He took a seat across from her, a
few feet away. Noticeably absent were the gun and knife.
"Why, honestly, would I kill your boyfriend?" He cocked a
brow with curiosity. "He gave you something to worry about.
Something to protect. He tied you to this world. And without
him, you're apparently left with a death wish."
"I don't have—"
He raised his hand and silenced her mid-sentence. "I gave
you ample opportunities to kill me and a reason to do it. You
failed. You had to know I'd kill you if you didn't kill me, and
still you wasted every opening, every chance I gave you. That's what
I call a death wish.
"And that can't happen. Merri and
Genevieve
need you. When something inevitably happens
again, they'll be depending on you. You all need to have the same
priorities: to fight and to live. And that's why you need to get a
handle on this."
Get a handle on "this"…right, because that was so
easy.
"You don't understand what it's like," she cried. "You
don't—"
"The happiest moment of your day is usually when you first
wake up," he interrupted.
She looked up at him sharply, a bit
confused and annoyed. Their gazes met, locked, and she couldn't
shake the feeling of him looking right through her, her every thought laid
bare.
"Sometimes it lasts a few minutes," he continued.
"Sometimes almost an hour. It's during those moments that you don't
remember he's dead, and it's the best feeling in the world.
"And
it's followed by the worst moment of your day. Sometimes it's a
reminder, like you think of something you'd like to tell him that day, and
sometimes it's just a random moment when it all comes back to you.
But suddenly you remember he's gone and you won't get to see him that day,
or any day, and that first remembering is always the worst."
She
balled her hands into fists, digging her nails into her palms. He
was right and it hurt. Hurt more than she could ever say, and him
recounting it so perfectly made her relive those moments all over again.
"You spend every day pretending to be okay," he said.
"Pretending you're not about to break down—pretending you're not spending
every second thinking about throwing yourself off the nearest
bridge. And you hate everyone around you for forcing you to keep
pretending, for saying things to you about healing and the stages of
grief, as if they have the slightest understanding of what it's
like. For now, you can get away with mourning—people expect it from
you. But within the year, you already know they'll be wondering why
you're not moving on—why you're not the same as you used to be.
"And you hold it in until you're alone for the night. Then
you lay awake in bed, unable to sleep, praying that when you finally drift
off, you'll dream of him. And when you do, it makes waking up and
dragging yourself through another day even harder."
Silence
followed. While she debated how to respond, she realized her tears
had stopped at some point during his talking. She couldn't will up
enough energy to be sad anymore…now she just felt the loss. Empty
where something of herself used to be.
"Who did you lose?" she
said, her voice soft. She knew she'd hit her mark when he swallowed
hard and his eyes twitched slightly, as if he fought not to look away.
"My wife," he said after a long pause. He lost an inner
battle then and did end up dropping his gaze to the side. "And my
son."
"What happened?" She didn't really expect him to
answer her and was surprised when he did.
"She was murdered."
"And your son?" She wasn't normally this nosey, but it was
difficult enough reconciling the idea of Michael not just as a husband,
but also a father.
"Died in the womb. She was eight months
pregnant."
A horrible feeling of dread welled in her. "It
was because of us, wasn't it? Something to do with me, Gen, and
Merri? That's why you're helping us? Was it the people who
came after us?"
"Something like that," he said quietly.
Whether it was continued shock, empathy, or just morbid curiosity
at this point, she didn't know for sure, but she couldn't keep at bay the
desire to know more. "What was her name?"
He didn't want to
answer her. She had spent enough time around him to know; it was in
the annoyed tightening of his jaw, the slight purse of his lips. But
for some reason, he met her eyes again anyway.
"Anne."
"And his?"
A sigh. She half expected him to bring
out the gun again. "John Michael, after my father."
"How
long ago?"
"Not as long as it feels."
"Does it ever get
easier?" she whispered, half afraid of his answer.
"That depends
on who you ask."
"I'm asking you. Everyone says time
heals. I want to know if it's true."
He sighed heavily and
shook his head. "Time doesn't. You don't ever actually
heal. What time does is make you forget. Enough days go by and
you forget more and more until it no longer plagues your thoughts.
