Callum & Harper

I stood quickly and rebuttoned my jeans. I stupidly flushed out of habit. John flung the door open and walked out confidently, pretending to zip the fly of his own jeans. The flight attendant stood there, her hands on her hips, her lips pursed in disgust. I followed John out, humiliated, my face red, tears still streaming.



“Take your seats,” the woman ordered. As we passed her, she glared at me, shaking her head, a snippy retort on the tip of her tongue but when she saw me crying, her face softened slightly and she bit her insult back, probably confusing my tears with shame. Though I was ashamed, I could give a flying eff what she thought of me. I only wanted her to see the pleading in my eyes but she was too distracted by what she thought we did. I looked across the aisle of the plane as we walked to our seats, everyone stared at us, some looked revolted, others amused.



The other passengers watched us carefully for close to an hour, unknowingly but, more than likely, only temporarily, saving me from whatever torture John had planned after the lavatory incident. Ironically, I actually needed to pee but I wasn’t about to tell John that.



I wanted a normal life. And I don’t mean normal, like, I wanted a mom and dad where we lived in a two story in the ‘burbs with a white picket fence. I’d play hookie from school some random Monday to shoot hoops with the neighbor boy and get grounded for a month.



No, I wanted normal as in there weren’t any psychopaths obsessed with me. The kind of normal where I didn’t have memories of my foster mom and dad sleeping with each other in a living room I was expected to walk through to get to school on time, or swimming in a sea of wine corks, avoiding another set of foster parents’ drunken, abusive rants. Or the kind where I wasn’t threatened with rape every day by the kids who loitered on the corner near my school. Or even the kind of normal where I didn’t fall in love with a normal family only to realize I loved them way more than they ever loved me.



I wanted Callum. I just wanted Callum and I wanted be married to him, to finish college and build a family where our own kids weren’t aware that there were people out there who don’t even deserve to breathe the same air as they do. I wanted them oblivious. I wanted them naive and sheltered and totally in love with us as we are with them.



I know a lot of people probably think that my dreams are unrealistic, that the world is too harsh not to prepare children for how awful it really is. You know what I say? Eff that! Why should I let my kids grow up knowing that? They’ll find out eventually on their own. Why make them jaded before they’ve even gotten a chance to live, to figure out what’s really important in life. And what’s wrong with innocence, anyway? Huh? I don’t get it. I grew up with no innocence. None. From day one, I was contaminated with the ‘real world’ and you know what? It sucked. It royally sucked.



Listen, I’m not an idiot. I know that eventually the world would deal them some awful blow but I wanted my kids to know that they could have what I didn’t, that even though fate may deal them an occasional shitty hand, it doesn’t make the game not worth playing. It doesn’t mean that they can’t create their own amazing, incredible life because, by God, your happiness is what you make it and if you want to be happy, damn it, that’s your right! And it’s not impossible because I had it once...with Callum Tate.



I turned my head toward John and watched him watch me. I decided right then and there, that this guy wasn’t going to take anything away from me that I wasn’t willing to give and I wasn’t in a very charitable mood that day, either. I was gonna’ fight this guy with every ounce of fire I had in me.



When the plane landed, every antsy passenger, ready to see their families for the holidays, stood, gathering their bags, purses and carry-ons, poised for the few inches they’d be given every ridiculously precious five seconds as the passengers ahead unloaded.



And we were the last. John stood and yanked me up brutally beside him. If the stupid people around me were paying one iota of attention, they’d see this guy for what he truly was but, instead, they immersed their heads with visions of sugar plums or whatever else people dreamed of on Christmas.



“Come on, dear,” John said sarcastically, tugging me callously through the door of the plane. The flight attendants glared at us, the heat of their stare attacking the back of my head.



Just to embarrass me, John threw me just beyond the doors and kissed me brutishly on the mouth, grabbing my butt and pinching hard. I yelled in pain but they interpreted it as the perverted action John wanted them to think it was. He pushed me up the jet way, laughing at his own lewdness. He was being careless, like he wasn’t afraid of losing, which scared the hell out of me.



He forced me hard against his chest and breathed in my ear. “Don’t even think about running or asking anyone for help because I’ll just run myself...straight to Callum and kill him with my own hands way before the cops could possibly save them. Run, Harper, and be prepared to identify a few bodies.”



That was exactly what I’d planned on doing the second I saw an airport security guard but when he revealed his plan, it deflated mine. I just couldn’t risk Callum. I needed to reach Callum somehow, warn him, then make my move.



“I have amazing plans for us, Harper,” he said, wrapping his arms around my shoulders like we were best friends, squeezing lightly. “I’ve got to get a room first. We’ll shower and you’ll dress for me like you’d dress for your asshole husband.” He paused. “We’re going out.” He smiled down at me, revealing the devious plans that lay just beneath his seemingly innocent statement.



