Chapter 18: Cruel Paradise: Chapter 18

Deciding I won’t be of any use to him in my current state, Hank tells me to take the day off. He suggests I take a drive out to the country to clear my head.

He also tells me to call a therapist as soon as I can, but I know it’s not more talking I need. I need to do something.

Only I have no idea what that something is.

The first place I stop after I leave work is my bank. I rent a safety deposit box and leave the necklace in it. I’ll get an estimate of its value later on, after I can think straight again. I know nothing about diamonds, only that the bigger and brighter they are, the more they cost, so Killian’s present will probably bring a hefty chunk of change when I sell it.

I haven’t decided yet if I’ll give the money to charity or light it all on fire and watch it burn.

I make another stop at a convenience store to buy bottled water and fill up on gas, then hit the highway and start driving. I don’t have a destination in mind, but it feels good to go fast, look in the rearview mirror, and not see any big black SUVs following behind me.

It feels good for all of one minute, until I see a plane flying overhead and realize that’s not the only way Killian could follow me.

The man seems to have eyes everywhere, including the sky.

“Stupid satellites,” I mutter, pulling into the parking garage of a mall.

I park in the middle of a crowded row of cars, head inside, and hunt for a payphone. I find one near the restrooms and call a taxi for a ride. When the cab arrives, I slouch down in the back seat and tell the driver to take me somewhere pretty.

“Manchester-by-the-Sea,” he says instantly. “Pretty beach. Pretty marina. Pretty everything. Only a forty-minute drive.”

“Let’s go.”

On the way, I force myself to do everything but think about Killian.

I count the number of red cars I see. I count the number of churches we pass. I try to remember all the lyrics to “Let It Be,” by the Beatles, my mother’s favorite song. I engage the driver in Twenty Questions, grilling him about where he’s from, how he likes Boston, and what he thinks of the President.

Then I sit back and listen to him rant with only enough attention to insert a polite “Mmm” and “uh-huh” here and there.

By the time we arrive at our destination, I need a drink. Not thinking about someone is a surprisingly hard amount of work.

It’s too early to hit a bar, so I spend a few hours wandering around the marina and its charming little shops until it’s time for lunch. Starving, I shovel food into my mouth like a farm animal. I drink two pints of cold beer. Afterward, I feel much better. More clear-headed. It’s probably only the sea air, but I’ll take it.

I decide I like the place so much, I want to stay longer.

I call Hank from a payphone near the restaurant’s restrooms.

“How much vacation time do I have accrued?”

“You’ve worked for me for five years. You get two weeks of paid vacation a year. You’ve never taken one. You do the math. Why do you ask?”

“The therapist I went to this morning said it would be good for me to take some time off work.”

Hank pauses, then sighs. “That’s a lie, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Juliet, I’m worried about you.”

“I’ll be fine. I just need a few days off.”

“How many days?”

“Like…a hundred and eighty-seven?”

“You’ve got through the end of the week,” he says firmly. “Get your head on straight and come back fresh next Monday. Deal?”

“Deal,” I say, relieved.

“And kiddo?”

“Yes?”

His voice drops. “You’re a smart girl. You already know what to do with your accountant. Trust your gut.”

I can hear the air quotes around the word “accountant.”

“I would, but my gut is currently waging a bloody war between my head and my loins. Things are ugly. The casualties are piling up.”

He chuckles. “Ah, to be young with an overabundance of hormones. I’m so glad I’m old. Things are far less confusing.”

“You’re not old!”

“I’ve been alive twice as long as you have. That’s half a century.”

“Half a century isn’t old. My grandmother was ninety-two and still going strong the last time I saw her.”

“And I’ll bet she looked as fresh as a daisy, didn’t she?”

When I don’t say anything, he laughs. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Fifty isn’t old in mind or spirit, but trust me, kiddo, you get to my age and you start avoiding mirrors. Your skin becomes forested with weird moles. Sleeping the whole night through without having to get up to pee is a thing of the distant past. Anything that can possibly sag, wrinkle, or dangle, does.”

“Please excuse me while I go throw up.”

“Hey, don’t blame me for gravity.”

“I like you the way Newton liked gravity. Once he found it, everything else made sense.”

I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the cool metal housing of the pay phone, praying for some miracle that will block Killian’s words—and his beautiful face—from my mind.

“You still there?”

“Yes. Just wondering if there’s a way to bleach my brain of the hideous images you’ve branded onto it. I’m traumatized. I’ll never be able to look you in the eye again.”

“You’ll live. See you Monday.” He hangs up without waiting for a response.

The next call I make is to the voicemail Fin, Max, and I use for emergencies. I leave a message saying I’ll be out of town for a few days, but I’ll check in so they know I’m OK. Out of an overabundance of caution, I don’t say more. Especially not where I’m staying. I know they’ll understand.

I rent a room for the rest of the week at a motel right on the water’s edge. It has a view of the boats bobbing peacefully in the marina, a fully stocked minibar, and a whirlpool bathtub big enough for three people. If I thought heaven was anything like this, I might start trying to be a better person.

Then I call back the voicemail and tell Fin where I left my car in the mall so it doesn’t get towed. There’s a spare key in the kitchen drawer, but knowing her, she’ll hotwire it just to rub it in.

There’s a small gift shop in the motel lobby where I buy toothpaste and a few toiletries. A boutique down the street catering to tourists sells T-shirts and shorts, flip-flops and breezy, floral dresses. I splurge on several things, wondering when was the last time I bought myself clothes.

Unlike Fin, the fashion plate, or Max, who always looks like she’s auditioning for a role in the next installment of Tomb Raider, I’m usually dressed down in jeans.

