-3-
Awkward
“So, is he hot?” Atillia asks, hearing what sounds like a cookie being shoved into her mouth over the phone.
“Your hormones are making you lose IQ points, sister.”
“He is, isn’t he?” she says with a smile in her voice.
I feel like doing a face palm, but I’m in the middle of an airport, and I would look pretty stupid if I did. And anyways, I already have enough eyes on me as it is.
“I can’t even talk to you anymore. It’s like dealing with a teenage girl.”
“Which you are.”
“But you aren’t.”
“You’re stalling. Answer the question.”
This is the thing about Atillia. She was meant to be a lawyer, which she became, but in college she met Quincy, got married, got pregnant, and then never really got to use her education on the public. And since she has so much of that arguing expertise in her, just begging to be unleashed, I’m usually the target. Which means if I don’t answer her now, she’ll just go on badgering me for another twenty minutes until my plane finally boards.
With a relinquishing groan, I admit, “Yes, he’s attractive. Too attractive.”
The line goes silent as a lady in her mid-thirties sits down next to me in the terminal, what I assume is her four or five-year-old daughter resting on her lap. The little girl looks up at me with a bright smile, a doll in her hands, but it quickly dies when she spots the deep scars on my face.
“How can someone be too attractive? That’s like saying there’s too much chocolate in the world,” Atillia says in the background.
I try to smile at the young girl who watches me with scared eyes – let her know that I’m not the monster I look. But somehow it backfires, her pupils going wide; her chubby fists balling at her mother’s shirt from my acknowledgment of her.
I pick up the doll that she dropped and attempt to hand it back to her.
She screams, then starts crying.
I feel like joining in.
As her mother tries to console her, taking the doll from me with an apologetic look, I hastily move to another seat, out of her sight. My heart drops at the thought of her possibly having nightmares because of me.
“Hello? Are you still there, Cyv?”
Deep breath. “Yes. Sorry, what was the question?”
She repeats it for me. I almost wish I hadn’t asked. “You’d know what I mean if you saw him. His name is Jagger Wells.”
I can almost imagine her ripping her laptop open like a quick draw from a western, her fingers running over the keyboard, googling him for proof. And a minute later, the picture materializes with her whistling appreciatively. “Dayum.”
I manage a small chuckle, trying to forget the incident from a moment ago. “Don’t forget about that little rock on your left hand, sis.”
“Hey, just because I’m locked down doesn’t mean I can’t look at the merchandise.” A pause. “Jeez, Dad picked this guy out? He really wanted you to say yes, didn’t he?”
Just as I’m about to tell her to pick a side in this war, the lady over the sound system says, “Flight 316 for New York is now boarding.” And that’s my cue.
Grabbing the handle of my bag, I say, “Sorry, Till, I have to go. My flight is about to leave.”
“Ugh, I hate flying coach,” she complains, another cookie going in. “I know you’re on strike with Mom and Dad, but couldn’t you have fudged your principles just for a couple of hours?”
No. I couldn’t. Because flying private would have meant being in close enough quarters for Dad to corner me and tell me how I’m ruining my life. For Mom to give me those unreadable looks. For me to have to not punch something while we flew over the Atlantic Ocean, wishing I could open an emergency door and jump out.
“Unlike some, I don’t mind slumming it,” I tease, knowing she’ll understand that I’m just joking. Kind of.
“Ha, ha. See ya later, Miss Ungrateful.”
“Bye, Wide-Load.”
“You little b–”
I hang up before she can finish, grinning at the small win.
***
It was an uneventful flight. Thankfully I wasn’t sat next to any children, and the horrors of my life weren’t placed upon innocent eyes. Not to say I don’t get looked at everywhere I go, but scaring children hurts me the most. It’s just a reminder of how easy it is to forget that the world sees me as something less than human.
Landing in NY much later, I’m met with our family driver, Kendall, outside the airport. We load my minimal amount of luggage, plus Grim, who has been in a carrier crate for far too long, and head home.
My parents live about thirty minutes outside the city, close enough for Dad to commute, but far enough that it feels like a country setting, free of people, noise, and taxi cabs. Of all our homes, it’s my favorite. Mainly because it’s the least extravagant we own. Sitting on ten acres with a small gazebo and pool out back, the house mimics the Cape Cod style my mother is so fond of. Beautiful Japanese cherry trees blossom in the spring all around the property, their colorful petals lining the driveway and framing the house. The gardeners do an amazing job of keeping up with my mother’s insane flower obsession, her adding another bed every year with the more exotic species she discovers, swamping the border of the shingled house.
Rolling down the driveway, I can’t see any of it with night having fallen an hour ago.
Kendall takes me past the main house, lit up in lights, signaling that my parents easily beat me home, and instead drops me off in the back, where the guest house is. What with things being so awkward with my parents right now, I think it a better option than taking up my old room. Less chance of my least favorite conversation topic coming up at the breakfast table.