We took a taxi in utter silence to one of the most broken down motels I’d ever seen. I wondered if it was even open for a moment before noticing a few people milling around a room with the door open. They looked exactly like the kind of people you’d see gathering around a broken motel door. One was most obviously a prostitute, one was possibly a dealer and the others were probably his users.



John walked us through the door to the front office. The walls were grimy, yellow, and black in a few spots. The carpet was close to the same. The lighting was artificial and sucked the life out of the entire room.



“What can I do for you?” The man behind the bullet proof glass asked.



He blended in with the room quite nicely with his dingy yellow sweater full of holes. He missed a few buttons on his once white shirt.



“We’d like a room,” John said.



The man eyed me carefully. “How many hours?” He asked, before adding, “You look too expensive for this part of town.”



“What?” I asked.



“She’s not a prostitute,” John said through gritted teeth. “This is my wife.” My eyes widened a bit and my heart started racing. I’d rather he thought I was a hooker.



“Whatever,” the man said. “A night’s stay is thirty-seven.”



“I’ll pay cash,” John said.



The man didn’t argue which scared the crap out of me because most overnight establishments required some sort of credit card to secure a room. The fact that he didn’t want one was alarming for two reasons. One, the owners and management didn’t much care what went on in their rooms which was concerning to say the least and, two, there would be no way to trace us.



The man handed us a key, an actual key, like it was the freaking fifties or something. The key was attached to a hard bit of plastic that had seen better days.



“One-seventeen,” the man said and slumped back into a chair, raising a paper to his chest.



We walked towards the room in silence. I looked up to see we were passing the unsavory group I noticed when we arrived.



“Hey, baby, something I can do for you?” The prostitute said when she noticed John, her eyes following the length of his body. Something told me this ‘John’ would be one she’d service for free the way she drunk him in. Have at it, I thought, but be prepared for a messy death after.



“Not if you paid me a million dollars,” John said, laughing.



This offended her. There’s something about prostitutes that screams demure, right? Exactly.



“What the hell does that mean?” She screamed, shaking her body and readying to get in his face. Two men I assumed were users or maybe they were just drunk, I couldn’t tell, came to stand behind her. I doubt if they were any sort of knight in shining armor. They looked more ready to rob us than anything. Opportunists, really.



John smiled cruelly her direction and she actually shrunk inside herself a little, the fight inside died the moment he revealed his true nature. She’d seen enough of evil to recognize when she saw it right before her. She turned and ran toward the street but the men behind didn’t take her flight seriously. They stood ready for a fight.



I found myself wishing they’d engage John, that would free me just enough time to ring Callum and warn him before I could run myself but after properly taking in John’s size, they decided against it. The risk seemed to outweigh their reward.



I pleaded with my eyes for help but they didn’t take any notice of me whatsoever. John pushed me toward one-seventeen and opened the door. It was disgusting. If there was maid service, this room hadn’t seen anything but a sheet change and possibly towels for weeks.



“Get in the shower,” he said immediately, making my body tremble.



I grabbed my bag and walked toward the shower. The sink was outside of the room with the shower and toilet, so I placed my bag on the worn laminate there trying to avoid the bed and carpet. John came behind me and pushed me slightly out of the way, rummaging through my bag, pulling out the dress I planned on wearing for Christmas dinner. It was short, came just above mid-thigh, a deep red silk chiffon, with a five inch silk detailing at the hem. The sleeves were long though and billowy and the dress fit snuggly with a choker neckline. It had paisley velvet details throughout the bodice the same color of the chiffon. I was saving it for Callum. It was my Christmas gift for him. Well, the girl inside it was going to be. The girl and the black lace underwear I bought to wear underneath it, that is.



“This will do nicely,” John said, infuriating me. He rummaged further and pulled out the underwear I’d been saving. He smiled at me. “And these will as well.” He shoved the pile back onto the top of my bag. I showered quickly, laying a folded towel down in the tub itself to avoid disease and fungus. It seemed smart at the time despite the other dangers just outside the door. I was so tense during the shower I had hardly any time to think of an escape plan. When I got out, I wrapped two towels around my body and emerged into the room, praying to God that John was somehow miraculously gone but he wasn’t. In fact, he had positioned a chair a few feet away, facing the sinks.



“Dress,” he said, casually resting against the back of the chair, twisting a pen in his hands.



“Turn around,” I said hopelessly.



“Not a chance,” he said, smiling.



I angrily yanked my underwear from the top of my dress and slid them up my legs, desperately trying to keep the towels around my body. John only laughed more.



“I can’t wait to see how you attempt the bra,” he said.