I spend the afternoon wandering around on foot, no destination in mind. When the sun is sinking below the horizon and my empty stomach is protesting, I look for a place to eat dinner. I settle on an oyster bar with a crowded outdoor patio and a live band playing classic rock covers in one corner of the dining room.

I take a seat at the bar inside and order a chardonnay from the leather-skinned, wild-haired bartender, who is approximately two hundred years old. He tells me his name is Harley after the motorcycle, that he’s lived in this town since the day he was born, and also that he’s in love with me.

“I love you, too, Harley,” I tell him, smiling. “Let’s run away to Mexico together.”

He cackles, then sends a glance down the bar to my right. He lowers his voice. “I’d take you up on that, sweetheart, but I think you might have bigger fish to fry tonight.”

Following his head tilt, I turn in that direction.

Seated backward on a stool with both elbows propped up on the bar top, a man faces the crowd. Clad in denim, one long leg is stuck out into the aisle, the other is casually kicked up on the footrest under the stool. He’s wearing sunglasses, Western boots, a cowboy hat, a tight white T-shirt that showcases every ripple of his washboard abs, and the collective lust of every woman in the place.

Tattoos cover his muscular arms from his bulging biceps all the way down to his thick wrists.

He runs a hand over the short black beard on his square jaw, giving me a perfect view of his other tattoos.

The ones on his knuckles.

I can’t describe this feeling. It’s shock, fury, disbelief, pleasure, horror, awe, and an almost overpowering urge to commit bloody homicide with a cocktail pick in a room full of people, all rolled into one.

Killian turns his head and looks at me. I can’t see his eyes behind the mirrored glasses, but I feel them, fiery red Superman laser beams slicing me in two.

I turn my attention back to Harley. “You know what? This wine isn’t gonna do it for me. I need a shot of tequila.”

“Atta girl!” He produces a shot glass from under the bar, sloppily pours tequila into it, hands it to me, and says, “Just remember, sweetheart: no glove, no love.”

And this is my life.

Harley wanders away to tend to his other customers. I wait, heart pounding, as Killian takes the stool beside mine.

He pretends to peruse the menu written in chalk hanging on the wall behind the bar. Then, sounding exactly like he walked off a cattle ranch in Texas, he drawls, “Hey, there, darlin’. How ya’ll doin’ tonight?”

I resist the urge to slam my forehead onto the bar and shoot my tequila instead.

Then, with no accent whatsoever, he says, “Not feeling the cowboy vibe, huh? I knew I should’ve gone with a British accent. Women love a British accent.”

“Actually, what we love is plunging a pitchfork through the chest of an annoying man who’s tied to a chair, then lighting him on fire.”

“Hmm. I don’t know if there’s an accent for that.”

I hear the smothered laughter in his voice and wave at Harley for another tequila. “What are you doing here?”

“Same as you, darlin’. Sightseein’. Havin’ a drink. Lookin’ at all the pretty people.”

The Texas accent is back. I wish I could say it sounds incredibly stupid, but it doesn’t. Instead, it sounds incredibly hot, which is incredibly aggravating. “So you followed me. Again.”

“Did you forget about the part where I said I’d keep you safe?”

“I didn’t think it meant you’d always be within shouting distance. And I’m perfectly able to take care of myself, thank you.”

“One doesn’t cancel out the other.”

“God, I hate it when you talk like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m being irrational.”

“I don’t think you’re irrational. The people who are looking for you aren’t irrational, either, just better armed.”

The oblique mention of the Serbians sends a chill along my spine. I moisten my lips, feeling like he’s a socket I just stuck my finger into and wondering how bad the shock is going to be.

“How did you find me?”

The Texas drawl returns full force, but this time, it’s teasing. “Now, now, darlin’. You know I can’t tell you all my secrets.” He chuckles. “There wouldn’t be any mystery left for you to obsess over.”

It’s official: I’m going to kill him.

Unsmiling, I turn his way. I stare at my reflection in his aviators, barely recognizing the woman staring back at me. She’s angry, yes, but she also looks like she really needs to be kissed.

She looks…like a wild animal that’s been caged for years and is about to be unleashed.

Killian slowly removes the glasses. He sets them on the bar without breaking eye contact with me.

He’s not laughing anymore. In fact, he seems like a ravenous wolf about to devour me whole. Energy arcs between us. It’s an attraction so powerful, I wouldn’t be surprised if it can be seen.

“You already know what to do. Trust your gut.”

Recalling Hank’s words, something rises up inside me. A pressure builds. Some dark, nameless emotion expands inside my chest, crushing my lungs and flattening my heart until it’s barely able to beat.

It’s my gut, screaming at me to let it take the lead.

Oh no. I’m about to do something really dumb. I take a deep breath, blow it out, and jump.

“Chris Hemsworth.”

Killian cocks one dark brow. “Excuse me?”

“Can you sound like Chris Hemsworth, the actor?”

He knows what I’m asking. His eyes flare. Dark and dangerous, desire glints in their depths. He says softly, “Course I can. I can do anything, Juliet. You oughta know that by now.”

His Australian accent is perfect.

I bite my lip so hard I taste blood.

Killian says my name again. This time it’s barely audible. Our gazes are locked together. We’re not touching, but every inch of my skin feels him. Every cell in my body feels burned by his heat.

My pulse roaring in my ears, I say quietly, “Once. One time. One night. That’s it, then it’s over.”

Killian doesn’t wait for me to draw my next breath before he jolts to his feet, throws cash onto the bar, picks me up, and strides out of the restaurant, carrying me in his arms.