5. Due
Chapter 5
Due
Winnie
I stumble after Christophe, barely escaping a full face plant on the gravel of the drive only because he catches me. Not a sweet, romantic catch, but utilitarian and efficient. Utterly powerful and in control.
My head is spinning with everything that is happening today.
It was supposed to be a simple burial. That’s all I had on my to-do list today—that’s it. But my entire day has been flipped upside down and somehow, I ended up being kidnapped. Because there is no doubt in my mind that’s exactly what this is. I’m here, at what has to be his house, for the first time ever and it’s entirely against my will.
Christophe drags me up the gray stone steps flanked on either side by concrete lions, through a massive dark wood door and into his house.
Silence hangs between us for as long as I can stand it, and then all of my simmering questions come tumbling free.
“Where are we? What…what are you doing to Tru? Where is she?”
Concern for my friend’s safety battles hard with my concern for her current state of mind. She’s…delicate. Damaged and lost in the darkness of the demons that have haunted her since before she was taken.
Maybe it’s foolish of me not to be more concerned for myself, because I’m obviously in some deep shit here.
Foolish of me, but I’m also more than a little bit intrigued. I don’t even know how much there is to unpack from this whole experience, but now is not the time to figure that out.
I can handle this—whatever this is.
“Teague’s taking care of her. She’s fine,” he says, tilting his head in my direction.
My cheeks flush, definitely in anger this time, and a small muscle in my jaw jumps as I clench my teeth and turn, straining to look out the window at the long driveway disappearing into the trees.
“Where? Her safety, her security is being with me,” I inform him. “They turned. Why didn’t they follow us? Where is he taking her?” Panic leaches into my voice.
“They’re coming here, to my house—eventually. Miss Cochonette will have her own private suite and will be well attended. I assure you, she is fine.”
“But—”
He pulls the sunglasses from his face and tosses them on the table in the center of the foyer. The clatter draws my attention back inside.
Dark wood bathes the walls in moody light and masculinity. Dark floors are covered in even darker rugs, the whole thing screams villainous hideaway or the devil’s lair.
I should be scared.
I should be shaking in my cheap thrift-store shoes.
Honestly, I should be shitting my pants.
He narrows his eyes at me. “And we don’t want an audience while we discuss your current situation. Your first installment is due immediately.”
He turns and stalks into the room to the left of the foyer and if I thought the entryway was dark and moody, this room is downright intimidating. It feels like the kind of room scary deals are made in, murders plotted, and the coverup tasks assigned. Like maybe I should be looking for a roll of plastic sheeting tucked into a corner to wrap up the bodies of a meeting gone bad.
Christophe reaches for a whiskey decanter and splashes some of the amber liquid into a cut crystal tumbler.
“Installment?” I ask warily.
“Your debt. It has to be paid.” He lifts the glass to his mouth and the whisper of a memory tingles at the edge of my mind.
Once upon a time, those lips were pressed against mine. It was chaste, nothing more than an innocent brush, but it was a kiss that I stole. The memory of which I manipulated and twisted in my mind to make it something more.
I was young back then. I was definitely foolish, but I was just a child playing at a game I had no business messing with. It was a lot of years ago, almost a lifetime.
I’m not sure much has changed. Now, I’m in way over my head with this new version of Christophe. Because this game, his business, and the reasons my parents were in his debt are, without a doubt, no good.
My mind whirs with thoughts and ideas on how to navigate this, but the problems are packed in tight like a dense forest that won’t allow for even a single ray of sunlight to filter through to the ground. The whole thing feels impossibly hopeless.
I release a breath, praying that the tremor of nerves is hidden yet knowing full well that it’s there for the world to see. Not the world, Christophe. Nothing escaped his notice when we were kids, I don’t know why I think that might have changed.
“My purse is in my car. As soon as your friend gets here with Tru, I’ll give you everything I have. It’s not much, but it’s yours. And my job—you can have my paycheck, my tips, all of it. I just need enough to feed Tru and me. And a little for gas, the house is paid off.”
It’s doable. My escape from this town will just take a little bit longer to come to fruition, but I’ve survived this long. A few more months—a year—won’t make that big of a difference. And then we’ll be free.
A dark chuckle pulls me back from my errant thoughts.
“That’s not going to work.”
“What do you mean it’s not going to work?” I throw my hands out to either side, incredulous. “It’s money. I’ll give you as much as I can until the stupid debt is paid in full. However long that takes.”
Christophe turns to face me, leaning back against the edge of his desk, feet crossed at the ankles. “What kind of money do you think we’re talking about here? What do you do, make lattes and frappés? Wait tables?”
I shift my weight, my hip popping and attitude rising. When I notice his lifted brow, I stand straight again, ignoring the pinch of my toes in the higher-than-normal stilettos I’m wearing. I’m more of a cute boots and sneakers kind of girl, but you know, funerals and all.
“There is nothing wrong with waiting tables.” My retort falls flat in the expansive study. It’s so big, there would be an echo if not for the thick rugs and plush furnishings scattered about the space.
“With interest, you’d never get your head above water,” he says simply. “Tens of thousands, Winnie. Compounding daily. Think big. And that’s not even taking into account the greater issue.”
