35. Lily

35

Lily

I heaved in a massive lungful of air and sat up in bed.

Everything was still and quiet. I sat there in the darkness for a few seconds, terrified the nightmare was going to come back. My hands searched my belly. No swelling.

I slumped back on the sheets, my heart rate gradually slowing. I was soaked in sweat. Fuck!

It was the night after I’d met Bull in the barn. Met being a euphemism for gone there in the middle of the morning and allowed him to fuck me.

Hard.

Bareback.

And now my slumbering brain had gone to town with the potential consequences.

Too shaken to get back to sleep, I went to get a glass of water. The dream had been so real that I actually relished each easy, unladen step to the sink.

What had I been thinking? The few times I’d had sex, back in college, I’d never, ever not used a condom. Had my brain just shut down the moment I’d stepped inside the barn?

Yeah. Pretty much. The sight of him, the words he’d said...it had sent all the rational parts of me on vacation.

I’d started to come back to myself straight after the sex—that’s why I’d left so abruptly. And almost immediately, I’d started running through dates in my head. By the time I was back in my car, I’d already reassured myself that I was just about due to get my period, so I couldn’t possibly get pregnant. The instant I got back to the bus, I dug through my store receipts and checked the dates to see when I’d last run out for tampons. By the time I’d gone to bed, I was 99% certain that everything was just fine.

And yet I’d still had the nightmare.

I knew that it wasn’t just about getting pregnant. I’d broken all of my own rules. I’d gotten involved with someone when I said I never would. Sex had moved our relationship to a whole new level. Even without the bareback thing, this morning still would have been watershed moment—that realization that you’re connected to a person in a whole new way, that they’ve known you, felt you in a way few men have. It’s a big deal for any woman, but for me the shock of it came wrapped in dark, dark fear.

I was putting myself and Bull at risk: myself, because if I started getting all dewy-eyed I’d get sloppy and make a mistake; Bull, because if my uncle’s men found me, he’d try to save me. And they’d have no hesitation in shooting him.

I’d taken two big chances, in sleeping with Bull. Risking getting pregnant was the smaller of the two.

I hopped up onto the counter, sitting on the edge as I sipped my water and stewed on the problem. The loudest sound in the bus was the dripping of the faucet. Outside, I could hear the cicadas.

Was it really too much to ask, for me to have just a little happiness? To have one thing in my life that wasn’t related to crime? I could be really careful.

But what about Bull? Would he be careful? Hell, I wouldn’t even be able to tell him to be careful, or he’d start asking why. I couldn’t get into my past with him. He’d demand I take steps I wasn’t ready to take—steps I’d never be ready to take, like testify against my uncle. I didn’t need to change. I was fine just as I was.

I gazed around the darkened bus. Yeah, right.

I went back and forth on it for so long that I actually dozed off, perched on the edge of the kitchen counter, and only woke up when I leaned so far forward that I nearly fell. At that point, I headed back to bed, still undecided.

The next morning, I woke to that familiar cramping. Sure enough, by mid-morning my period had started. I slumped against the bathroom wall. I hadn’t even realized how tight my chest had been. The fact that I’d been 99% sure was irrelevant. That last 1% is everything.

One problem down. Now for the much bigger one.

For two days, I managed to avoid the Bull issue completely by burying myself in my work. Most of it was coming from the arms dealer, Luka. I made a whole slew of fake IDs for a small army of surly-looking Russian guys with crew cuts, and shipped them all over the country: New York, Boston, Chicago. Luka seemed to be building an empire .

One of the passports, though, wasn’t for a man. It was for a very pretty girl about my age, with long, glossy brown hair. For a second, I was worried that he’d started trafficking women, but there was only one woman and I really didn’t get that vibe from Luka—he’d always seemed honorable. And the note that arrived with the woman’s details said to take extra care with this one.

A lover?

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I mean, not that Luka would be interested in me. Obviously not. And we’d only met five or six times. And I wouldn’t want to get mixed up with a guy like that. He’s an arms dealer, for Chrissakes. Even with those cheekbones and that super-sexy Russian accent. I absolutely wasn’t jealous. At all. I’m sure she’s lovely and I wish them all the luck in the world.

