Chapter 11 #2
I hear the short exhale of air as he finds the tattoo I actually have there.
One my husband forced me to get on our short-lived honeymoon.
One of the best parts of the convent was that I didn’t have a mirror long enough in the bathroom to see it reflected back to me.
It was tattooed to look like a label with stitching all around the edges.
Corey laughed when he saw the final piece on my back and slapped my ass.
I cried when I read the words “Property of Corey Craig.” That’s all I ever was to him.
“He did this to you?”
I nod silently. I don’t want to speak. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing my voice waver.
“Why?”
“I refused to sign the paperwork to change my name to his.” It was my one small act of defiance, the only thing I had control over at the time when I was forced to hand everything else over to him. I figured it was bad enough I was a Schaefer. I wouldn’t be a Craig too.
“He thought this would change your mind?”
“He just wanted to shame me. Told me if I thought any other man would ever want me, he’d make sure they knew. Joke’s on him, though, since I just wanted to be a nun,” I explain, trying not to squirm under his touch as I feel his fingers run over the line of the tattoo.
“All because you wouldn’t change your name?”
“The last straw, anyway. There was a lot he didn’t like.”
“Even bigger cunt than I thought.”
I hear the clatter of the brand hitting the stone at the edge of the fire pit as he tosses it back into the flames.
He wipes his hands on his jeans and mutters something under his breath.
I’m still trying to make sense of it when he wraps his hands around my middle and drags me back up to my knees as he crouches down to meet me.
His eyes search mine for a long moment. In the dark of the night, with the flames dancing over his glasses, I can’t tell if it’s pity or sympathy behind them.
“If you take me back to the convent, I can avoid worse. You can avoid worse.” I try to warn Levi one last time, pleading with his better angels.
“I’m not taking you back to the convent. By now, he knows, and he’s pissed off. But I’m not afraid of your husband, sweetheart. I want him to come find me. I have a growing list of reasons I can’t wait to see his face.”
The tears return, and I’m embarrassed that they do, born out of frustration as much as fear.
I shake my head and close my eyes, wishing there were some way I could get through to him.
It feels like the night before my wedding all over again.
Me begging a man I thought cared about me to help get me out of harm's way, only to be rebuffed and promised that they had it all in hand, and I just needed to do what I was told.
I imagine Levi will use me the same way my father did, as a bargaining chip to get whatever he wants.
“I know you’re scared. Fuck… With men like that in your life, no wonder you ran to put yourself in confinement.”
“And you think you’re better? Lying, manipulating, kidnapping, threatening torture.” I start listing off his sins. I can nearly match his fury by the time I reach the end.
“I’d say we’re pretty even on that front.” His eyes flick over me and settle in a frank assessment, like I’m not seeing the facts for what they are.
“Agree to disagree.” I have my faults. I might have approached this the wrong way with him. But this is different. “I didn’t deceive you for weeks on end, pretending to be a friend who was kind and caring. When in reality you just wanted to use me to get to my father.”
“I’ll give you that. You don’t have many reasons to trust me. So far, I haven’t shown you anything you haven’t seen before. But you give me time, I’ll give you reasons. And the good news is, we don’t have to lie to each other anymore. I can be honest with you, and you can be honest with me.”
“What does honesty get me? I’m being honest about how badly I want to go back to the convent, and you won’t listen.”
“You work with me, and I’ll take you back to the convent.”
“Work with you how?”
“For now, you don’t have to do anything.”
“Then why keep me here in captivity?”
“Bait.” He admits it plainly, and I’ll give him credit for the honesty he promised, as vulgar as the reality is. “The first thing I want is to meet your husband.”
I let out a frustrated sigh. “You’re playing a dangerous game, and you’re arrogant if you think you’ll win.”
“Lucky for us, it’s one I’m good at.” He gives me a soft smile, a genuine one that reaches his eyes. It’s the most vulnerable I’ve seen him since we were on the plane. “Now let’s get you up and back to the house. You’re a fuckin’ mess.”
“Thanks,” I gripe at his astute assessment, glaring at him as he holds out his hand for me to take.
“You want honesty, you’re getting it,” he explains as he hauls me up to my feet in one swift motion.
