Chapter 10
The door swung open and Brad stepped down into the cool interior of Derek’s condo. The dark Magenta theme and plush black leather chairs were characteristic of a typical bachelor’s dwelling. Hearing the door close behind him, he tossed the keys onto the glass centred end table, shrugged out of his jacket and dropped heavily onto the sofa.
“I take it you didn’t get much sleep last night?” Derek teased as he made his way stiffly toward him.
Brad nodded, “I didn’t think it was safe to shut my eyes with all those bearded weirdoes eye balling me.”
Derek chuckled, paused to ease himself onto the recliner, his braced neck immobile above his broad shoulders, then he chuckled again, his usually wide grin now tight and cautious.
“How are you feeling?”
Derek responded with a sigh, “constricted,” he said, wiggling his shoulders slowly.
“I’m sorry I dragged you into this man.”
Derek frowned, “I was the one who stepped up to the terminator, and I could’ve taken him too, just that he had the element of surprise.”
Brad chuckled, he was glad that the punch hadn’t marred his humour, he wasn’t sure how he felt about his untouched ego though, yet both were a vital part of who Derek was.
“By the way, what happened with him?” Derek asked.
Brad shrugged, “his superiors aren’t so pleased with how he handled the situation, their probably going to put him on a leash, one thing’s for certain, I’m going to have a hard time getting them on my side.”
He folded his hand behind his head and leaned back against the soft sofa back, closing his eyes with a dramatic sigh.
He was quite exhausted, having spent more than a night in a holding cell with four other bigger men, with scruffy beards, vicious, curious gazes, head ties and pocket rags. He’s stayed slumped against the wall opposite them, wary eyes trained on their restless, reeking figures. He hadn’t slept. Even when Camille came to get him that morning, he was still sitting on the cold floor, his head resting on his arms, balancing on his knees. They’d gone straight to the hospital to see Derek and wait for him to be discharged, and then she dropped them off here and hurried back to the office.
Derek got up to take a shower, leaving Brad lazing on the sofa in his wrinkled, smelly, stubbly state. Brad thought about his arrival that ended in disaster, he kept going over everything in his head, but he couldn’t see his overreaction, or remember exactly what he’d done during his fit of rage. What he did remember though was the look on his wife’s face. She had looked so confused and afraid, that he couldn’t help wondering if all of his suspicions might in fact be a figment of his imagination. But then there were all the other things that didn’t add up, like the fact that she was on the yacht with him yet she wasn’t hurt, she didn’t contact the police when she was safe, not to mention the very disturbing fact that she had hired the offensive man and his strong armed crew.
Derek found Brad sprawled out on the sofa, staring at the television unseeingly, a troubled expression on his swollen face.
“Bathroom’s empty man,” he said, still struggling to pull on his shirt despite his braced neck.
“Oh yeah… I might just do that when I get home, “Brad mumbled.
Derek finally pulled on his shirt and looked at his friend in disbelief, “come on man, you’re seriously going back to that hell hole. She’s probably got her whole posse waiting to ambush you,” he said, with a hint of annoyance.
Brad shook his head, frowning slightly, “I don’t know but… you saw she looked so…”
“Fake!” Derek interrupted, his eyes wild, “she’s playing you man and you’re dancing right into it.”
Brad shot him an indignant look.
“Okay, maybe not dancing,” he grimaced.
Brad got to his feet and picked up his jacket, somewhat insulted he made his way to the door.
“Brad come on,” Derek moaned, trailing after him with arms spread apologetically, “at least let me drive you?”
Brad turned around and smiled half-heartedly, “you’re in no condition to drive, I’ll call a cab,” he pulled open the front door.
“Naw man, wait,” Derek persisted, he hurried back to the end table and scooped up the keys robotically.
He slipped one of the keys from the ring as he made his way toward Brad, “here,” he said, “take my car.”
He pressed the key into Brad’s hand and said through bared teeth, “Don’t underestimate her.”