I put Arianna bitch Scott’s photo down and started making her a fake French passport. Veronique Sardou, Luka had requested for the name. Going through all the French databases to set her up with a fake life was a welcome break, after all the Russian. French was such a romantic language. I wondered what Luka and this Arianna woman might be doing in France. Paris, maybe. A romantic vacation, walking hand-in-hand on the banks of the river Seine. Or filthy sex in some cheap hotel in Pigalle—

I caught myself. Wait. Really? This is my life, getting jealous of a client’s lover and thinking that a French social security database is romantic? Fantasizing about what they might be doing in Paris because I’ll never go there myself?

There had been a time in my life when I’d thought about going to Europe—had actually planned it out, in fact. Before I’d woken up to what my life in New York was, I’d been just another college student, ready to take on the world, instead of isolating myself completely from it. Now...I was never going to go there. Ever. Not with a guy, at least. I couldn’t put someone else at risk, not after what happened to Annette.

She wasn’t the only one who’d suffered, either.

There was a guy in high school, Russell. You would have thought it would be some hormone-pumped football captain who’d dare to show an interest in the don’s daughter, but no—they were all too scared. Russell was a slender little guy, barely taller than me but good looking. He wore his hair long and had a guitar and wrote god-awful love songs that we both laughed about and...I’m not sure I even liked him in that way and I wasn’t sure he liked me in that way either. I was just so glad to have some male contact at last. We never actually did anything, but we hung out and I used to pretend he was my boyfriend.

Then I made the mistake of hugging him within sight of Antonio, as he picked me up from school. And Antonio immediately wanted to know who’s the faggot?

I was the only kid at our school who hadn’t caught on to the fact Russell was gay, even if he wasn’t out yet. That’s how starved of social contact I was.

Faggots, as my uncle called them, weren’t people he wanted me hanging out with. I was forbidden to see him again, but that wasn’t enough. He quietly applied pressure to the school board and, suddenly, Russell’s parents were told that maybe their son would be happier elsewhere. His parents had to move him and, because word got around, none of the upmarket private schools would take him. He eventually landed at a nearby public school, where his posh background meant he was targeted and beaten daily. After that, no one dared to be my friend at all except Annette.

Or there was the time, in my freshman year at college, when I came home stinking of air freshener, because I’d doused myself in it to try to get rid of the smell of weed. Just one shared joint with the cool kids in the old boiler room. I barely even got a buzz off it. I just wanted to fit in.

But my uncle guessed. He questioned me for a solid hour about who’d given me drugs and then, when he got tired, Antonio had taken over. I’d eventually broken down and told them the name of the kid who’d passed around the joint. He wasn’t at college the next day. He showed up days later with one leg in plaster and from then on he walked the other way every time he saw me. That was the worst part—he was so scared of me, I never even got to apologize.

More memories rose up inside me, rushing towards the surface. Suddenly, the cool, clean, air-conditioned bus felt a lot like our house, back in New York.

I needed hot desert air, a reminder I wasn’t there anymore. I jumped up from my desk but found my legs would barely hold me, I’d started shaking so hard. I staggered down the bus, tears turning everything blurry. I had to feel for the door button—

And then I was outside, and for once the Texas sun felt good. It was reassurance that I wasn’t trapped in New York anymore.

My breathing slowed and I managed to push the memories down below the surface again. I slumped against the bus, even though its metal sides were almost hot enough to burn me.

When I felt strong enough, I went back inside and focused on Arianna’s French passport. I did my very best work, despite my lingering jealousy. I’m nothing if not professional.

I did give her twenty-seven French parking tickets, though. I’m not that professional.

Three days later, I was making coffee, still stewing over what to do about Bull, when my phone rang. I was so focused on what I was going to do about the problem, it didn’t occur to me that the problem might pick up the phone all on its own.

“You ran away again,” Bull admonished in that deep Texas drawl.