Chapter 11
Carrie
I pulled up to my house, my mind not on the last hour or Leo. No, my mind was on the shadow man by the docks. I still couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that half an hour had passed as I stared back at him. When I’d arrived at Sarah’s, I checked her clocks to make sure she hadn’t been mistaken. She thought nothing of it, laughing it off and wanting to know about my time with Leo.
The entire conversation, I struggled to even tell her about him. All I could focus on was what the shadow man looked like. My stomach curled each time I thought about his stance, his broad shoulders, the casual way he leaned against the lamppost, like he didn’t care whether I knew he was watching me.
In the end, Sarah pried all she could out of me and gave me her stamp of approval. She didn’t make me feel guilty, which was a relief. She told me how good of a man Leo was, how the only reason why he hadn’t settled down yet was due to his father passing away. Sarah told me he was finally in a place where he could breathe. I tried to “gush” with her about how exciting all this was, because it was. I should be excited.
But I wasn’t.
Instead, I was worried about whether I’d see the shadow man again.
I shut the car off once I was under my car port and let my head fall back, waiting for something—anything to hit me.
Grief? Guilt? Anything?
I stared at the tan ceiling of the car for some time, the neighborhood dark and quiet around me. “Am I a bad person for no longer missing my dead husband?” I whispered to myself.
The truth was, I stopped missing him after three months, two months after my failed attempt.
Absentmindedly, I rubbed my thumb over my left wrist, trying to remember how the scar once felt. I was blessed with good skin, something I got from my mother. My wrists healed fairly quickly and the scars faded quicker than normal due to the products the staff rubbed on my wrists every night after I was chained to the bed. That wasn’t my choice. No, that was a choice made by my father before he was exposed as the sick monster he was. After his arrest, the staff didn’t bother changing their regimen. Over time, the pink scars faded into white ones, and now, you could only see them in a certain light.
“Am I a bad person for wanting to be happy again?” I asked the empty car, bending my head to look at my wrists.
A painful lump grew inside my throat as I inspected each one, remembering the looks my old friends had given me when they came to the hospital. They weren’t of judgment—just ones filled with an overwhelming pity, so much that I was drowning in it, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe for days. I don’t think the Oasis boys left me alone for an entire week before I was transferred to rehab.
As the question lingered in the air, a quiet sigh left me, and I grabbed my bag, my camera, and keys before I exited the car and locked it. The summer night air was cool against my skin as I climbed the steps to my front porch. The light was off, the sight of the darkened porch causing me to stop in my tracks.
I left that on.
I always leave it on.
A gentle breeze fluttered around me, the curls around my face brushing against my skin as I looked over my shoulder. The street was quiet, all lights in the houses around me out, leaving only the streetlights down the way to brighten the area as the stars and moon loomed above me, the smell of sea salt in the air. I turned back around, watching the tulips in the garden sway for a moment before I focused on the darkened porch again.
“Maybe the bulb burnt out,” I mumbled, fishing out my phone and clicking on the flashlight.
My steps were soft as I made my way to the front door, holding the light to the lock. After a few seconds of fumbling, I finally managed to get the door unlocked, despite my arms being full. I stepped inside, the house just as quiet as the street outside, and kicked the door shut behind me.
I’d purchased a small entry table to go in front of the seagull painting last week. I carefully set my camera down, tossed my bag beside it, followed by tossing my keys into the bowl on the far side of the table before turning and locking the door.
Sighing once more, I reached behind my head and let down my curls, tossing the clip into the same bowl. I shook out my curls, my scalp thanking me as my fingers messaged it. My eyes closed as a whimper left me before I let my head fall back as I gave it one more shake.
Once that was done, I flicked on the living room lamp by the front window and turned to head to the kitchen—
I stopped short, a scream catching in my throat as my body froze.
The shadow man was in my living room.
In. My. Living. Room.
Breathing was no longer an option as I stared at the man sitting on my sectional, his knees spread wide, leaning back against my cushions, his face still hidden in the shadows. He was big—huge, even, with massive legs hidden underneath black cargo pants that clung to his muscles, matching the black thermal shirt on his upper body. His arms were hanging down, his fists resting atop his powerful thighs. My eyes caught the coloring of his tattoos on said fists: red and white. I couldn’t make out what they were, though, but I wanted to know—desperately.
He took up half of my sectional by just sitting, but I didn’t want him to move.
I wanted us to stay as we were, staring at each other as time passed us by.
Eventually, the initial shock of him being in my house faded, and I could breathe once more.
“Are you here to kill me?” I whispered.
