Page 3 of Accidentally Mine

Roselynn

J aywalking across a narrow side street, I hitched my bag higher onto my shoulder and pulled my cardigan tighter. Early May in Boston was warmer than Chicago, but I couldn’t ditch the chill that had overtaken me the minute I stepped foot in Beantown.

I pulled my Red Sox cap down over my wayward blonde curls and knew that I’d probably end up sweating by the afternoon.

But that was okay. Give me thick sweaters and infinity scarves and wool socks any day.

I hated the cold and loved being toasty.

Plus, more clothes always felt like an added layer of protection against all the evil in the world.

When I stepped into the little café near Boston Common, the Sunday breakfast rush was over. There were mostly college kids, hanging out with their laptops, cramming for looming finals week. I scanned the place for threats, as I usually did, knowing I probably looked like a paranoid nutcase.

But that was so much better than the alternative.

There was one guy in a Red Sox cap leering at me, but he looked like an ordinary college creep. He pointed at his hat—he was wearing the same one as me.

I gave him a cautious smile. You found another Red Sox fan in Boston? Wow, what a stroke of luck! I’d learned that as a blonde, I got a lot more looks from the harmless kind of losers who just wanted a quick lay, the ones with horrible hygiene and cringeworthy pick-up lines.

Those guys, I could deal with.

It was the other kind I was worried about.

I squeezed into a booth in the corner and powered up my Mac. As I did, I pretended to focus on the screen as I checked again, to make sure I was alone. Peeked out the window to make sure that no one had followed me.

I was safe. Or as safe as I could feel in this town I’d grown up in.

As I entered my password into my computer, I felt someone’s presence hovering over me.

I nearly jumped when I looked up at a familiar face, the cranberry-haired waitress who’d waited on me the past three days.

She was probably middle-aged but had a youngish, cute, hip vibe to her, and I’d instantly liked her the moment she handed me a menu that first day.

“Hey, girl,” she said, holding her pen and pad at the ready. “You look like you could use a double. Tough day already?”

Par for the course. These days, I alternated between unhealthy suspicion and utter paranoia.

I smiled at her, noting her nametag. “Just a coffee, thanks, Anita. Regular, please.”

“And a chocolate croissant?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Just baked. Extra chocolatey and good.”

My mouth watered. Chocolate always got me. “Sold.”

She winked and disappeared as I returned to my laptop. I started to open up my latest story, but curiosity—and a little of that paranoia— soon got the better of me. I entered the Wi-Fi password and took one more peek around the place. Then I typed: Lyndon Reece.

News stories popped up. The one at the top, the most recent, his obituary from about a week ago.

I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye as I scanned a picture of his smiling face. It was hard to believe that my favorite person on earth was gone.

And I hadn’t even been able to go to the funeral.

I scrolled down, but the rest of the articles were about his company, Reece Associates, which was one of the largest construction firms in South Boston. Nothing about the horrific construction accident at the site of the new hotel at Back Bay that had claimed his life.

I quickly closed the browser. I’d cried enough over the past seven days. I didn’t need to get all weepy in public.

I nearly jumped again as the waitress returned with the coffee and croissant. She slid the plate and coffee cup onto the table, handed me the box with sugar and cream, and said with a bob of her drawn on eyebrows, “It’s your lucky day. The gentleman over there would like to pay for your order.”

A chill went down my spine as she pointed to the man in the Red Sox cap.

He raised his eyebrows and gave me a cheeky grin.

He didn’t look threatening, but these days, everyone felt like a threat.

And for fuck’s sake, this wasn’t a bar. I remembered a time when I was just a carefree college student who could easily meet a strange guy in a bar or café and have a good time without having to worry about repercussions.

Back then, I would’ve flirted with that guy, knowing it probably wouldn’t amount to anything serious, but at least I’d get a free breakfast out of the deal.

That felt like forever ago.

I swallowed. “Could you please tell him thank you, I really appreciate it, but I have a boyfriend, and I’ll pay for my own?”

She winked again. “Hey. Sure thing, sweetie. Don’t sweat it.”

“Thank you,” I said, making a mental note to give her a big tip for her trouble.