The house was quiet and dark, the only light was coming from the kitchen, casting looming shadows on the walls of the living room. Brad walked in cautiously, his eyes darting about the room frantically, looking for any signs of danger.
“You’re home!”
He looked up to see Mara at the top of the stairs, he couldn’t see her face, it was hidden by the dark shadow cast from the top of her chest to her face.
Reflexively, Brad’s jaw tightened, he stood immobile, saying nothing as she descended the stairs and flipped the light switch.
The bright florescent light flooded the room and Brad shut his eyes momentarily, only to open them on the fascinating figure before him. Mara was beautiful, he was surprised that he still thought her attractive despite his impression of her. She stood before him with a hesitant, almost fearful expression.
Brad stared at her, it had been a long time since he’d seen her, on any other day he would close the gap between them and wrap her petite frame in his arms, inhale the fruity scent of her hair and tell her how much he missed her, but the tension between them was as tall and thick as the tower of Babel, like there was an entire city between them, yet that couldn’t destroy the love he still had for her, she was after all his wife. His expression softened and his eyes grew glazed.
Her gaze shifted from his and her chest fell in relief, it was so much better to see those soft brown eyes than the stone cold ones he’d glared at her. Suddenly her hand flew to her mouth.
“Your face,” she gasped, hurrying toward him, closing the gap between them, trampling the helpless city.
She placed a tentative hand on Brad’s jaw, feeling the stiff stubble against her fingers and his momentary shudder. The wall stood erect, he was that wall, and the realization of the futility of her prodding disturbed her, hurt her. She withdrew her hand and held it to her chest, her eyes bright and big.
“You really should look at that,” she said, her voice not much louder than a whisper.
Brad shrugged, “it’s fine.”
His voice sounded choked and hesitant, “I’ve been punched before,” he muttered.
“Yes but…”
“Excuse me,” he brushed past her and went into the kitchen.
Mara remained rooted to the spot; it took so much out of her to be around him.
Brad came back out of the kitchen, the same scary scowl on his face a bottle of wine and a glass in one hand.
“I’m going to bed, don’t join me,” he said coldly, not even looking back as he ascended the stairs.
Mara went upstairs after a while, and stood near his door, leaned on the frame for a moment, then continued down the hallway to the guest room two doors down.
Locking the door behind her, she turned to the empty room, “I’m alone,” she said.
There was the sound of muffled shuffling, a low thud then the closet door squeaked open and Trent’s lanky frame emerged, a disgruntled look on his pale face.
Mara sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, turning her wedding band around her slim finger nervously.
“He’s in the shower,” she muttered.
Trent lifted his shirt and removed the gun from his waist band and placed it on the bedside table. Mara looked at it warily.
“I say we go in there and take him out, make it look like suicide… the bastard’s almost jeopardized everything with his little sissy fit,” he growled.
Mara gasped, “no, Trent. We need him.”
Trent nodded thoughtfully.
“And he’s already alerted the police,” she continued.
Trent scowled, “he’s made a fool of himself is all.”
“Trent killing him now makes no sense.”
Trent turned to her with an evil smile, “don’t worry sweetheart, not just yet.”
Mara took a deep breath, “but you can’t stay here, it’s too risky.”
Trent narrowed his eyes at her, “and you’re willing to run things on this end by yourself?”
Mara shrugged, “he’s my husband, I know him. If you stay, sooner or later he will find out that he isn’t the only man here.”
Trent frowned thoughtfully, but his suspicious gaze didn’t waver, “but can you do it?”
“I can,” she assured him.
“And you’ll check in with me twice… no three times a day?”
Mara took a deep breath, her heart was racing. This could be it, a chance to finally get out of this mess, with Trent gone she was sure she could figure something out.
“I will.”
Trent leaned toward her, his cold eyes holding hers, both hands pressed on either side of her legs.
“And you’ll do as I say, all that I say?”
Mara hesitated, she felt as though he would swallow her with his eyes, like he could see her every thought, it unnerved her, considering what she was actually thinking.
“Sure,” she replied, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible.
