Chapter 9
Bayne
Satisfied with my handiwork, I close the passenger door. Jogging around the truck, I scan my surroundings. The curving road cuts through the green hills. No one’s passed us. No one is coming.
I hop in the driver’s side and bring the engine to life, pulling onto the paved road. She rides beside me wearing the cuffs I’ve placed around her wrists. Didn’t need the gag.
She’s finally quiet.
For once.
Her friends watched, wide-eyed, standing outside the old Chronicle building while she climbed willingly into my truck after Detective Collins left.
All I had to do was ask her if she’d rather talk in private or right there in the middle of the office, all her friends watching on.
The girls could have prevented this. They knew what would happen. Why didn’t they warn their American friend not to snitch? They know what happens to people who don’t mind their own business on the island.
“Didn’t your new friends tell you not to get involved? Carol Ann and Fiona should know better,” I say. Her lips purse together, determined to ignore me. “I don’t think you’re in a good place to choose to disrespect me.”
She breaks easily, just as she did in the office when I told her to come with me. “They did warn me. And I didn’t tell him anything. So I don’t know why I’m in your truck right now, anyway. I thought we had an agreement.”
“So did I. One you broke the very next day.”
“I told you.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t tell him anything.”
“You shouldn’t have called him the first night. And you should have sent him away this morning. Not invited him in for a cozy cuppa tea.” I grip the wheel. “I really can’t trust you.”
She’s quiet, fingers twining together, then untwining, the cuffs quietly clanking. Finally, she speaks. “Where are you taking me?”
“I’d like a quiet ride.”
“I know you killed your girlfriend.”
Her words stun me, her accusation hanging in the air between us. Familiar anger, hot like lava from an erupting volcano, rushes up. It’s always been there since that day, the day I was accused of murder, but I can typically keep it at bay.
I find it harder to keep the eruption at bay with her. “Keep your mouth closed or you’re going to be wearing a ball gag to go with those cuffs.”
Why waste my breath arguing when half the island believes the same thing? Let her think it. Maybe it will keep her docile.
I glance over at her. She’s timid enough. For now.
From what I’ve experienced with her, that won’t last for long, so I’ll enjoy the quiet for now. Her fear will eventually wear thin, and she’ll be prodding me with questions again. I guess I’ll need to keep her in a perpetual state of fear if I’m to get any peace. Let her think I killed the woman I loved in cold blood.
We’re headed to my house, the place I’ll be keeping her for the foreseeable future. I’d prefer to take her to the more isolated cottage, the one where I punished her. It’s further from town, no other living things around other than a few bleating sheep.
But the boys would get suspicious if I wasn’t staying at my house. And there’s no way I’d leave her out there all alone. I’m not planning on letting her out of my sight.
I’ve told Eamon he’ll need to stay at the Castle for a while. He’s there most every night till late anyway, hanging out with the younger brothers, so he may as well pass out in one of the sprawling bedrooms.
My brother’s still the only one I’ve trusted with my secret. Word will get out eventually that Kitt was speaking to Collins, or at least trying to. By then, I’ll have Fiona start a rumor that she went back to the States, and she’ll soon be forgotten.
When our name is cleared and this all blows over, I’ll have to figure out if I can trust her enough to keep her mouth shut, then truly let her go home.
Or if I have to make a Plan B. I force myself to look away from her. I’m not sure I want it to come down to that.
The familiar two-story gray stone cottage with the red door appears on the left. My parents’ house, the place I grew up in, then inherited. I glance over at the home, my stomach tying in heavy knots. I couldn’t live there after what happened. The memories are too horrific.
I look away, eyes back on the road.
Eamon wasn’t there that terrible night. I keep the property in good repair, waiting for him when he eventually takes a wife. The girls in town love him; he’ll have his pick of good women for a bride.
The homes grow farther apart as we leave town behind. My place is secluded enough. We round the bend. My white Scandinavian-style home is tucked between green rolling hills that dive into the sea, wide windows set in deep sills of lightly-stained beechwood that showcase the colors of the sea as well as the hills beyond, like picture frames.
I bought this place ten years ago with money I’d saved.
It’s so beautiful here.
She’ll be the first girl I’ve brought home since… My shoulders tense. Let’s just say, it’s been a minute since I’ve had any female presence at my place.
My life is heavy enough, I’ve kept the interior of my home light. White walls, beech trim around the windows and doors, ash floors, wooden kitchen counters and cabinets, well-built furniture with minimal lines. I don’t bring many home, other than Eamon, preferring to keep my home separate from my life with the Kings.
When I do show it off, people are always surprised at the bright, clean, modern feel I’ve cultivated. Those that know me don’t say, but I think they expect me to live somewhere dark and gloomy, like a cave.
What will she think of the place that’s to be her new home?
And why do I care?
Fiona and Carol Ann are good girls. They know to keep their mouths shut and do as I’ve told them, telling the rest of the interns they’ve dropped their homesick friend off at the airport, sending her back to LA. They’ll be packing up her stuff now, hiding it in the shed behind the lodge for Eamon to pick up for me under the dark cover of night.
