THREE
The third fairy said, “She shall have a wonderful grace in all she does or says.”
Jessica
Fear has a flavor, like I’ve bitten into lip and drawn blood. Step out of the vehicle. That’s what happens when you’re in trouble. Big trouble. When things are about to get worse.
“Why?”
“I need to check you for alcohol consumption.”
“I’m not drunk. I never drink.” Which suddenly seemed like a travesty. Years of sobriety. Of careful planning and hiding, all turned to dust in one terrible evening.
“All the same, ma’am.”
I press my hand to my forehead, as if the answer might be written on my skin. Somewhere close. Somewhere I can’t see. I’m not worried about what he’ll do if I fail an alcohol test. Even running on two hours of sleep I can walk in a straight line.
I’m more worried about what he’ll do with me after that.
There are more corrupt cops on the city streets than clean ones. Even if he doesn’t have ties to the Luskis he could touch me. He could use me. All while Ky sleeps peacefully in the backseat. I don’t trust cops any more than he seems to trust sleepy drivers.
“You have to promise something.”
His eyebrow quirks up. “It seems to me you aren’t in a position to bargain.”
“Swear that you won’t touch me.” I would floor the car before I got out, if he didn’t agree to this. If he didn’t make me believe in him this much.
Brown eyes seem to shine even in the darkness. That gaze skims over my body in the recesses of the car, seeming to take everything in. “I assume you’re not carrying, Ms. Beck.”
A shiver runs over my skin, whether from the cool night air or his piercing eyes. “I would never carry a gun, if that’s what you mean.”
“You’ll have to excuse me if I’m a little cautious, considering the mark on your finger.”
Every muscle in my body pulls taut.
I’m usually careful about keeping my hands hidden, but I must have slipped. Or he has a sharp eye. Either way he’s seen the bleeding heart and the needle that runs through it, in black ink on the inside of my right forefinger.
Everyone affiliated with the Luskis has this mark somewhere on their bodies. Stefano has an elaborate tattoo covering his right hand, an anatomical heart with arteries dangling and spewing blood across his forearm, as if its been ripped from his body. The needle drawn straight up his middle finger. It’s as beautiful as it is terrifying.
My tattoo is much smaller, much more crude. Because I’m not a lieutenant in the organization. I’m one of the girls they own.
At least I was until Stefano sent me away.
I curl my fingers around the steering wheel, staring into the abyss. “How do you know what it means?”
A low laugh. “Provence is about halfway between Tanglewood and Stillwater. We get a decent amount of drug trade coming through here. Weapons sometimes.” He glances back at the sleeping child, as if moderating his words. “And worse.”
Worse, meaning human trafficking. Humans like me. Like Ky would be.
No, Stefano would turn his son into a soldier. A cruel man, in his own image.
And that seems even worse.
“I’m not carrying,” I say, my voice low with shame. Because even though I’ve never held a gun in my life, that’s my heritage. An ancestry in violence and greed. “And I don’t have any drugs. I only want to drive.”
I open the car door, giving Ky one last look, praying he’ll stay asleep for this.
The sheriff’s hand doesn’t go near his holstered weapon, but I imagine he could pull it out pretty fast, like one of those old-time western movies. I can feel his wariness, his watchfulness, as if I might be a drug runner with my baby in the backseat.
My sandal steps onto the pavement.
Which I’m surprised to realize isn’t pavement at all. It roughened into dirt road, the sides delineated only by earth—no curb. The past summer had been particularly hot, and the overhead sun must have scorched the grass, leaving only crinkled chuff.
As the sheriff lowered the flashlight to the ground, I finally get a good look at him.
Wind-blown hair and slightly quirked lips. A broad chest and long legs. He looks like he could go to battle at four in the morning. Those brown eyes hold a thousand secrets.
Secrets like the tattoo on my finger and the pain it can bring.
Awareness hits me like a ton of childish bricks. My puffy eyes and runny nose would be very clear in the headlights from his patrol car. I had taken off my hoodie once we left the city limits, leaving only my thin tank top. Hours of driving without stop made me unsteady.
It looks bad, listing to the side like this. I can see how he might doubt my sobriety, but I’ll prove him wrong. I’ve been stone cold sober since I turned fifteen, since I was born. Since Daddy gave me away like a gift, completing the promise made when I was born.
A modern-day curse.