8. Maeve
CHAPTER 8
MAEVE
Eyes rest on me. I try my hardest to escape them, but I never find a safe place to hide.
Sweaty hands grab me, and I thrash as hard as I can to get away. Just when I think I’m free, they catch me again.
A scream lodges in my throat.
Help , I try to shout, but there’s only silence.
My limbs stick in place like a bag of sand anchors each leg.
I cry, but even my tears dry before they touch my cheeks.
Right as I’m sure that I’m about to choke to death on my own fear, that scream breaks free, and I can breathe again.
“Maeve! Maeve, wake up!” a voice beside me shouts as strong arms shake me.
My eyelids fly open, the bright overhead light burning my retinas as they attempt to adjust to the sudden shift. My eyes slam back closed, the brightness like knives. My disorientation takes longer than normal to fade. These dreams aren’t uncommon, but I usually wake in my apartment. This is not my apartment, and I am not alone.
With a sudden click, I realize Diego is on top of me, and the night comes rushing back to me. The car chase, them following me after rehearsal, arriving here and finding that Miss Angie… Fuck, that was real.
Strong hands hold my shoulders in place. His heat presses into my body like it did on the floor, and adrenaline pumps through my system just the same. Being in this position with him repeatedly is starting to mess with my perception—the muscles and tattoos don’t help either. The images on his arm are the first things I see when I finally look at him.
“What the fuck was that, Maeve?” He’s angry, maybe even frightened, and I have the presence of self to be embarrassed.
I was screaming in my sleep again.
A frown pushes his thick eyebrows together. His bare chest hovers above mine. He ditched his shirt to sleep. At least above the waist, every inch of skin is covered in tattoos.
I avert my eyes once again, fighting a pathetic blush, and they land on the blanket I threw away while thrashing with my nightmares. His eyes burn my skin. The weight steals the oxygen from the rest of the house. Only inches are between us, but his hand falls from my shoulders to my chest when I try to change positions.
“Settle down.” His palm warms my skin, sinking into my heart and drawing a faster beat.
“I’m settled. Just had a bad dream.” My chin tips up ever so slightly.
“You were screaming, Maeve," he accuses.
“I’m sorry, I’ll go back to sleep now. I’m fine.”
The lies slip past my lips so easily. Sleep and I won’t be companions anytime soon. Twelve hours of peace seemed like a fair ask after everything, but that isn’t going to happen now.
“What were you dreaming about?”
This position is so similar to my dream, hands on me, someone stronger than me in a position of power, but the tone differs.
“Can you get off me, please? I’m clearly awake and aware.”
I shift my weight, further hinting for him to move.
“Maybe I like being on top of you.”
The blush deepens several shades.
“Let me up.”
“Tell me what you were dreaming about.”
I finally meet his gaze as I say, “I was wearing last season’s shoes at the Sinclair Gala.”
His nostrils flare. “Maeve.”
I arch an eyebrow. “After that, I went to an after-party, and my credit card was declined at the bar.”
If he thinks he knows me so well, let him think I haven’t changed a bit. His expression hardens.
“Oh really? That’s why you’re screaming ‘ help’ at the top of your lungs?”
“I didn’t get to the really scary part yet.”
His jaw stiffens as he waits.
“My favorite bakery ran out of donuts.”
“You don’t eat fucking donuts. You’re too skinny.”
I’ve had enough of this, and I push his chest as hard as I can. He relents but only sits beside me on the couch, barely giving me any more space than when he was on top of me.
“Whatever you want, Diego. My nightmares are about whatever you want.”
A sly smile coils on his cheek. “You have no idea.”
“I’m not in a mood for whatever this is.” I gesture aggressively between us.
“What are you in the mood for?” he asks, his suggestive tone still thick between us.
“Sleep, believe it or not.” My body only slightly disagrees with me, too exhausted to work up more than a mild flush for him.
“Not,” he says after a long minute.
I don’t respond, and the silence stretches, and of course, I give first.
“I had a bad dream, and I’m exhausted. You told me I could sleep here, so let me.”
He doesn’t move an inch, and I worry he’s stopped listening.
“You know, Maeve, in my line of work, I get to know many liars.”
I throw an arm over my eyes to block him out and get some rest. I’ve had enough.
“Don’t care. I’m going back to sleep.”
“Liars always have a tell.”
Listening to a lecture is what I deserve for coming here and interrupting his night , I remind myself.
“Oh yeah? What do you do that you work with all these liars?”
“I’m a mechanic,” he says, and I pull my arm off my face.
“Yeah, and I’m a car thief.” I don’t know why I say it, but I regret speaking immediately.
My heart beats too hard, but luckily, he just laughs. No one would believe Maeve Sinclair steals anything, let alone cars.
“It doesn’t really matter what I do, but I know you’re lying to me,” he says in a low voice.
In my line of freelance work, I know a lot of men who drop their voice that low to intimidate someone. It rarely works with me, but this hits. I sit up, hug my legs, and make myself small and dumb.
“When did I ever lie to you?” So many times already.
“What were you dreaming about, Maeve? What’s got you so damn scared you ran to a woman you haven’t seen in years for a place to stay? Screaming in the middle of the night like someone is murdering you?”
I shake my head. “My life is small and privileged. My nightmares aren’t important.”
His eyes are too warm at times, like hot springs you’re warned not to bathe in. They pull me in, trying to comfort and lull me, but the heat might be my end. The depths of them frighten me.
“They matter to me.”
