“No . . . he checked out. Tyke, please.”
His eyes flash and he looks over me again. “What sort of piece of shit ass calls a girl daft? Especially a girl like you.”
Tears burn once more.
“Probably because I am,” I whisper.
Tyke flinches and his eyes flood with pain. “Pippa,” he says, his voice thick. “Don’t you ever fuckin’ say something like that again.”
I drop my eyes to the floor, and his hand returns to my chin, tilting it back up. “Look at me, darlin’.”
I look at him.
“Don’t you ever let anyone make you feel like that. You’re not daft, you’re not stupid—you’re fucking amazing and beautiful, and so damned special anyone would be lucky to have you. Do you understand me?”
He thinks I’m beautiful?
God. He thinks I’m beautiful.
I nod, unable to do anything else.
“Good, baby. Now let’s go inside, because my legs are fucking killing me.”
Baby.
He called me baby.
And beautiful.
I’m stuck to the ground for a long moment, so long he has to call my name to gain my attention once more. I stumble forward and unlock the door, then I push it open and rush in. I have a decent sized two-bedroom apartment just up the street from Maddox’s house. The guys all pitched in and got it for me so I could have my own space. There was only so long I wanted to live with Santana and Maddox for. I didn’t want them to forever feel like they had to keep me at their house. They needed their space, too. Though they never said it.
I flick on the kitchen light and Tyke comes in behind me. He’s limping and I know his legs are hurting, so I instantly point to the tiny sofa that was donated by Mack and Jaylah. “Sit, Tyke. Your legs look like they’re hurting.”
He gives me a pained expression and sits on the couch, sighing with relief. “Yeah, you could say that.”
I open the fridge and get him a beer—I always keep them for him—and then I get myself a soda. I walk over and sit down beside him, handing him the cool bottle. I’m used to spending time with Tyke after my shift, even though most don’t end until nearly midnight. It doesn’t seem to bother him, and so it doesn’t bother me, either. “How’re you going with all the recovery exercises?”
He grunts, taking a mouthful of his beer. When he’s swallowed it, he turns to me. “Those are what is causing so much fuckin’ grief. They hurt more than they help, I’m sure of it.”
I narrow my eyes. “That’s probably just a part of the recovery.”
“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “Probably.”
“Do you want some, ah, ice or something?”
He gives me a stunning half-smile. “No, darlin’, I’m fine.”
I nod, looking down at my lap. “I should shower. It’s really late.”
When he doesn’t answer, I look back up and his eyes are studying my face. “How’re things really going, Pip?”
“Fine,” I say quickly. Too quickly.
I don’t honestly know how things are for me. I have people around me that love me, a job, a home, food in my belly, yet I’m struggling to feel like I belong in the world. I feel different, strange even. I wonder if I’m ever going to fit in.
“You’re tellin’ me lies,” he says, reaching over and cupping my jaw. “What’s goin’ on, Pip?”
“Nothing, Tyke,” I say, pulling my chin from his grasp.
I am lying.
There’s so much going on.
I’m desperate to change, but I don’t know where to start. I want friends, I want a life, I want someone to love me . . . I want that someone to be Tyke, more than anything in this world. Yet it’ll never happen. He’ll never see me as anything more than the sister he never had. The broken girl he needs to fix. The desperate friend he can’t walk away from in fear of breaking her.
We don’t really have fun—he’s just always with me because he feels sorry for me. He’s my friend, but he never takes me to do anything. Is he ashamed of me? I wouldn’t blame him.
“I want a life, Tyke,” I whisper, staring at my hands. “I want friends . . . I want to go out and learn how to have fun. I don’t want to be so sad all the time. I want . . .”
I look away.
“What, little one?”
“I want to fall in love. I want to get married. I want to have babies and be happy . . .”
Tyke’s jaw is tight when he stares at me. “I didn’t know you wanted those things . . . I thought . . .”
He looks away.
“I’m a person, Tyke,” I say, so softly I don’t even know if he hears me. “Of course I want those things.”