Holy shit, this is bad. Really bad. “Why? What…” I let the question fade into nothingness, because I know. Deep down, I’ve always known that my parents used drugs. Eventually, I knew they had a serious problem. Parties, empty pantry, missed school events. Even as a child, I knew there was more than forgetfulness to blame for their shortcomings. “The house. You can have their house. That should cover what they owe, right? And the club. I don’t want anything to do with that place.” The tension in my shoulders eases at the prospect.
“Seriously?”
“Absolutely. Take them both and we’ll call this good.” Relief is short-lived.
“I own both the house and their business outright,” he says coolly. “What else have you got for me?”
I’m dumbfounded.
I had no idea about…well…any of this. Holy shit, what am I going to do? My gaze darts around the room, looking for an escape, a way out that just doesn’t seem to exist.
“I have nothing.” Not a fucking thing to my name. Hell, I’m actually homeless now, because I can’t go back to the house I grew up in knowing it’s really his.
“Surely you can think of something you have that someone might find of value.” He rakes his gaze down my body, caressing every inch of me, every curve, before reversing the route and meeting the panic in my eyes.
“Nothing. I don’t have anything to give you,” I say again. There’s really no way out of this. I’m stuck. Even in death, my parents have fucked me over.
His head tilts and dips to the side, almost coy, like he knows something I don’t. Which, let’s be honest, I feel like I’m three steps behind him and falling further back the longer this conversation goes on.
“Come here,” he says, taking another sip from his glass.
I take a tentative step forward.
“Closer.”
Another step.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Winifred. Come. To. Me.”
I flinch, not just at his tone, though that’s enough to send a shiver down my spine, but the use of my full name again. I hate it.
“I hate everything about that name,” I say. “You never used to call me that.” My voice is small. Weak. Bumbling. “You used to call me Winn when we were kids. What happened to you?”
He huffs a laugh, but it’s not a happy one. This laugh is sad. Angry. Full of nothing but discontent.
“More than you can imagine. You wouldn’t believe the shit I’ve been through since I last saw you in the woods,” he says. “But I was never a kid, Winnie—not really. I wasn’t allowed the luxury of having a real childhood. Any freedom I knew, any carefree moments, all happened in those woods with a little girl who had the sweetest disposition and honey-blonde braids. Your innocence is the only thing I ever experienced that hinted at what a childhood was supposed to be. You and those goddamn woods were my escape from the shitstorm of my reality.”
My head snaps back like I’ve been slapped. “You think you had a shit childhood? You’re kidding me, right? How many times did you get shoved out of the house so you didn’t disturb your parents’ parties? How many times did you stuff your feet into shoes that were torn and two sizes too small? Did you ever go to bed hungry?” An angry laugh huffs free as flames of embarrassment crawl up my neck, heating my cheeks. “Tell me…how many times did you run to your room, looking for an escape, a safe place to lock yourself away, only to find a stranger passed out on your bed? Or better yet, fucking on it? Huh? How many times, Christophe?”
Memories flood back in of all the times I escaped from that fucked up life, running through the woods. Curling up with a threadbare blanket under our tree, praying that Christophe would be there. Knowing that, even in the summer, there was no way he would know to come, that he never knew how much I needed those few precious weeks each summer to pretend that my life was okay.
Tears sting at my eyes, threatening to fall. It’s sheer will that keeps them from spilling and trailing down my face. Years and years of neglect and need instilled a stubborn streak in me that is still a mile wide. And if this is a dick measuring contest with Christophe Robicheaux, it’s one I’m going to win.
Emotion swirls in his eyes—anger maybe, or remorse—before they go cold and hard again. Nothing like not addressing the elephant, not even hiding in plain sight. No, this one is sitting right in the middle of everything in a hot pink tutu with streamers raining down on it.
He pushes off the desk and obliterates the space between us, much like he did the last time I saw him. Only then, he really was smiling. Now though, it seems like the world is pressing down on him, a black cloud just over his shoulder casting him in ominous shadow.
He’s so close I can feel him brush against me with each inhaled breath. His broad, muscled chest grazing against me has my core tightening and my nipples drawing into tight peaks.
He lifts the glass of whiskey and drains half the contents all while keeping me captive in his steely stare. The intensity of his ice-blue eyes is almost overwhelming. I should be shaking in my wannabe Louboutins. The only reason I’m not, is because I didn’t want to waste the money on red paint to cover the soles of my cheap shoes. Make no mistake, though, I am absolutely shaking.
Nerves. Excitement. Anticipation.
Unexpected thoughts race through my head, spinning and whirling until my brain is a muddled, sticky pile of goo.
Why is he so close?
Is he going to kiss me?
Do I want him to?
The last question is the only one I can answer and that is a resounding yes. The jolt of that realization is enough to make me jerk away from Christophe. And as much as that doesn’t make a lick of sense, his reaction to my move is…everything.
His free hand darts out and he cups the back of my head, holding me in place. My scalp stings, dancing on the edge of pain as he weaves his fingers through my hair, locking my tresses in his fist.
I can’t move.
I don’t want to.
I want to live here, in the dark and shadows of this moment, breathing in this man. His scent of sandalwood and whiskey. His confidence. The danger and intrigue that swirl around him in a haze so thick, it wraps around us like mist in the woods.
My first crush.
The last person I thought I’d ever see again.