Page 15 of Conor
Conor looks at his watch with bleary eyes. “Christ, when’s the last time ye ate yourself?”
“I ate one of the donuts you gave me this morning.”
He shakes his head, almost like he’s disappointed with himself, but I can’t be sure. “You need to eat. There’s some makings for a sandwich in the fridge, but not much else.”
“I’ll make a couple of them,” I volunteer.
He doesn’t argue. Five minutes later, we’re sitting at the table together in more awkward silence. I can feel his eyes on me while I eat, so I attempt to slow down and act like this isn’t one of the most delicious meals I’ve had in a week.
“Those things I said about you being an addict,” he mutters. “If it’s true that ye’re just hungry, then it was a shitty thing for me to say.”
I look up at him, and my heart feels funny. Is he apologizing? Just when I think he actually means it, he has to go and ruin it.
“But just so ye know, if the opposite is true, it’s going to be finished here and now. No wife of mine will be on drugs. I don’t care if I have to chain ye to the bed and—”
“I’m not a fucking addict,” I snap. “What is with you and that word? You toss it around more often than you breathe. Haven’t you ever heard not to judge a book by the cover?”
He looks away to hide something in his eyes, but I can’t help noticing how rigid his shoulders have gone. There’s something behind that tension, a story. A raw wound. And I intend to get to the bottom of it eventually, but for now, I need to establish this one thing with him.
“If this is going to work, you’ll need to trust me, right? So, for starters, how about we stop beating this dead horse and you just listen to me. I’ve never touched an illegal drug in my life, and that includes marijuana.”
Conor looks up at me again, his eyes unconvinced, but I could swear I see hope there too.
My voice softens, and I feel compelled to go on. “Despite what you might think, I’m a good person. I’ve only ever tried to live a straight life, but things just got fucked up along the way.”
“How so?” he asks.
I fidget with the napkin in my lap as I debate how much I should tell him. “I didn’t go looking for trouble. It found me.”
Conor finishes up his sandwich and pushes the empty plate away. “You mean Muerto?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
He leans back in his chair and studies me. “I’ll need to know what happened. Crow will want the details when it comes down to it, so you might as well tell me.”
That sounds like a bullshit excuse because he doesn’t want to admit he’s curious himself. But regardless, I indulge him.
“I was never Muerto’s girlfriend,” I begin. “I was his captive.”
The muscles in Conor’s forearms flex as he folds his hands together, and I can tell he’s skeptical, but I don’t really care. This story has been bottled up inside for so long, it’s long overdue to be uncorked.
“Archer’s dad was in the military,” I tell him. “An old school friend that I hooked up with once when he was home on leave. We weren’t together, and I didn’t even know how to get in touch with him when he left. He died in combat before I could even tell him I was pregnant, so all the responsibility fell on me.”
Conor’s brows pinch together, and for a second, something softens in him. Something that makes me believe he can relate and gives me the courage to go on.
“I was a hairstylist,” I explain. “And I had a booth in a salon, but it was expensive to maintain. Being that I had a kid to look after on my own, I had to take a second job helping at a barber shop as the shampoo girl. It wasn’t glamorous, but it supplemented my income. I was making it work. But then one night Muerto decided to come in for a haircut.”
My fingers twist under the table as I recall that first time I saw him. Right away, my gut told me it was bad. The way he looked at me, I’ll never forget it. His eyes were soulless, a shade of black I’d never even seen until then.
“He wasn’t the kind of guy to ask a girl on a date,” I rattle. “The Locos had a mantra that I came to know well.Mata. Viola. Controla.It means kill, rape, control. From the second he walked into that shop, I was fucked.”
“What did he do?” Conor demands.
I stare down at the pale, cold fingers in my lap. “He stalked me. Harassed me. Told me I would be his whether I liked it or not. I was terrified, and I went to the cops. They said I could get a restraining order, but it would be difficult to prove. Somehow, Muerto found out and he went ballistic. When I went into work the next night, the shop was closed, and the owner was dead. Muerto’s crew had murdered him to send me a message.”
My throat clogs with emotion as I meet Conor’s eyes. “He had two young children and they just killed him like it was nothing. When I got home, there was a guy at my door. His friend Animal came to tell me that if I thought about going to the cops again, my son would be next. He knew where I lived, where I worked. He knew everything about my life. I didn’t have the money to run. I had nowhere to go without getting someone else killed. My only option was to get Archer out of there, so at least he would be safe. I took him to Lacey, and it was only supposed to be for a couple weeks.”
“In my mind, I became resigned to the fact that he was going to fuck me, one way or another. I hoped it would be once and he’d get it out of his system. But the first night he took me in an alley on my way home from work, he told me he wasn’t letting me go, and he meant it. He took me to their compound and locked me up in that room. For an entire year, I didn’t see the sun. I was left there to rot, only useful when he decided he wanted to toy with me. He fucked with my head, threatened my son, starved and beat me because it was a game to him.”