The weight of his words crushes me, and I curl myself tighter to avoid the havoc he’s playing on my heart.
“I’m not scared of anything that matters to anyone, Diego.”
His hand closes around my ankle, palm rough against my skin. His hands are so calloused that for a second, I see him as a mechanic.
“I know you’re here for a reason. You can’t go back home.”
His thumb massages the inside, right on a sensitive part, and I stifle my gasp. Half of me wants to pull away, while the other half wants to die by his hands.
“You’re scared,” he continues. “Screaming in your sleep. If you tell me what’s wrong, maybe I can help you.”
“Why would you want to?”
His thumb pauses for a second but keeps going.
“I didn’t expect you to ask that. The old Maeve wouldn’t have.”
“I’m not the old Maeve like I keep telling you.”
He pauses as he seems to believe me about that for the first time.
“I want to help you because I need something from you, and I see an opportunity for us both to find our way out of our problems.”
There’s a level of callous honesty that surprises me, something I trust far more than claiming altruistic motives. The problem is he’s being cryptic, and I’m too damn tired to riddle out innuendo.
“However you think I can help you, you’re wrong. I can’t.” I sigh, needing to release some of the frustration he’s building with his touch. “I can’t even help myself.”
“I would be the one to help you. I thought I made that clear.”
“Yes, Diego!” I nearly shout, getting to the point of exhaustion where it’s more like torture. “Something is happening, but I’m not going to tell you about it. I appreciate that you let me sleep here, and that’s all you need to know for now.”
The pressure on my ankle intensifies. “If my mom asked you to help me, would you tell her no?”
I flinch, the question cutting me deep. Miss Angie loved him more than anything or anyone else. He watches me, waiting for a reply as if the question was remotely fair.
“Yes.”
“I feel the same way about you.”
My heart beats faster. I don’t know what he wants or needs, but what he’s offering suddenly seems a thousand times more desirable. Can he actually help me, though? Is that possible? Miss Angie would want me to help him.
How could I ever tell the only person who I ever cared for that I grew up to be a car thief and a liar? That I wouldn’t help her only son?
“What if I tell you I have the type of problem a mechanic cannot fix?”
He tips his chin up. “What if I tell you that’s only one of the things I am?”
“What are you, then?”
“I’m a man looking to shore up his own position.”
“You’re being too damn vague.”
“That’s rich coming from a girl who can’t even share her nightmares.”
I look at the man in front of me, trying to find the boy who once lived in my house. The big brother type who never let me in too close despite how much I wanted a relationship. He’s so imposing now. Everything about him screams danger, but Miss Angie couldn’t have raised anything but a good man. I’m not afraid of him.
“Marry me,” he says so suddenly I almost miss it. “I can protect you from whatever you’re running from, and you can fix everything for me just by changing my tax status.”
I wait for the punchline before laughing, but when I do, I really take my time letting it out. Why the hell would I marry my ex-stepbrother? My wet panties excluded.
“That’s insane.”
“Wait a second,” he says, getting up and giving me the space to lie down fully.
Diego returns with a small black jewelry box and sits before opening it. I gasp, my hand flying over my mouth. The beautiful necklace Miss Angie wore every day rests in velvet lining—an arrow in white gold with a delicate diamond right at the tip.
I always admired it. It’s not just a piece of gorgeous jewelry but a beautiful blend of fierce and delicate. I asked her where she got it, and she always laughed and said it wasn’t important. The meaning was more important, but she never told me what it meant, and now I can’t ask.
“My mom would like me to help you. She loved you like a daughter. She would want you to help me.”
He pulls it out of the box, opening the clasp. I look at the necklace in his hand and back to his warm brown eyes. I wish I had paid more attention to financial things. Marriage gives you tax breaks, but what else could he need from me?
“What do you say, Maeve? Are you going to marry me?”
Is he telling me that’s the only way I’ll get the necklace? Why does that sweeten the deal?
“I don’t know.”
“This necklace was supposed to be given to my wife.”
That’s exactly what he’s saying.
He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He places the pendant against my chest and reaches behind me to clasp it on. He smells so good this close, and it makes everything more confusing.
A wave of pure grief takes over when I look down and see her necklace on me. The feelings I’m trying to repress barrel into me, and blow by blow, I’m taken to my knees.
First, the death of a dream when my enemies discovered me at the theater, and now, the death of the woman who allowed me to dream. Ballet was the only thing that felt right in a world of wrongs, and I have only myself to blame for that unfortunate ending. I can never go back to the life that I had. And I threw it all away for what?
Maybe to help her son? To repay her kindness to me?
At this moment, I want to promise myself that I’ll do better and make things right. That I’ll be the good girl I always pretended to be. But even as the thoughts form, I’m disappointed to realize I’m lying to myself too. Maybe Miss Angie is the only person left for me to do right by.
I’m reckless, and I’m far from good, but thankfully, Miss Angie never had to see what happened with the sweet ballerina she once knew. I’m grateful for this small mercy. I should help her son.
“I’ll protect you like she would. I’m going to honor her memory.”
He takes my hand, and fuck, it feels so good.
“I’m not pretending I love you, Maeve. I’m not claiming I’m your soulmate, but my mom would want us to help each other.”
Maybe I’m just as dumb as people think because suddenly, this is not the worst idea. A man like him has to be able to keep me hidden, right? I grip his hand in return. I know the bandage leaks blood while we hold on to each other.
A heavy moment passes, and I nod my head.
“Yes, I’ll marry you.”