People think that means they've healed, but if you bring up the memory in
conversation, it crashes down on them again. Most don't get over
loss."
The thought horrified her. "I'm going to forget?"
"It's your choice."
"How?"
"You want it to stop
hurting? Let go of all of it now. Let yourself forget.
By this time next year, you'll be better. Two years from now, you'll
have 'moved on' as everyone says."
"And if I don’t want to?"
God, forgetting seemed worse than the pain. Living with the hurt of
remembering everyday how much she missed him was preferable by far to
letting it all go.
He shrugged. "Then you hold on.
Fight the urge to push it out of your mind, then get used to being
miserable."
"Is that what you did? Or did you let yourself
forget?"
"I don't know anymore," he said. "Somewhere in
between at this point."
"So…just don't forget? That's it?"
"Talk about him. Go over every detail you remember over and
over again."
Though her mother had repeatedly tried to get her
into therapy, Sage doubted a psychiatrist would be flexible with the idea
of talking about Hayden in the hopes of remaining miserable.
"I
don't…" Christ, it was an embarrassing thing to admit, but there
seemed little point in having pride at this point. "I don't really
have anyone I talk to."
"I figured as much. You wouldn't
have a death wish if you did."
"I mean, I don't think Gen or Merri
get it. And it would be easier if…" She cast a sideways glance
his way, hopeful but realistic about the answer he'd give her when she
finally asked what she'd been wanting to. "Can I talk to you?
Not just about Hayden…maybe you could talk about Anne?"
She
tensed, waiting for him to scoff at such an idea, but instead he studied
her in silence.
"Just…just little things," she added. "Once
a day or something? I tell you something about Hayden, you tell me
something about Anne?"
He'll never agree… Just as she doubted it,
though, he gave a sudden short nod.
"For now."
The wind
picked up and Sage shivered, but had no desire to head back inside.
Thankfully, Michael never suggested it.
"So…where do I start?" she
asked, waiting for his instruction, as always.
"The beginning is
usually a good place. Where did you meet him?"
At least that
was easy; she'd been thinking about it a lot lately.
"School. Ninth grade. A business class everyone was
required to take. Hayden was the co-op student, a couple years older
than us. I knew his brother—Levi—from History because we were in the
same group for a project. Instead of whatever accounting work we
were supposed to be doing, we were discussing the project. When
Hayden came over, I thought he'd get us in trouble—I didn't know at the
time they were brothers. But instead he just suggested we do what we
were supposed to during class time, then Levi could have everyone over
after school for the History thing."
Michael interrupted to ask
her details. What did the room look like? Who was in her
class? Where did she sit? What was Hayden wearing? What
did he say? Eventually she let her eyes drift closed and recalled
every detail she could—every sight, every smell, every sound. She
couldn't remember it all—that would be impossible—but she retrieved what
she could.
And, surprisingly, she felt a greater peace than she
had in months just closing her eyes and remembering.
"I showed up
that night," she said, continuing the story once she'd gone over every
detail she could. "I guess I was a little early—Levi wasn't back
from basketball practice yet and the other person in our group didn't come
at all. So I sat in the kitchen to wait and Hayden kept me
company." For the first time in her life, she wished she'd kept a
diary or journal. Something where she could have written down
everything and reflect on it now.
The sky around them had been
darkening, dusk approaching quickly now that it was late fall. But
though it also grew colder, she wasn't interested in heading back in
yet. The cold, the emptiness of the roof, the distance from
everything else—it was numbing. Comforting. Like Michael said,
even though she didn't go so far as to plaster on a happy face, she was
always pretending to be okay—pretending it was easy holding everything
in. But outside, on the roof, removed from everyone, she could drop
her defenses and cry until she had no more tears if she needed to.
It was a whole other world up there.
"What about Anne?" she asked,
looking back at Michael and hoping he didn't rescind on his promise to
talk about his wife. "Where did you meet?"
"A party."
His own gaze drifted to the side absently, recalling the
memory. Expression unreadable, she tried to guess at what he was
thinking or even feeling… The memories would of course be painful,
considering she was murdered, but Sage thought at least he'd briefly look
content while recalling her. Instead he never smiled, nor did he
look sad. He seemed…drained.