“Thanks, Kendall,” I say as he shuts the trunk with a snap, brushing his hands of dust as he faces me with a smile.
“Any time, Miss Montae. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
He returns to the car as I face the dark façade of the guest house, basically a miniature version of the main one my parents share. It has two stories, the upstairs containing a small loft for a chair and side table, the downstairs open concept with white furniture to make the space appear larger. It’s hardly ever used, mostly because the main house has enough spare bedrooms for when guests come over. But right now, I’m very glad of its existence.
Opening the front door, which is unlocked for some strange reason, I set my bag down on the hardwood floor before opening Grim’s crate, letting her walk into the unfamiliar space to get used to her surroundings. She sniffs the air, her tail quickly jumping from side to side. First thing I’ll have to do is get her water –
I freeze the minute I catch something out of the corner of my eye, in the living room. With the moonlight just barely creeping through the windows, I turn fully in its direction; the shape not that of furniture, I can tell. Squinting, I can just make out the humanoid figure of someone lying on the couch, their feet extending over the end of the armrest, showing how tall they are. By the size of it I would guess male.
In an instant my survival training kicks in, not allowing time for fear as my feet quietly take me to the kitchen. I discreetly open the drawer closest to me, taking out the first thing I can find.
A butcher’s knife.
My instructor always told me that anything can be a weapon. It’s how you use it that matters. I think he would be pretty happy with my choice.
Eyes still on the intruder, a flashback suddenly steals my focus for the second it appears. Me in the child-sized chair, the masked woman coming at me with a tiny pocket knife, rusted at the edges. And then the memory is floating away, just there long enough to get my heart racing, to inject me with another dose of adrenaline.
Phone already dialed to 911, I place it in my pocket as I approach the stranger, possibly to ID him first before I make the call. I keep back a few feet just in case he has a weapon of his own. Just then, Grim takes notice of our unwelcomed guest, her fur rising on end as she bays at him angrily. Apparently, it’s enough to startle him, because he jumps at the noise, his head, which was laying back on the couch, springs forward. The idiot must have been sleeping.
Now with him being conscious, there isn’t enough time to call the cops.
I have to attack.
And I do, just how Redman taught me.
My hand lands in a karate chop to his side, hitting him in the ribs as he attempts to stand up. It’s the right move, because it bends him over at the waist, distracting him long enough for me to grab his arm, flipping it unnaturally over his back, careening him to the floor. A pretty crystal vase goes with us, crashing loudly in the dark room. He groans in pain as I use his weight against him and flip him on his stomach, my body locking his hands behind his back, face to the floor. Like a well-oiled machine, my muscles having practiced this move a thousand times, my knife easily fits under his chin in the same motion, my voice guttural when I yell at him, “What are you doing in my house?”
“Holy –” I hear him say before I’m tightening the knife to his major artery, effectively shutting him up.
“Can’t,” he gasps, “breathe.”
Grim at my side, still baying at him like he’s the anti-Christ, I quickly change my stance, flipping him over in one quick maneuver. When his eyes connect with my face for the first time, they widen in shock and a small amount of horror.
With one hand locking both of his over his head, the other still with the knife to his jugular, I repeat, “Why are you in my house?”
“Hell, what are you, the Hulk?” He struggles underneath me, trying to move. I give a swift jab of my foot to his shin and it quickly puts a stop to it.
“Are you incapable of answering a single question? Who are you?”
As his lips move to answer, the clouds shift outside the window, a stream of moonlight seeping in, washing across the stranger’s face. For the first time, I get a good look at him, and when I do, the knife goes clattering to the floor, Grim skittering away from it.
With his first breath of air, he coughs, “My name is –”
“Jagger Wells,” I finish for him, my muscles frozen in place.
Those smoky gray eyes narrow in confusion, looking even darker than in his pictures. “Wait, how do you know my name?”
Trying to remember myself, I let the angered mask smooth back into place. “Now who’s asking who questions?”
Slowly standing up from his hard body, I pick up the knife, keeping it safely at my side as I stare down at him; my muscles complaining from the exercise I just forced them to perform. I may know who he is, but I don’t know what he’s capable of. It’s always better to have the upper hand, I hear Redman’s voice tell me. No matter the circumstances.
He remains on the ground, looking up at me like I’m a total lunatic. But it wasn’t I who was waiting in a dark house, waiting for a teenage girl to get home. Talk about a creeper.
Looking down at him, I realize what could have happened here, how this could have turned out so much worse if I hadn’t recognized who he was when I did. Hands rubbing my eyes in panic, I say to his shocked face, “Are you insane? I could have killed you!”
And then the lights come on.