He nods and looks back to me. “Then have them, Pippa.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
I swallow and weak pathetic tears well up in my eyes. “Because I’m different. Nobody wants different, Tyke.”
“That’s not true, darlin’.”
“It is true,” I cry, looking up at him.
“Hey,” he says, gently cupping my cheek. “I like different, baby. Do you hear me? I like different.”
He does.
Oh God, he does?
“Y . . . y . . . y . . . you do?”
“Fuck yeah.”
A tear trickles down my cheek and he gently wipes it off. “Now, go and have a shower. Then come and sit with me a while longer; I’ve missed your company.”
I nod. “Okay.”
I get up and rush off to the shower, feeling my heart swelling with something unfamiliar. I’ve never experienced anything like it, but it’s a feeling I like a great deal. It feels a whole lot like hope, and I pray, God do I pray, that that’s what it is.
I shower quickly, then I pull on a pair of pajama bottoms and a light blue tank top, and rush back out to where Tyke is propped up on my couch, watching my tiny television. When I sit beside him, he turns and his eyes flare with something I’m unfamiliar with. He looks away quickly, and mutters, “Nothin’ good on.”
“Tyke,” I say hesitantly.
He looks to me. “Yeah?”
“Will you read to me?”
I don’t know how to read awfully well. I’ve learned the basics, but it’s not enough for me to read novels, or poems, both of which I love. Tana spent night after night reading novels to me when I came back. I miss that. Tyke writes poems, though he claims they’re not poems, they’re just words. I love listening to him read them to me—they soothe my soul. They make me feel as though I’m connecting with him on a whole new level.
Tyke studies me. “C’mon, Pip, you know I hate reading those things.”
“But why?” I ask, crinkling up my nose. “You write them. How could you be ashamed of them?”
“They’re just words.”
“They’re more than that to me.”
He studies me, then sighs, patting his lap. I allow myself to give a shy smile, then, with a pounding heart, I lower myself so my head is resting on his lap. His fingers move to my forehead and gently graze across it before sifting through my hair. He does this for a while, and my eyes start growing heavy. Then he shifts, shuffles about, and starts reading in a husky, gentle voice.
There’s no longer a reason to fight, there’s no longer a need to breathe,
If she can’t see me, then I can no longer be.
Her hair, her smile, she makes living worthwhile.
Through the darkness, through the light, her soul ignites.
When will you see me, broken angel? When will you shine your love?
When will you take my hands, and make breathing easier?
When will you understand I’m incomplete without you?
Broken angel, oh broken angel, let me fix your beauty,
Let me strengthen your soul; let me be the reason you never dissolve.
My eyes flutter closed as Tyke’s soft voice takes over my senses. His fingers in my hair, the warmth radiating from his leg to my cheek, his intoxicating smell—a
ll of it wraps me in a blanket warmer than anything money could ever buy. My body sinks further and further, until a peaceful darkness takes over. It takes over before I can fully make out the last words he breathes, but in my dreams, those words are clear. “Sleep, my beautiful broken angel.”
I’m his broken angel.
I can only dream.
CHAPTER THREE
THEN – Pippa
I’m not hungry. I’ve gone beyond hungry. The angry twisting in my belly has disappeared as my body starts taking what’s left on my bones. My eyes are sinking, my hair is dull, and my hip and rib bones have started to protrude from my skin as ugly reminders of the life I’ve been handed. My body is numb; my mind has closed down. I’m living each day in the pure hope that one day I’ll see my sister again.
She’s the only reason I’m fighting.
“Stop moving forward!”
I jerk and turn my head to see Rainer behind me. He’s another slave, and he’s angry. I’m always paired with him, and it’s becoming harder and harder to deal with. He’s around twenty-four, maybe more, and even though he seems bitter, he’s a handsome man. He’s got dark, messy hair and the blackest eyes I’ve ever seen. His body is big, muscled and bronzed. He looks as if he’s worked hard in his life.