Trent smiled, that slow, mischievous untrusting smile of his and pulled away. He straightened up and towered above her.
“Fine, I’ll leave when Mason starts to snore.”
Remaining true to his word, once all sounds ceased in Brad’s room and they could hear his momentary snores, Trent slung a bag across his shoulder and Mara accompanied him downstairs.
As he stood at the back window – that was partially hidden by the tall, leafy ornamental shrub and hence the most suitable escape route – he turned to look at her and brushed his thumb against her cheek. Mara stiffened.
“By the way Mara, don’t try anything , I’m watching you.”
He turned and swung himself easily out of the window and crouching, quickly disappeared into the night.
Mara sighed, without him she felt so much freer, like she could breathe again but what was he talking about? She turned to the room, her eyes narrowed, and suddenly she felt like she was being watched.
“Oh crap,” she muttered, he was still here.
Brad crawled out of bed the next morning; squinting his eyes against the powerful strip of morning sunshine that was bursting through a crack in the heavy drapes. He staggered to the bathroom, combing his hair from his eyes with his fingers and yawning loudly. For a moment he forgot all about what had happened to him in the past month , it would have been easy to believe that the policeman, the trip, Mara’s lies were all part of some horrible nightmare but then to believe that would mean believing that Anna and Casey were a part of it too, and he couldn’t think of them as playing any part in anything frightful or non-existent. The fact that Mara wasn’t sprawled off beside him when he woke up should’ve been a reminder of the reality of it all; she’d never gotten up before him since they’d been married.
Brad replaced the lid on the toilet and flushed; the swishing, chugging sound echoed in the morning silence and cleared the fog in Brad’s sleep congested mind. He was suddenly awake, and just as the water swirled in the bowl, the memories flooded his mind, making his limbs taut with anger and distrust.
He walked out into the hallway cautiously, it seemed caution had become a vital part of his life, a man knew his life was falling apart when he couldn’t feel safe in his own house. As he descended the stairs he heard muffled stirring in the kitchen and he followed the sound, his brows furrowed confusedly.
Mara was flipping a jagged, burnt omelet in an already burnt frying pan.
“What are you doing?” he asked angrily, “where’s Bertha?”
Mara turned to face him with an uncertain smile, “I’m making breakfast, I told Bertha to take a couple days off. You know just so we could work things out.”
Brad tugged at his hair in annoyance, “you’re not even supposed to be here, what makes you think I want to work anything out,” he looked at the wretched omelet simmering in the hot oil and moaned, “you’re not supposed to even cook, ‘cause you can’t.”
Mara looked hurt as he leaned down and turned off the fire, he then plopped down on a chair at the breakfast table and picked up the paper, still frowning angrily.
Mara finished her experiment quietly, while Brad read, then she placed a plate in front of him and a steaming cup of coffee. Brad looked down at it from over his newspaper, a blackened, patchy omelet lay before him, he’d never considered the possibility of an unborn chicken dying twice, three lone crackers lay at the side of it, and a lone strawberry, looking just as miserable.
He looked up at Mara, who was looking down at her creation with an apologetic grimace.
“If you’re trying to poison me, you are going to have to find a subtler way to do it,” Brad said.
Mara huffed and planted her hands on her hips, “I can’t believe you’re still at that. Brad I did not try to kill you.”
Brad got up and tossed the paper on the table. The bold headline stared up at them.
‘Escaped convict, still loose!’
Underneath it were two blown up mug shots of Trent, with short black hair and a mischievous smirk.
Mara was looking at it calmly, but her heart had sped up and her knees felt like noodles underneath her.
Brad was rummaging in the over head cupboard, the one Trent had been fishing through just the day before; he muttered something and took out a bottle of vodka.
“This is the guy that tried to kill me, took my yacht, supposedly kidnapped you just to bring back my yacht and return you home,” he said as he turned around and glared at her, “I don’t know about you Mara but that doesn’t sound like the actions of an escaped murdering con man!”
Mara sighed and went to lean on the edge of the counter, “well what do you want me to say?”