His right hand flexed, his fingers stretching outwards before curling back into a fist again. My heart skipped a beat, and then two more when he answered. “No.”
The sound of his voice overwhelmed me, shielding me away from the world. It was deep, sharp, rough. I’d never heard anything like it before, and I would do anything to hear more. There was something about this man that compelled me, forced me to remain calm. Even though I asked the question, deep down, I already knew the answer.
If this man had wanted to kill me, he would’ve done so already.
Swallowing my sanity, I asked another question. “Are you going to hurt me?”
A noise came from him, sounding like something between a sigh and a grunt. Goosebumps cascaded down my spine as I stood before him, hanging by a thread.
“No.”
Exhaling, I nodded, accepting his answer as the truth. “Well, that’s good, I suppose,” I told him softly.
He said nothing, his face still in the shadows.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“You’re my mark.”
All at once, the feelings of excitement and possibly even desire dissipated from me, but the goosebumps remained, my body going cold. “Excuse me?” I breathed, my eyes going wide as my chest heaved. I took a step back then, ready to run.
I was his mark—his target—but he wasn’t here to kill me…
Meaning, he was a fucking bounty hunter.
He remained silent, watching me retreat, but when I’d made it over to the entryway table, reaching for my keys, he spoke again. “Mrs. Hale, I am not in the mood to chase you down,” he said, his voice indifferent. I looked back to him, and my heart stopped all together as he revealed himself to me.
The man leaned forward, his face coming into the light. My lips parted at the sight of the scar on his face, rough and jagged, running from his temple, over his cheek, and disappearing into his short, dark beard. His lips were perfect, contrasting with his nose, which looked like it had been broken a time or two. Despite the hair covering his jaw, I could tell it was clenched…which was bad for me. His eyes, like I suspected, were dark, just like his hair.
I’d been right.
Everything about this man was dark, and if I had to guess, his soul was black.
“Chase me down?” I repeated, breathless.
His nostrils flared, his lips thinning. “Making me do that would be a very unwise decision on your part, Mrs. Hale,” he warned me, clicking his tongue.
“Stop calling me that.”
“What?”
I swallowed. “Don’t call me that.”
“Mrs—”
“Please,” I whispered, my chest tight.
This man was here to take me away, and I was focused on him calling me by the last thing I wanted to be called. I seriously needed to re-evaluate my priorities.
His mouth shut, getting tight once more as he glared at me.
“Call me Carrie,” I damn near begged.
We stared at each other once more, the air thick between us. I was half convinced he was trying to read my mind, and the other half of me was already convinced to tell him everything I’d ever thought of—the good and the bad.
What kind of person did that make me?
“I don’t do first names,” he told me finally.
“Then skip over the names and tell me who hired you,” I demanded, moving back into the living area, standing a mere seven feet from him now.
His piercing, dark gaze never left my face as the heavy silence dragged on for a few more moments, the only sound that could be heard in the room was my breathing. I didn’t even think he was breathing at all. He was like a statue, frozen in time, pondering whether I was worthy enough to give him an answer.
Mustering up whatever courage I had, I lifted my chin slightly. “Get out of my house.”
His head ticked to the side. “A second ago, you wanted to run,” he noted.
“Get out before I call the cops,” I threatened. “I have a very good friend—”
“Sheriff Humbly is aware of my presence. Calling him wouldn’t help you.”
I flinched. “What?”
“As for who sent me, we’ll give him a call once we’re on the road,” he explained, his voice seeping into my soul.
Who sent him?
What did they want?
After everything, I had nothing else to give.
“Are you one of my father’s men?” I asked, my voice trembling with uncertainty.
“No.”
I stared at him, searching his face, and yet again, deep down, I knew he was telling the truth.
When I didn’t say anything, he righted his head again, his nostrils flaring. “I don’t have all night.” He jerked his chin towards the stairs. “Go get what you need so we can get on the road.”
Shaking my head, I took a step back once more. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You don’t have a choice,” he returned, his tone hard.
Bullshit I didn’t.
His words triggered me, unlatching the lock holding everything back since I escaped St. Louis.
“I have a say in what I do with my life,” I shot back, anger boiling inside me. My voice bounced off the walls of the house I’d grown to love and he sat back, his hands resting on his thighs, his face hidden in the shadows again.
“Throwing a temper tantrum won’t do you any good,” he deadpanned.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I repeated, louder this time. My chest began to ache as my throat started burning, and I knew the tears were next.
He said nothing, but I could feel his cold stare on me. The goosebumps still hadn’t faded, and I knew that, as long as he was looking at me, they would never go away.