Growing impatient with my lack of direction, he shoves me forward and I stumble, unable to take a step, and fall face-first into the ground. The hard, scratchy dirt glides like tiny razor blades over my hands and face, and I cry out in pain.
My feet, which are bound together by chains and joined to Rainer’s, refuse to help me back up. I struggle up, coughing from the dry dust filling my lungs. I manage to slide to my knees and stand on wobbly legs. My face is bleeding—so are my knees and hands. My heart aches and I turn to stare at Rainer, who has ignored my fall and is tending to the tobacco crops.
He doesn’t care. And why should he? I’m nobody to him. I’m just a slave, no different to the rest. No more special. If I felt the urge to cry, I would do it, but crying is something I don’t often do. It gets me nowhere, and it wastes good, solid energy.
I lick my dry lips and get back to work, despite my broken skin. It hurts, but I don’t complain. Complaining only ensures I don’t get fed, and I can’t afford that.
“I can’t take it anymore!”
The screaming comes from my left, where a young girl, who only arrived two weeks ago, is dragging her partner across the lawn, stumbling, as he tries to inch closer to the house. She’s waving her hands, which are the only things that are free, and screaming at the top of her lungs. Artreau appears on the porch of the massive home and stares at her.
She doesn’t stop. She leads her partner, who is now crawling desperately behind her, legs bound together. She throws her hands up and yells, “You can’t do this; it’s barbaric. I’d rather die than spend the rest of my life as your slave.”
Artreau’s face pinches and he storms down the patio, reaching into his jacket. He pulls out a gun and everyone stops, each body no doubt doing the same as mine—going stone cold. He stalks towards her, pointing the gun at her head. She doesn’t stop, and I wonder if she wants him to shoot her.
“Get back to work. You won’t get another warning,” he roars at her.
“I don’t want another warning,” she yells, “because I’m not going to go back to work. You can’t make me do this. I’m starving, and thirsty, and I’ve lost so much weight I can see my damned bones. I won’t do it. You can’t be allowed to get away with this.”
Artreau smiles and my heart stops beating for a second as he pushes the gun into her forehead. “I can, and I will.”
Then he pulls the trigger.
I open my mouth to scream but Rainer’s hand clasps around my face, stopping me. Those tears I swore I don’t shed, trickle down my cheeks. Blood and gore splatter and the poor, struggling boy on the ground behind her starts to cry. Artreau points the gun at his head, now. “Do you all see what happens to those who defy me?” he roars. “I told you once, and I’ll only repeat myself this one time. You’re here until your debts are paid off. The action of one is the action of the other. In this case, the actions of this girl will be the actions of her partner.”
He pulls the trigger and shoots the boy she was attached to. My knees buckle, but Rainer holds me up. I don’t know why he’s holding me up—probably so I don’t do something stupid and get him killed too. Artreau tucks his gun away, and his eyes scan over all of us. They fall on me, and fear seizes my chest. Is he going to kill me for crying? He doesn’t, instead he smiles and then says. “Now, you two,” he points to me and then to Rainer, and then he kicks one of the dead bodies in front of him. “Clean this up.”
The minute he reaches the house, I lean over and vomit.
~*~*~*~
NOW - Pippa
I wake panting. My fingers instinctively go out and clutch the empty space beside me. No one is there. No one is ever there. Once, there was someone who was there. I’ve never told anyone about Rainer, because he’s a part of my life that I haven’t been willing to share. We developed a strong bond. He hated me to begin with, but after we endured the hell we did, something changed between us.
I push up, my hands trembling as I lift them and run them through my hair. I glance at my clock—it’s 9.30 a.m. I slept past my usual time, and each time I do that, I end up having nightmares. It’s as if my body knows I shouldn’t be sleeping, as if it’s been drilled into my head that I need to be up at a certain hour. I rub my arms a few times, and then climb out of bed.