"There was a job offer at a
school near where my brother lived," he said. "I decided to move
there and take the position."
"You're a teacher?"
He
nodded. "
Was. Briefly. I was packed, ready to
move…and I got word he'd…been in an accident and killed. He'd left
behind an estranged wife, but I inherited most of his estate. It was
one of those small, rural towns that consist of a couple roads at most,
and everyone knows one another. I moved in and a neighbour invited
me to a party
"And I saw Anne there."
Sage wasn't so bold
as to press for details as he had done with her, so she waited to see if
he'd continue.
He did.
"She was standing in the back of
the room with a friend. The host had taken to introducing me to
everyone, and eventually got to her. She was…shy. Very polite,
barely made eye contact. Her friend left her at some point that
night and I approached her. And we just…talked."
Smitten at
first sight, by the sound of it. Bizarre to picture Michael in such
a way, but she doubted he'd go to all the trouble of lying about this for
her sake. "What was she like?"
"Kinder than I have ever
deserved in my life."
"I suppose she was pretty?"
"She was
to me."
"Do you have any pictures?"
He shook his head and
pulled himself to his feet. "That should suffice for today."
Rather than argue, Sage stood and followed as he started for the
hatch door.
"You were wrong about one thing you said before," she
said.
"And what was that?" He threw open the door and as he
put his foot on the first rung of the ladder, he gazed up at her.
"I don't dream of him. I try, every night, but I don't."
"I don't usually dream of Anne either," he replied with a
sigh. "But I thought someone would be luckier than I've been."
*~*~*
After coming down from the roof, Michael had sent
the private contractors home, with the instruction that they were to show
up mid-morning to finish. He was paying them to do the job rather
than by the hour, so they'd better hurry the hell up. Sage relaxed
into their regular routine after the contractors had left, following his
instructions and keeping focused far better than she had recently.
He sent her home at nine, and at last the house was silent…
Even
if his head wasn't.
Glass of Jack Daniels in hand, he dropped down
on the couch and took a long drink.
His gaze absently went to the
sketchpad on the coffee table. Thinner and larger than the one he
usually used, the sheets were eleven by fourteen inches and kept solely
for the purpose of planning canvas paintings.
He set his glass on
the table, then picked up the sketch pad. After removing the pencil
stored in the spiral binding, he flipped through the first few pages.
Anne. Always Anne. Pages and pages of her.
And
it wasn't the first time he'd planned a painting of her. Over and
over again he'd fill a sketchbook with plans, deciding on the pose and the
lighting…then when it was time to paint, he'd burn the book. Every
time. He'd paint still life, landscapes, occasionally hire models,
but could never even start one of her.
A sketch in a book was
easy. The book could be closed and put away. Or burned, in
some instances. Investing the time and energy in a painting,
however, was impossible. Staring in her round dark eyes every day
while he worked, struggling to match the shade of her skin…
And
perhaps that was what he feared most of all. The conversation with
Sage had highlighted his own guilty thoughts—the knowledge that he
couldn't remember everything. Anne had been gone so long—too
long. He couldn’t recall every mark on her skin, every eyelash,
every line on the palm of her hand… A painting would mean facing
that. A sketch was about capturing generalities; an oil painting
would mean details. Ones he might not remember anymore—that he might
not
want to remember anymore.
He just…he was
tired. So fucking tired. He'd spent so long obsessing on these
memories…and he resented it. Hated it. But no matter how he
tried, he couldn't let it go.
Obsessed.
Trapped.
Fated.
He had no illusions of what Anne would think of him
if she could see him now. Yet another reason for not wanting to see
her portrait every day, coming alive beneath a brush he controlled.
Those familiar dark eyes wouldn't be looking at the same person she once
knew.
Michael closed the book and threw it to the other end of the
couch. He'd burn the fucking thing tomorrow.
Leaning his
head on the back of the couch, he closed his eyes and tried to empty his
mind. Relaxation never came easily to him, though, so he swallowed
another mouthful of his drink and waited for it to kick in. He raked
his hand back through his hair. Fuck, he wished he could
sleep. And not just sleep, either—drift into nothingness. Just
one night with no dreams, no nightmares, no faces of regret nagging his
brain. That was all he wanted at this point.