“Who hired you?” I demanded. “Tell me.”
Silence.
I threw my hands up in the air, and turned away from him. “Unbelievable,” I muttered. “A fucking bounty hunter of all things.” My words faded as I bent my head, squeezing my eyes shut to stop the tears. Before I could stop it, a small sob left me, and I covered my mouth with my hand, wrapping my other arm around my soft mid-section.
Get it together, Carrie. Crying in front of him isn’t going to get you anywhere.
When I turned back to face him, he was still leaning back, but his hands were bawled into fists at his sides now. A single tear fell down my cheek as I whispered, “At least tell me your name.”
“Not relevant,” he bit out, his voice hard.
I swallowed down the burning glass in my throat. “I’m going to need someone to blame,” I continued softly, my nearly-healed heart crumbling now.
“For what?”
My voice cracked as I said, “For ruining my one chance at happiness.”
A dark, heavy silence filled the room, and suddenly, I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
Everything around us slowed as the Earth stopped spinning, halting the rotation of the moon and stars outside as well as the gentle breeze. My heart pounded inside my chest in a constant rhythm, banging like a war drum. A new wave of goosebumps spread over my skin, down my neck, down my arms, over my scars to my feet.
When the bounty hunter moved, the couch creaking under his weight, the sound like a war cry, I couldn’t move. My eyes remained on him as he rose to his full height, towering over me, and my body reacted. My nipples pebbled underneath my blouse as electricity shot down to my core, buzzing over my clit as my panties dampened.
He stood fully in the light now, and a very stupid part of me never wanted him to go back into the darkness. I felt like Nick Caraway from The Great Gatsby when he spotted Jordan Baker for the first time. She scared the shit out of him, but he enjoyed looking at her. The man—the very large man—in front of me scared me in ways I never thought I could be scared, but I wanted to stare at him forever. He reminded me of a disturbing painting, the only one in the museum that made people uncomfortable, but you couldn’t help but stare. I wanted to get lost in his dark beauty. He was a masterpiece.
How could I hate someone so beautiful?
His facial features were ice cold, brimming with malice as he took a single step towards me, the sound of his boots finally starting the war. My fight or flight refused to kick in as my lips parted, a quiet breath leaving me as he took another step, then another. I tilted my head back to look at him, and for the first time in my life, I felt small without having to try.
My mind went dizzy when he came to stop directly in front of me, my chest an inch from the bottom of his.
If I took too deep of a breath, I would brush against him, and if I did that, I would surely crumble.
I kept my chin lifted, holding my breath as he stared down at me. I had to stay strong. I didn’t understand why I was reacting to him this way, nor did I have the time to analyze it. I was fighting for my life—my happiness—and I’d be damned if he was going to take it from me.
Suddenly, he moved, and then he had my chin in his firm grip, his touch scorching my skin, chasing away the chill of his gaze and the goosebumps. A small sound left me as he yanked me to him, our bodies colliding, and that scorching fire was everywhere. His fingers were rough, his grip harsh, and yet?
I wanted to feel more of it. I wanted his touch everywhere.
With a shaky inhale, I moved, bringing my hand up to touch him, but he caught it with his free one, holding it in the air as he leaned down into my space. I was frozen. I couldn’t move even if I wanted to, and once he was an inch away from my lips, I felt his thumb rub against the scar on my wrist.
My eyes widened, never leaving his as they flashed with a cautious fury.
“Don’t you ever say that shit to me again,” he finally spoke, his voice a low, heavy whisper. I was rocked to my very core, and before I could process anything, he released me. “Go get your things. We’re leaving,” he clipped, stepping back from me, my skin still burning from where he’d held me.
“I—”
He cut me off with the sharp bite of his tongue. “ Enough. Mrs. Hale, you are a danger to yourself. Thirteen days ago, you escaped rehab, bought a plane ticket, and hightailed your ass here.”
“How am I a danger to myself, bounty hunter?” I shot back, my skin still tingling.
The man gave me a look. “I’m standing in your living room. Give me more credit than that.”
He knew.
He knew all the horrid things about me, the things written on endless pieces of paper as I was studied like a lab rat.
“So the rehab hired you,” I guessed, and I gestured to him. “You read my file and you think you have it all figured out, huh?”
He said nothing, moving to fold his arms over his chest. The stance was one of power and…danger. Nevertheless, I kept going. “So they hire you, telling you that I’m suicidal, and need to be brought back immediately, is that it?”