I want to do something today—anything. I need to venture outside of these walls, outside of my comfort zone. My therapist, who I have moved on to only seeing once a fortnight, has encouraged me to join a group so I can make some friends. I want to . . . I just don’t know where to start. I have an idea, however, and decide to give it a go.
I reach for my phone and find the number Sofie gave me last night before I came home. Swallowing down the anxiety bubbling in my chest, I text her.
Pippa: Hi Sofie. I know it’s your day off, too. Did you want to do something? Pippa.
My face is clammy and my hands are shaking as I place the phone down and just stare at it. I do this until it pings with a response. My heart jumps into my throat and I can’t reach for my phone fast enough.
Sofie: Pippa! Hey! Sure, I’d love to do something. What did you have in mind?
I breathe a sigh of relief, and a big smile creeps across my face. Maybe this won’t be as hard as I’d first thought.
Pippa: I’m new around here. What do you think?
I’m not new around here, but I haven’t been out and about so have absolutely no idea what there is to do. Sofie has lived here all her life; she’s more likely to have a better idea.
Sofie: If you’re up for it, I’d love to go to the beach. There’s a great cafe right on the water we can have lunch at after we’re done?
My heart skips a beat. I’ve not been to the beach since I was a little child.
Pippa: Sounds great. Shall I meet you there?
Sofie: I can come by and grab you. What’s your address?
I give her my address and we plan a time. Then I have the task of finding something beach-appropriate to wear. I’ve never been in a bathing suit and I’ve never had a friend, so I am honestly at a loss. I open my closet and go through the clothes Santana and I got when I first returned home.
There’s a yellow summer dress that ties up behind the neck and flows down to about knee height. That seems beachy. I grab it out and then find a dark one-piece bathing suit that’s never been worn. It’s a little too revealing, but maybe I can just keep my dress on. Deciding on this, I get changed and then search for a hat. I find a big, floppy white one and frown. I’m going to look stupid.
My phone dings and I glance down at it. Tyke.
Tyke: Morning little one. How did you sleep? I had to put you to bed.
I smile. I woke in my bed, so I figured Tyke put me there last night when I fell as
leep listening to his soulful voice.
Pippa: I’m good, I slept well. I’m going to the beach with Sofie today.
Tyke: Who is Sofie?
Pippa: A girl I work with. I’m nervous.
Tyke: Don’t be; you’ll be great.
Pippa: I’m calling. I need to keep moving.
I press his number and dial, and he answers on the first ring. His husky voice is exactly what I need to hear this morning.
“Hey, Pip.”
“Morning, Tyke.”
“So, the beach, eh?”
I laugh nervously. “Yeah. I haven’t been since I was little. I’m worried about what to wear.”
He chuckles. “Most people wear swimsuits.”
I flush. “I know, but, ah, I’ve never worn one.”
“Baby.” He chuckles. “You’ve never worn a swimsuit?”
My cheeks burn hotter. “Well, maybe when I was five.”
“You’ll do fine. Just find one you’re comfortable in.”
“That would be none. I have one, but I have put a dress over it. My hat is ugly.”
Another chuckle. “Nothing would look ugly on you.”
Right.
Of course he would say that.
I open my mouth to answer but I hear a voice in the background.
“Baby, I’ve been calling all morning.”
Andi.
My heart clenches as I hear her smack a kiss to Tyke. The sound travelling through my phone makes my soul burn with jealousy. I’ve thought many times about kissing Tyke, and she can do it whenever she wants.
“Who’s on the phone? Wrap it up. I need you right now,” she croons, in a sexy voice that only indicates one thing.
Oh. My. Gosh.
I hang up – I don’t think, I just do. My phone vibrates a minute later but I can’t bring myself to answer it. Instead I put it on silent and shove it in my purse. I need you. I need you. I need you. I know what she meant, I know they do that, but thinking about it burns my heart. It rips right into the very core of me.
I try to push it out of my mind as I pull on my floppy hat and find a pair of flip-flops. The honking of a horn alerts me to the fact that Sofie is here and I’m wasting time. I grab my purse and then rush out the door.