He looked up from opening the sealed bottle, “how about the truth!” his eyes were wild and the veins in his neck bulged menacingly.
Mara lowered her gaze and chewed her lips thoughtfully. Brad loved it when she did that, the pompous, stubborn, spoiled brat seemed to melt into a vulnerable, young woman with a working heart. But today Brad’s heart was hardened against those little things that had made him fall for her in the first place.
“Tell me the truth Mara. What the hell is going on here?”
Mara looked up at him, her mind reeling with all the reasons she should tell him and all the reasons she shouldn’t. She’d never seen him so angry before, at least not at her and she couldn’t even begin to explain what it was doing to her. She shrunk under his wide, rage filled eyes, he looked so dangerous with his hair askew, the rugged beard extending from the bottom of his bold lips to the side of his jaw and chin, his eyes bloodshot from his drinking binge last night. His gaze was so intense it made her want to throw herself at his feet and confess everything, but there was a part of her that couldn’t bring herself to do that, the stubborn, proud part of her, the part that believed she just might be able to fix this on her own, not to mention the underlying idea of Trent listening in on their every conversation.
“I…” she looked up at him with tearful, pleading eyes, wringing her hands.
“Save your tears Mara!” he bellowed, “all you ever do is cry. Be a woman for once.”
He slammed the glass down on the counter top noisily, the clear liquid sloshed over his hands onto the marble surface.
She was sobbing now, tears streaming down her cheeks, her face red and crumpled.
Brad grabbed her shoulders and held her tightly, “tell me Mara now!” his rage was unsparing.
“Brad… you?
??re hurting me,” she cried,
“I’m hurting you?” he asked with scorn.
Mara took a deep breath to steady her nerves and looked him right in the eyes, her chin lifted defiantly.
“No,” she said.
Brad looked stunned, “what?”
“You heard me,” she said as she shrugged out of his grip, “you obviously don’t want to have anything to do with me anymore,” she sniffed and dashed her hand against her wet eyes.
“Leave then,” he hissed, he regretted those words the moment he said them and his own cruelty tore at him like fingers being dragged through a fresh cut.
Mara looked dazed, her blue eyes big with shock and hurt, her lips parted; gaping. Then her expression hardened, her eyes grew dark and withdrawn, she pulled her lips into a tight obstinate frown, her nostrils flaring slightly.
“That’s really what you want?” her voice was stiff, her expression guarded.
Brad looked down at his hands where they were on the table top, an awkward silence ensued. He hadn’t meant to be so cold, yet he couldn’t bring himself to make things right, to at least try to apply the salve of apology to a very deep, painful wound. The truth was that he wasn’t even sure if he meant it, he didn’t know what he really wanted, he couldn’t mouth it because he didn’t know what it was.
“So this is what you think of me huh? A pathetic case of self remorse, a piece of garbage that you can easily dispose of huh, one thing goes wrong and you immediately jump to the idea that I, I Mara, your wife of three years, that I would try to kill you.”
Angry, black tears coursed down her cheeks and she took up the paper and swiped it across the table, sending the saucer with the cold burnt omelet and the cup of coffee to the floor with a loud, angry crash.
Brad flinched, his surprised gaze quickly shifting from the mess on the floor to the glaring woman before him.
“I was being very gracious to you before, for once I was the woman you wanted me to be, but nothing is good enough for you, so you fling it in my face, all my efforts, my servitude…. I painfully endured your cold shoulders, your fits of anger, your physical attacks on me….” She looked up at the ceiling in aggravation, “and you… you’ll always be too good for me. But you know what…” she stomped her feet for emphasis, “I will not bow to your every desire, from now on it’s about me, starting with me not complying to your bold, rude, selfish request.”
She turned on her heels and stalked out of the kitchen, sniffing and swiping her hands against her wet cheeks.
Brad grunted as he turned and picked up the wet glass; with shaking hands he lifted it to his lips and took two great gulps, it was like air to him now and Mara – she was the water that threatened to drown him.