I didn’t get a response, which infuriated me even more. Grinding my teeth, I raised my finger to him. “You don’t know a single thing about me,” I hissed. “You don’t get the right to judge me and tell me how to live my fucking life.”
His eyes dropped to my finger and then lifted back up to me. “One year and six months ago, you went to the gym for your early morning workout,” he began, and with every single word, my arm lowered more. “Your husband was getting ready for work. He’d gone upstairs to take a shower after making you breakfast—”
“Stop,” I snapped, my arm falling to my side as my breathing increased, the memories of that day coming back full force.
He took a step closer to me. “You came home after your workout and found him,” he continued, his voice level. There was a certain cruelty about it, the way he could so casually describe the worst day of my life. “You passed out, and because you’d burned all the calories in your system that morning, your blood sugar was low. They took you to the hospital for observation, and not even twenty-four hours later, you slashed your wrists open,” he said, growling the last part.
My bottom lip trembled, my tears falling down my cheeks now as I shook my head. “That doesn’t mean I belong in that place—in that fucking prison,” I spat, my breath hitching.
His handsome face gave nothing away, his eyes studying me like all those therapists, nurses, and doctors had. I’d been under a microscope my entire life, and I wasn’t about to go back under.
“I’m not going with you,” I told him as two tears raced down my cheeks, rolling down to my neck.
He softened his voice. “You’re not in the right mindset to be on your own.”
I huffed out a harsh laugh, shaking my head. “If I wanted to die, I would’ve done it last Christmas.”
He stiffened, his spine straightening slightly, making him even taller as his nostrils flared.
I kept going. “During the holidays, security is thin, and the staff is gone for vacations.” I took a step away from him, going to the front window as I wrapped my arms around my front. “If I still wanted to die, bounty hunter, I would’ve overdosed on the pain medication left out at the nurses' station.” I looked over to him. “It would’ve been painless— easy. ”
This, of course, was met with more silence, and I looked back out into the quiet night, my eyes on the streetlamp, remembering that only a couple of hours ago, he wasn’t a bounty hunter. He was just a man.
After a few moments, tears were still streaming down my face, I turned back around to face him. “I’m not a danger to myself,” I croaked.
A muscle jumped in his cheek.
“Whatever my file says is a lie. If the doctors wrote I was a difficult patient, it was because I didn’t feel like talking to them. If the nurses noted I was refusing to eat, it was because that food was—,” I cut myself off. He didn’t need to know the truth. He probably wouldn’t believe me anyways. I took another step towards him, then another and another until we were inches apart once more. “I stopped taking the medications two months ago,” I whispered, moving on from the subject of food.
If I hadn’t been standing so close to him, I might’ve missed the split second of surprise that washed over his face.
“I wasn’t crazy,” I murmured, my voice cracking as I looked up into his dark eyes, searching for a shred of mercy. “I wasn’t crazy—I was in pain. ” The last word came out as a seething crack, filled with nothing but agony. Tears continued to fall as I exposed myself to this stranger, my broken soul on display.
He bit out a curse, turning his head to the side, glaring at my kitchen as I continued to stare at him.
“I wouldn’t wish that kind of pain on my worst enemies, bounty hunter,” I said softly, sniffling. “I wouldn’t wish the last half of my life on anyone, come to think of it.”
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, looking back to me.
I looked down to our feet. “On paper, before Robert was…” I trailed off, swallowing the knives in my throat. “My life looked perfect, right? Don’t believe everything you read.” More tears fell, and I was beginning to wonder if it was possible for your body to run out of tears. “I just want to be happy. That will never happen if you take me back to that city. My life isn’t there anymore, bounty hunter. It’s here,” I told him, ready to beg for my freedom.
Suddenly, my chin was in his grip again, and I let out a small gasp as our gazes collided.
He leaned down, his lips barely a breath away from mine. “Stop fucking crying,” he ordered, his voice gentle.
I pressed my lips together. “Stop making me cry,” I begged on a croak. He knew what I was begging for.
He closed his eyes as he backed away from my face, still holding my chin as he bent his head, mumbling something under his breath. When he looked back up, his eyes scanned my face, and my cheeks heated. I’d never had a man look at me like the way he was in this moment. I wanted him to always look at me like this. His fingers stretched as his thumb rubbed the edge of my jaw softly, his touch burning me, sending waves of desire through my body.
“Tell me your name,” I rasped.
“You don’t need to know it,” he returned, his voice still gentle.
I blinked. “Why not?”
Slowly, his hand fell away from me. “Because I’m not going to take you,” he said finally.
My lips parted as my chest caved in. “W-what?”