Jagger
“What is going on here?” a high, stricken female voice shouts from the front door, the lights coming on with a brightness I wasn’t ready for. I squint against them painfully, losing focus on the girl with the knife.
A knife.
I’m still on the floor as two more bodies join us, the grim face of Lance Montae looking down at me and then his daughter – the one with the horribly large kitchen knife still clutched in her hand – coming to his own conclusions. Mrs. Montae moves to my side, her face worried as she looks over me.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her hands flitting around, looking like she doesn’t know what to do with them.
I nod, slowly sitting up, seeing stars. That girl treated me like I was a weightless doll. I would be impressed if my side didn’t feel like it was caving in from her sucker punch.
“What is wrong with you?” Mr. Montae hisses, eyes glaring at who I am assuming is Cyvil, my fiancée.
I could almost laugh.
My fiancée just assaulted me.
“I open the door to find a strange man sleeping on the couch, and you’re mad at me for defending myself? I didn’t know it was him, okay. The room was dark,” she defends, waving that knife around again. It disturbs me how natural it seems for her to have it.
“If you had come to us first instead of using that blasphemous martial arts you love so much, then maybe your fiancé wouldn’t be sitting on the ground with a cut to his throat,” he answers just as harshly, the comment making me subconsciously touch my neck. Sure enough, when my hand comes away, a small line of blood goes with it. Mrs. Montae looks like she’s about to faint.
Cyvil’s eyes dart to the wound I don’t think she even knew she created, a small amount of remorse entering them for the first time since she said my name. I’m still curious how she knew it, or me, for that matter; why she attacked. Though, if I walked in and a weird guy was sleeping on my couch, I may have had a similar response. Minus the finesse.
She argues back and forth with her parents, and I’m seemingly left forgotten as I stand up, wincing when I feel the pull in my ribs. That is definitely going to leave a mark.
When I got here this afternoon after meeting Mr. and Mrs. Montae at the airport, I was told to wait in the guest house until she got back from her flight, having fallen asleep while I passed the time. I thought it strange she didn’t fly with her parents, but didn’t look too much into it. They wanted me to wait here because they figured this would be her first stop when she got home, though when I asked if she lived in the guest house, they said no. Again, another weird flag. But still, I ignored it. I’ve been around enough rich people in my life to know that the majority have, well, let’s just say eccentricities.
Honestly, I hadn’t wanted to do any of this. I thought it was awkward and unnatural, forcing us together when clearly she had no idea she was going to be meeting me today. But it’s not a surprise that it turned out to be the world’s biggest flop, considering my father and hers set up the whole meeting, my dad having anticipated the group of them would be at the airport together. But instead I was met with only two Montaes, both looking disgruntled that plans had changed where Cyvil was concerned. Nevertheless, I invited them to take my town car back with me, and in return, they gave me vague details about Cyvil and why she hadn’t joined us. I had an idea, though.
Watching the family drama unfold before me, my suspicions are confirmed. Despite what her parents told me and my father, she definitely isn’t on board with this. The evident fury in her eyes, voice, and stance prove it. Somehow, I figured she would be okay with it since it was her parents who proposed the deal to my father in the first place. You would think you’d get the okay from your daughter first before selling her off to someone she didn’t even know. But by the sounds of it, that didn’t exactly happen.
While they continue to hassle over the issue, her father pointing at me occasionally, my eyes subconsciously go to Cyvil, getting my first real look at her. There’s fire in her eyes, wildness in her movements. She’s like a caged tiger, ready to unleash hell on her captors the moment the chance arises. It’s in stark contrast to what her file portrayed her as, which was some kind of subdued introvert that had a love for nature, animals, and helping people. A tree hugger, essentially. But I can’t say I’ve seen many hippies with MMA training before.
Looking at her now, in the light, completely exposed, her scars don’t appear as menacing as they did when I was on the ground, the moon’s rays highlighting the long, thick scar starting at her scalp and moving down the right side of her face, just missing her eye. When I asked my father why her file didn’t have a picture of her in it, he gave me the vague answer that she didn’t like to be photographed. I asked why. Again, a skittish answer.
“She has…issues.”
I paused over the green folder he had handed me across his desk. “How do you mean?”
He bit his lip, looking uncomfortable. Stalling, he shuffled some more papers that didn’t need to be shuffled. “She was…injured, as a child. It left scars.”
Knowing he wouldn’t answer the questions, “Injured how?” and “How big of scars?”, I let it go, but continued to puzzle over what he meant. And when curiosity got the better of me, I tried to look her up online, but found there was nothing to go on. Not even a social media account. It was like she didn’t exist.
But now I know why.
Along with the deep one on her right side, she also has a few shallower scars on her cheeks and neck, crisscrossing like white X’s. I can’t see all of her hands because from wrist to knuckle she has them covered in sleeves, but what is exposed shows more of the same scars, cutting over her fingers in jagged lines. I swallow my revulsion, my eyes swinging to look at the floor while I process how one does that to themselves. Because how else could she have gotten them?