Peace.
Not a lifetime of it. He didn't deserve that kind of thing.
But a few hours? Jesus Christ, he'd give just about anything for
that.
But even awake, he couldn't linger in quiet for long; his
phone rang just then. Michael didn't answer it—didn’t even glance in
its direction. When the machine picked up and no one left a message,
he stood and went to the fridge for another glass of Jack Daniels.
A half hour later, just as his mind neared the familiar
restlessness that was his slumber, a knock sounded on his door.
Much like his phone, he didn't answer.
A second knock
came, more insistent this time. The last time he'd answered the door
without having the slightest desire to, Genevieve had been out
there—reason enough to keep avoiding it.
Blessed silence followed,
however, and for a moment he thought whoever it was had given up.
And then his cell phone rang.
He pulled the phone from the coffee
table. "What?" he said as he pressed it to his ear.
"Wanna
answer your door?"
Krysta. "No."
"Pretty please?"
He
hung up on her.
Minutes later, she knocked again. Then she
called. Then she knocked again. Alcohol amplifying his
annoyance, he rose from the couch and went for the door.
A smirk
played on Krysta's lips as he threw open the front door.
"What?"
he asked sharply, definitely not in the mood for her games that night.
"I called but you didn't answer," she said with a slight pout that
he didn't believe for a second. "I got really worried. Mind if
I come in?"
"Get the fuck out of here," he said in something
resembling a snarl.
"Now that’s rude." She shouldered her
way past him and wandered into the main room, gaze scanning the
place. "So this is how the other half lives."
Her
carelessness about entering his space pissed him off even more. "I
said, get the fuck out of here."
She threw a haughty look over her
shoulder. "And I heard you."
Christ, if he had to fucking
throw her out… Annoyed, he slammed the door shut.
As she
sauntered around the living room, he returned to the coffee table to get
his glass, then went to retrieve the JD from the refrigerator.
She
slipped off her jacket and cast it to the floor. A black blouse and
tight red skirt confirmed that yes, she did own more clothes than the
robes and negligees she usually lounged around her apartment in.
"I'd love a glass of wine," she said.
"Then you should go
home and get some."
Sashaying past the couch, she stopped where
the old kitchen table rested, turned, and pulled herself onto the
edge. Her hands slid along the wood, propping her body up as she
leaned back comfortably. Long bare legs dangled below.
"You're a terrible host," she informed him.
"I don't
recall requesting guests." He downed another gulp of liquor.
"Then you probably should have answered the first time I
called. I play hostess very well."
"Get the hell out of
here, go home, and try calling again."
"If I do, will you answer?"
"Fuck no—I'm going to bed."
"I could join you."
"Or you could leave."
"You could make me." She gave
him an inviting smile.
And he knew he shouldn't go anywhere near
her. Not when he was this angry. Not when she was looking at
him like that.
But his feet were moving him forward, one after the
other. There was something triumphant about her gaze when he reached
her—as if she'd already won. And he hated her for it.
He
snatched her wrist and wrenched her forward. Excitement sparkled in
her expression.
"Wanna play rough tonight?" she asked. "I'm
game."
"Not playing. Get out."
Krysta leaned
forward, nose then lips grazing his neck, settling over his pulse.
Hot breath on his skin—God, the feel of it, coupled with the Jack Daniels,
made him dizzy.
"And I told you," she whispered, hooking one leg
around his. "You can make me."
As he glanced down at her,
she lifted her lips and kissed him hard, simultaneously grinding her hips
against him.
If it were just a quick fuck, he'd be fine with
it. But that wasn't how she worked; it was like a game of
chess. Always was, and every move mattered. It wasn't just
about giving in, but who gave in
first. Who had power over whom. Who had the
control.
He could drag her out of the house and lock the door, but
that wouldn’t really be winning. Not for her.
His hands
going to her thighs, fingers splayed and pressing hard into her flesh, he
pushed her skirt up until it bunched at her waist. Little surprise
she didn't wear panties.
In response, she reached between them to
grab him roughly, and she grinned with satisfaction at finding him hard.
"Still want me to leave?" she asked as she yanked down the zipper
of his jeans.