I fed the little containers of cream and sugar into my coffee.

Sank my teeth into the chocolate croissant and…

yum. Scanning the room again, Red Sox cap caught my eye and pretended to wipe away a stray tear.

I shrugged and mouthed sorry before angling my computer screen toward the wall and typed in: Anthony Markin.

The search lit up with about a million news stories.

Every single one of them was about the suave older man with the piercing blue eyes and gorgeous smile that my roommate and I had once thought was such a catch.

Which was exactly the reason why I would never date again. Ever.

I thought about the first time I’d met him.

My first weekend at college. August. First weekend out in the city.

It had still been hot, even at night. I was only eighteen back then, sitting at a table in an Irish pub near Faneuil Hall with my brand-new fake ID, and three new friends I’d made from the dorm, including Geri, my roommate who was from Florida.

They’d latched onto me because I was from the area and knew the cool places to go, but I’d always been nervous with new people, so I was pretending to be a lot cooler than I actually was.

I took a swig from my Guinness and saw him across the bar.

Geri had jiggled my elbow. “That guy is the hottest man I’ve ever seen. And he’s looking straight at you.”

And he was. He was beautiful. Dark and muscular, and obviously older.

He’d walked over to our table. “Ladies,” he said smoothly as he took a drag from a cigarette, but his gaze had been on me. Always on me. He leaned in and said, “You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. What’s your name?”

His voice, his eyes, everything about him was simply penetrating.

My eyes were nothing special, just a strangely colored blue, but his were a gorgeous, swimming-pool blue.

He had been wearing a suit, white shirt, open at the throat.

He pulled me away from the group and took me to the bar and bought me drinks.

Told me he was twenty-five and owned his own company in the city.

Said that I was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.

Then he’d walked me back to my dorm and kissed me lightly on the mouth, very respectfully. I wanted more, but he shook his head.

“We don’t have to rush things. I’m going to be seeing a lot more of you, Rebecca,” he said.

I’d ran up to my dorm room and squeed with glee, my body tingling, so excited I thought I might burst.

Now, five years later, I wanted to smack my eighteen-year-old self in the face.

Thinking of how happy I’d been that night, how excited and hopeful and na?ve and just plain fucking stupid I’d been, I opened up the first news story and read:

Anthony Markin was acquitted of all charges during a retrial this past week.

The First Circuit U.S. Court of Appeals agreed the trial judge made a series of errors when instructing the jury.

Markin’s attorney, Brisbane Scott, argued that the sentencing judge, Justice Wanda Cafferty, who died by suicide in early November, was remiss in instructing the jury in their role in the case and provided ambiguous responses to queries by juries.

Markin received a twenty-year sentence after he was found guilty of criminal conspiracy, extortion, theft, trafficking in stolen goods, and fraud.

Markin is expected to be released from the Massachusetts Correctional Institution later this week. However, new charges have been filed for drug trafficking while incarcerated, so it’s unclear whether Markin will be held on these new charges.

I shivered as I scanned a picture of Anthony Markin sitting beside his lawyer.

Handsome, god, he was so handsome, but those blue eyes I thought once held my world now looked so severe, cold.

Capable of anything. The man had ice in his veins and murder in his eyes.

He had a smug smile in the picture, like he’d always known he’d get away with it.

How could I have loved someone like him?

He’d served two fucking years. For all of those terrible things he’d been involved in. But I had a feeling they were just the tip of the iceberg. How many other evil things had he done? How much more damage would he do to this city and its people?

I quickly closed out of that news story, my fingers shaking.

I couldn’t stop thinking, too, that my father’s accident hadn’t been just an accident. Maybe Anthony’s father had had him killed, to lure me back.

Or maybe I was just being paranoid. That was kind of far-out.

But that’s the way Anthony and his family had me thinking.

I’d spent the past two and a half years thinking that even though Anthony had been locked up, his father would come after me.

His father, Malcolm, who I’d only met once, had always scared me.

And I supposed he was the person who’d molded Anthony into the monster he’d become.

I looked over my shoulder, and Red Sox cap guy was gone. He may have been a creep, but thank god, he wasn’t a persistent creep.