I want her under lock and key, but I don’t want her uncomfortable. I know enough about women to know they need their belongings, makeup and clothes, their creature comforts. I even did a bit of shopping in town this morning. It’s all in the bed of the truck, bagged up safe and sound. Bought a couple colorful pillows and throws to brighten up the guest room she’ll be staying in. Enough decent food to keep us going for a week or so before I’ll have to go back out, as well as American crisps, pre-packaged chocolate chip cookies, that mac n’ cheese that comes with the orange powder, things a college student might miss from back home.
Make no mistake. My softness for her comfort will not extend to my handling of her disobedience.
“We’re here,” I say, unable to lose the habit I inherited from my mom. Eamon’s smart words instantly pop into my head.
Useless statement.
She doesn’t make a show of her fear, or relief, holding in whatever it is she’s feeling with a pursing of her lips.
The words roll off my tongue. “Let the games begin.”
She turns her cutting gaze onto me. Anger. The feeling she’s feeling is anger. “Games? Is that what my life is to you? A game?”
The bite in her tone surprises me. I’d better be careful, or I might get kitty cat scratches. “Your life isn’t a game. But the way you’ve pushed yourself into mine—now that’s a joke.”
“I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Can’t a girl take a walk at night? Enjoy the scenery?”
I wouldn’t let a girl of mine out at night alone. Not for a moment. If she’s going out with friends, I want to know who she’s with, where she’ll be and when she’ll be back.
Might even be sitting outside waiting for her in my truck when she’s done.
But this here is an independent American woman, bred to be on her own.
“Sure,” I agree. “But what’s your excuse for the other two times you’ve stuck your nose into my business?”
Ignoring my accusations, she holds the cuffs up for me to unlock.
I shake my head.
She drops her hands back into her lap. For the first time since we arrived, she lets her gaze leave my face, scanning her surroundings.
I see a softening around her eyes as she takes in my home. “Is this your place?”
“Yes.”
She eyes me, then takes another long look at the house. “You mean, you picked it out yourself?”
It’s the same with everyone else in my life, expecting me to live under a bridge like a troll. “Yes. I bought the land. Designed the floorplan. Worked with an architect to make my dream a reality. And had it built. All by myself. And now, you’ve made yourself my unwanted guest for God knows how long.”
She bites her lip, the uncertainty of her future hanging heavy in the cab of the truck.
“Shall we?” I open my door. “You stay here. I’ve got a few bags to get out of the back. Then I’ll be back for you.”
Knowing her door is locked from the inside, unable to be opened, she doesn’t even wait for me to be out of sight before scooting to the center of the bench seat, closer to the driver door I’ve just closed.
I’m in a playful mood, happy to test her, then come down with the paddle hand of justice, swift and stinging when I catch her.
I watch her from the corner of my eye as I gather bags from the bed. I’ve bought too much. It won’t be a one-trip haul, giving her plenty of time to try and escape as I unload the first bags, coming back for more.
Taking my time in the kitchen, I put the ice cream in the freezer, milk, butter, eggs, and veggies in the fridge. Unpack the dry goods into my cupboards.
I go back out, expecting the cab of the truck to be empty and to have to chase her. It’s not. She has scooted all the way over to the driver’s seat, though, patiently waiting for me to retrieve her. The only sound out here is the wind and the sound of the waves lapping the nearby shore.
“One more load,” I say through the closed window. She looks away, her eyes darting around like she’s planning to escape after all.
I go to her room, arranging and fluffing the bright pink pillows against the wood headboard, then folding the soft throw at the foot of the bed, smoothing it over the white down duvet cover.
Satisfied, but feeling a wee bit like I’ve crossed over some invisible line into a woman’s world, a place I neither want to be or to belong to, I clear my throat, crossing my arms over my chest to remind myself how large my biceps are. If anyone wants to say something about my shopping, I’m confident I can lay them flat on their ass.
When I go back outside, I find the cab of the truck empty.
She’s leaning against the driver’s side door, one boot crossed over the other, the shape of her legs showing off in her tight jeans. She wears the olive-green coat I made her grab before we left. Her cuffed hands hang casually in front of her.
“I told you to stay put.”
“You told me to stay here.” She gives a defiant shrug. “I’m here.” Her full lips curl into a sassy smile.
The tension of the day mounts, tightening my shoulders. If she’d just have turned Collins away and gone back inside like a good girl, I wouldn’t be home right now, a glorified prison guard babysitter for the next however long.
I’d be at the Castle discussing with the Kings how best to proceed with our next mission. I’d be sitting in the worn-out lawn chair I typically favor to the plush ones, having a pint, listening to Eamon tell me about his day, which girl fancies him now, or breaking up a fight between him and Jonjo.
I’d be waiting for Hammer to return from the Chippie with my portion of greasy white paper filled with hot food, my bottle of malt vinegar waiting on the table where I always leave it, under threat of death to anyone who dares to not put it back.
I’m starving. Borderline angry, even. Everyone but her knows you don’t antagonize a Bayne man when he’s not been fed. But she’ll learn.
Quickly.
My left hand is already mindlessly rolling up the sleeve of my shirt, one fold over the other, slowly, methodically, like my steps as I close the gap between us.
The grin falls from her pretty face, no longer so sure of her cleverness as I approach. “Just a joke.”
“I’m not in the mood for jokes.”