Chapter 21
MARLENA
Ican see my father clearly. He’s standing at the edge of a pier, and I’m running toward him. I reach out, but the closer I get, the further away I am.
I see someone with a knife approaching him. I can’t make out the attacker’s face. It seems familiar, and I wonder if I can just rip off the veil covering his features, if I’ll be able to recognize him.
He takes a swing at my father, but instead of fighting back, my father just stands there. As I watch, the man with the knife beats him into the ground. Then he straddles my father’s body and starts stabbing away.
I scream. No matter what I do, I can’t get to him.
It feels like my hands are tied, and I’m forced to watch from the sidelines.
When the police showed me that photo of my father’s head, I knew it was bad.
But this is worse, much worse. Now that I know who was responsible and why, my imagination fills in the details.
I feel like I’m living a nightmare I can’t wake up from.
There’s something on my chest that feels like a weight holding me down. My arms are immobile, like I’m chained. I stand at the edge of the pier, watching my father’s murder, helpless to stop it.
“Marlena,” someone whispers.
I thrash about, struggling against the chains holding me down.
“Marlena,” comes that voice again, calm and reassuring.
I open my eyes, gasping for air, stunned to find myself in bed. There is no pier, and my father is gone. It was only in my mind. The room is dark, but I know instantly where I am. I’m in Francisco’s house, in the fancy suite he gave me just down the hall from his own.
I panic, not knowing who is talking to me. I don’t want anyone to see me in bed, or to witness how crazy I’m acting. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s Francisco who’s come to my rescue.
“Easy,” he says, stroking my hair. “You were having a bad dream.”
I exhale, relaxing into the sensations. He may have seen me, but he’s not judging me. I suffer through a pinprick of anxiety when I remember our agreement not to have sex. He shouldn’t be in my bedroom so late at night. It’s not conducive to a platonic relationship.
But I toss that thought away as soon as it comes. I’m desperate, I’m shaken, and I need a friend.
I sit up and throw my arms around him. I don’t care if this is beyond the scope of our arrangement. I can feel my heartbeat slowing. The drama of the nightmare scene is retreating. I’m in the real world, and Francisco is doing everything in his power to keep me safe.
He is caught off guard by the ferocity of my need. He teeters on the edge of the bed and has to sit up for a second before rejoining me. I inch away, giving him space to sit down, and then I fall right back into his arms.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asks, holding me tight.
“It was my father,” I gasp. “I saw him being murdered.”
“It’s okay,” he whispers, “I’m right here. I won’t let that happen to you.”
I settle down, realizing that is what I’m worried about. Call me selfish, but I know my father is already dead. I don’t want to go through what he did. I don’t want my father’s enemies to torture me.
It takes me a long time to relax. If Francisco hadn’t been there, I’m sure I would have been up wandering the halls. But he’s just so solid and real, I can’t imagine having nightmares while he’s around.
I give up worrying about the optics of sharing the bed. He’s not making a move on me, so it doesn’t really count. He’s just holding me, gesturing that he cares. I appreciate it more than he can possibly know.
Finally, I doze, though I don’t entirely fall asleep. There are no more dreams, just a sumptuous few hours where I don’t have to worry about danger or time. I don’t see him leave, but when I finally wake, I’m holding a pillow instead.
I can’t help but feel disappointed. Of course, I can’t ask him to sleep with me if all we’re going to do is sleep.
He’s a man. I know he’s got needs. But I really enjoyed cuddling him.
It chased all the demons away and allowed me to drift between reality and sleep in a way I hadn’t before.
I wonder if I can find a way to work that chore into our agreement.
Maybe some language like: Francisco will make himself available as a pillow whenever Marlena wants to go to bed.
I laugh at myself. To most people, Francisco is as threatening as the man wielding the knife in my nightmare. I know he’s not a teddy bear. But for me, he’s pulling out all the stops, and that’s impressive.
I stretch and climb out of bed. Grabbing a robe, I tie it tight around my waist. It’s not one of mine; Francisco has given it to me with the room. It’s silk and feels expensive. I think I look like a mafia wife with my hair down as I pad through my living room and out into the hall.
My bodyguard is there, sitting next to the door. I’m not sure how long he’s been there, hopefully not overnight. I experience a momentary surge of pity for the man, having obviously drawn the short straw to get stuck sitting outside my door all the time. But I guess that’s his job.
I smile at him, and he gets up to follow me down the hall.
I don’t even mind my shadow. It feels like a warm blanket, not one that holds me down but one that keeps me safe.
I appreciate all the lengths that Francisco is going to on my behalf.
He doesn’t have to marry me. He’s doing it in part to help me move past my father’s murder.
I’ve been on the run so long that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be home.
This place, this mansion, even though I haven’t been here for very long, feels like mine.
The bathrobe helps. I’m the queen of the castle, the one woman who’s allowed to walk around like she owns the place.
And I’m going to take advantage of that.
I go to the kitchen and find one of Francisco’s soldiers nosing through the refrigerator. He looks up, a little bit startled. I give him a nod, and he backs off. My bodyguard takes a seat at the island, content to stay as long as I want him to.
I decide that coffee is in order. There’s a pot already brewed, so I pour myself a cup. I could get used to this. I might even want a muffin or some pancakes. I wonder if there are ingredients to make such things, or if the assembled delicacies are just going to appear like the coffee did.
“Can I help you find anything, ma’am?” Francisco’s soldier asks.
“No, I’m fine,” I say. I don’t want to interfere with their duties. I’m sure Francisco keeps them on a tight leash.
“We’ve got orange juice and muffins in here,” the man says, pulling the items out of the fridge to demonstrate.
I shake my head in disbelief. I was just thinking about a muffin and there they are, materialized as if I willed them into being. I take one and sit down opposite my bodyguard. This is one of the most decadent breakfasts I’ve had in a while.
“Where is Francisco?” I ask the man who was digging in the fridge.
“In his office,” the man answers.
I sip my coffee and nibble on the muffin, content to let things stay that way.
I can always thank Francisco for coming to my rescue later.
I don’t have a job to go to or any responsibilities ahead of me.
I think maybe I’ll explore the house a little further.
I could play a game of pool in the billiard room, or take a look at the books in the library.
It feels like a magical place full of interesting activities, and I’m excited to browse them all.
But then my phone rings. I look down at the caller ID and I see that it’s Brandon. Swallowing the bite of muffin I was working on, I hold the phone to my ear.
“Brandon,” I say cheerfully. I can’t wait to fill him in on everything that’s been going on.
With all the excitement, I haven’t told him what Francisco agreed to.
I hope Brandon will be okay with his own bodyguard.
I’m getting used to mine fairly quickly, but I’m not a college student.
It’s likely that some of Brandon’s friends might wonder why he needs a bodyguard, but I tell myself we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. What matters is that Brandon is safe.
Yet as soon as my brother speaks, I know that isn’t the case.
“Marlena!” he screams.
I drop my coffee mug, sending a rush of brown liquid across the counter. “Brandon?”
“Marlena! Help!” my brother shouts.
In the background, I can hear feet pounding the pavement. Brandon is out of breath, and I think that means he’s running. I hear a car horn blast and a passerby shouting. And then the call cuts off, and I’m left with a dead phone in my hand.
Frantically, I try to call him back, but the call goes straight to voicemail. I glance up at my bodyguard. He’s looking at the coffee, probably wondering if we should clean it up. But then he sees my face and realizes that’s not important.
I don’t even tell him what’s going on. Instead, I turn and dash through the house until I come to Francisco’s office door.