“Ow,” I whimper as I feel a sharp pain in my injured foot, hobbling, trying not to bear weight on the ankle.
The awkward way I’ve been holding it to stay in the kneeling position has only further agitated it.
His brow furrows with concern as his eyes travel down my leg and find the swelling that’s started to form around the joint.
“Fucking hell. Did you trip again?” He sounds irritated with me.
“It was an accident.”
“Of course it was.” Without asking, he scoops me up in his arms again. “Starting to think you’re doing all this on purpose to get a free ride,” he grumbles at me, but the soft, sympathetic smile I remember flashes over his face again, and my heart twinges in its wake.
I wrap my arms around his neck to steady myself as he climbs up the small hill to the cabin. I stare at the horseshoe tattoo on his neck that had set this whole series of events in motion, but I don’t argue with him.
Just this small act of mercy is more than I’d ever gotten from my own father. As I tuck my head against his shoulder, the painful memory of the sprained ankle I had as a child rolls like an old picture show.
It was a gorgeous summer day; the sky was brilliant, and the butterflies were dancing around the wildflowers that were growing in the meadow where my father kept his horses.
I was attempting my first ride on a horse after my brothers had teased me relentlessly about my “training wheels” pony.
But she was skittish even as the barn hand helped me into the saddle.
It was like she felt my nervous energy and fed off of it.
I’d persisted, though, determined to win my brothers’ approval and have my father see me as their equal.
I’d tried to hurry out of the corral and catch up with them on the trail.
Only to be thrown like a sack of potatoes a few moments later when a prairie dog darted out in front of us, startling the horse and sending me to the ground.
I’d landed hard on my side, but only after my foot briefly caught in the stirrup and wrenched my ankle.
The tears had come fast and heavy then as I gripped my burning joint.
I yelled for my father, and he circled back with his horse, frustration and disappointment written across his face. He didn’t care that I tried. He didn’t care that I was hurt. He was just annoyed I was slowing him down.
“Get up,” he ordered.
“I can’t.” I sobbed. “I can’t. It hurts so much!”
“Don’t act like such a crybaby. Dust yourself off, and let’s go.”
“I tried, and I can’t.”
“You can.”
“It hurts, Daddy. The horse threw me off. I think it’s broken,” I cried. I thought he just couldn’t understand I was really hurt. That he thought I was aiming for his attention when I really needed him.
“You’ve got to learn to push through pain. You can’t fall down every single time it gets hard. Get yourself up and back to the house.” He didn't wait for my response this time; he clicked his tongue and urged his horse on, trotting a few steps before cantering off to meet my brothers.
“Daddy, please!” I screamed after him, but he didn't heed my cries. I let out a wretched little croak of a sound and curled up in the dirt, begging for him while he rode off into the distance. It was nearly an hour later when I hobbled myself back to a point on the trail where one of the barn hands could see me and hurried over to find out what had happened. But even then, they’d been more worried about the horse that had run off than my ankle.
As a child, it had broken my already wounded heart, but as an adult, I realized it was because they were terrified of losing their jobs, thinking of their own children going hungry with no money to put food on the table.
The barn manager, a surly bearded man who had barely ever spoken to me, finally scooped me up and carried me back to the house.
There was no coddling or telling me I was brave.
He eyed my tears like they were an inconvenience, and he was gruff as he ordered me to sit on the chair and put my leg up.
But he’d gotten me a bag of ice and a juice box before he told me to sit tight while he got someone who knew what to do with kids.
And in that moment, it felt like he was my hero.
The small mercy of a rescue and a bit of care for my injury made him seem like he had superpowers my father didn’t possess, and from that day on, I painted a picture for him every time we visited the mountain home.
I grin at the memory of him folding them up and tucking them into his back pocket.
He told me he’d put them on his fridge, and for all I know, he was lying.
But he didn’t throw them out, and once he even smiled at the portrait I’d done of him and his favorite horse.
He was probably the closest I’d ever come to having a friend at that house.
Levi reminds me of him. He makes me want to earn the soft smiles he doles out in moments like this. They’re rare little sketches of hope I want in my back pocket.
If I’m honest, I don’t hate him. Not really. This would all be easier if I did.