"In due time," he replied.
Her chuckle was
cut short by one hard thrust, and he was in her. Warm, wet, she
clutched him back and rocked her hips forward. Legs wrapped around
him. Elbows hit the table as she leaned back. Eyes partially
shut, still a self-satisfied smile on her face.
But he kept
distanced. Watched her. Read her expressions. Pushed
into her again and again until she was arching, moaning, clawing his arms,
and then finally climaxing.
He pulled out of her abruptly as she
came, still painfully hard but not willing to do anything about it.
Zipping up his pants, he took a step back.
She blinked a few times
as she felt him move away, then her eyes shot open, sending an accusing
glower his way. "Michael—"
"Get out," he said coolly.
She sat up again, graceful despite the lewd position, but didn't
move from the table. Instead, she gave him a sexy grin, apparently
not yet realizing she'd lost.
"You don't really expect me to leave
you like that, now do you?"
It was still about power—always about
power. Annoyed that he hadn't been at her beck and call earlier, she
showed up at his place to prove a point: she still had some kind of power
over him. She expected to get what she wanted, and what she wanted
was someone unable to resist her. And he wouldn't give it to her.
Krysta wanted to play games? Fine; cold rejection before he
reached his own release, making the whole thing resemble a pity
fuck. She was left sexually satiated, sure, but her ego bruised.
Checkmate.
"Get out," he said again.
Watching the
realization that he was serious play out on her face almost made him grin,
but he held it back.
She parted her lips to speak, but closed them
again, thinking.
Michael gestured to the door.
Krysta was
swift to throw on a mask of indifference, but not so quick that he missed
the change in expression.
"You know," she said, her tone
warning. "I may have to rethink this arrangement of ours if this is
the way you're going to be."
"Stay the fuck out of my house then."
One emotion she rarely showed was anger, however, and this was no
exception. She stood casually, pretending to be unbothered, and
straightened her skirt.
"Next time you're over," she called as she
walked past him to pick up her jacket, "I think we're going to have to
teach you some manners."
"Close the door on your way out."
She did, but not before casting a quick glance at him over her
shoulder. A knowing wink, and she left for good.
He locked
the door behind her, finished his drink, then decided on a cold shower
before bed.
Being near Krysta, he mused, was clearly playing with
fire. He had no illusions it was anything but dangerous; though far
from any of the places he used to call "home," he still had sources, and
all of them warned she wasn't to be trusted and was
never to be crossed.
Not
that he worried. Michael could name a couple dozen other people in
the general area he'd consider more worth his concern, and even then, they
paled in comparison to others he'd know in his life. For now, she
was an occasional distraction. Though the idea she could become a
threat was always in the front of his mind, he didn't trouble himself with
it.
Michael would cross that bridge when he came to it.
*~*~*
As night fell, the ground froze and frost grasped
the remaining greenery in its death grip.
Sage hopped the cemetery
fence with ease and followed a familiar trail through the rows of
graves. The farther she traveled, the more her once-brisk step
slowed.
As many times as she'd been there, she still wasn't used
to seeing his gravestone.
A line of stark white, granite markets
met her at the back of the cemetery, and though his was near the end,
newer ones had been added since his death.
Life moved on.
Death continued its rampage… And yet she felt frozen in place, stuck
in time in a harsh world without him.
Face to face now with the
marker of his brief life, the date of his death staring coldly at her,
Sage slid into a kneel. The cold ground bit through her pants to her
knees.
She reached out to the earth gingerly, fingers trembling as
they touched the ground. He was there, sort of, buried beneath,
rotting in a box.
Gone.
The trembling moved into her hand
and up her arm, claiming her as it went, until her entire body wracked
with sobs.
Some days, it didn't seem real, as if her brain refused
to accept that he was gone. However, other days—like that
night—it was all hyper-real. Every moment, every breath, every
step…she felt it. Felt him gone. Felt physically sick with the
loss.
"I miss you, baby," she whispered, knowing he couldn't hear
her—knowing he'd never hear her again. "I miss
you..."
Everything hurt...but she wouldn't give it up; would never
let it go. The memories were all she had now.
All she had…
Gone.