Before, I had wondered what the Montae’s reason was for trying to marry off their daughter, and at such a young age. But now I’m starting to put the pieces together.
They’re afraid she won’t ever find someone.
Because of the scars.
At once I understand but also feel repulsed. If it’s not something she wanted for herself, then why make her do it?
It is only then that I realize the room has gone silent.
The minute my eyes connect with Cyvil’s, I know she caught me staring. A look between sadness and acceptance passes over her features, her shoulders squaring themselves. I’m sure she has had people look at her like I just did for most of her life.
As I’m about to apologize for my rudeness, she says abruptly, “I’m sorry for hurting you, Mr. Wells. Had I known who you were at first, I –” she cuts herself off, shaking her head. I watch her fingers tighten around the knife’s handle, turning white to match the scars. A small black goat no bigger than a pug whines in the corner, feeling her distress.
Wait, goat?
“I’m afraid, though, that you have been misinformed about the deal my father made with you.” With these words, I’m brought back to the conversation. “I had agreed to no such thing.” And then she says, eyes on the floor, just like mine had been earlier, “I think it best if you leave.”
“Darling,” her mother begins, but Cyvil gives her a look that quickly shuts her up.
“Cyvil,” Mr. Montae’s deep voice booms over the room. “That is no way to treat a guest.”
Looking at her father again, she says, not deterred by his sternness, like I would have been, “And telling a man that your daughter has agreed to marry him when she hasn’t is no way to treat a human being.” With a long pause, the room grows silent. A minute later, since I haven’t made a move to leave, and neither has her parents, Cyvil decides to do it herself.
Her steps quickly take her to the goat in the corner, picking it up with a calming coo before walking out the door and slamming it behind her. We all stare at the spot where she just left, silent.
All I can think as the tension slowly consumes the room is…she owns a goat. One that apparently lives inside.
Great. So she’s a nut job on top of being a ninja.
Letting a hand rub at his eyes, I vaguely hear Mr. Montae say to me, “I’m sorry for this, Jagger. I figured if she met you maybe things would change. It appears they haven’t.”
Seeing the defeat in the slump of his shoulders, the acceptance of failure, a panic slowly starts to rise in my chest, bubbling up my throat. As much as I don’t want to marry someone who sees me as the enemy, the thought of her calling the whole thing off, and my father going out of business, is a much harder reality to swallow.
Which means I have to fix this.
Checking my neck with a finger to see if the bleeding has stopped, I say as lightheartedly as possible, “Hey, don’t give up on her just yet. Maybe…maybe I can still change her mind.”
Mrs. Montae doesn’t bother to hide her surprise. “You-you mean you’re still interested?”
In keeping my father off the streets, and the many family members that work for Wells Investments? Yes. I’m willing to sacrifice finding my possible soulmate for them.
Another easy smile, the one I’ve carefully cultivated over the years to look appealing but not cheesy. Almost immediately it changes her worried air. “Yes, she seems…” I look for a word other than crazy, homicidal, Freddy Krueger-ish, or scary. I land on, “Capable.”
Still, Mr. Montae doesn’t look convinced. “Son, I know why you’re doing this, and it’s admirable. But after what my daughter just pulled, I don’t think this is a good idea anymore. When Cyvil puts her mind to something, it’s nearly impossible to change it. But I had hope.” He shakes his head, looking at his wife. “We both did.”
I’m losing them, I know it. Trying to think of a quick way to change their minds, of some kind of last ditch effort, I start to say before I know what I’m doing, “A month. Give me a month to change her mind. If she still doesn’t agree by then, we call it off.”
Their eyes widen inexplicably, my vehemence to make this work catching them by surprise. What they don’t understand is that I would do anything for my family, my father. And if my mother were here, I know she would hate me doing this. But she would understand why I’m doing it. For me, family comes first. Just as it did for Lucinda Wells.
I can’t fail her.
Not again.
After a minute’s pause of deliberation, the two of them giving each other looks that translate into a silent conversation, they eventually look at me, eyes wary but accepting. “Okay. But I warn you, Jagger. You’re facing an uphill battle here. And if you are truly up for it, then we won’t stand in your way. But after what you experienced tonight, I assume I don’t have to advise you to step lightly where my daughter is concerned.” Lance Montae raises a single, peppered eyebrow at me, testing me to see if I’ll retreat. I don’t flinch, even with the memory of her standing over me with a knife braced against my throat still fresh in my mind.
I’ve been through much worse than simply trying to get a girl to like me. Even one as frightening as Cyvil Montae.
Holding out my hand, Montae’s soon falls into it with a shake. And with it, my fate has officially been sealed.