Page 4 of Twins for the Enemy

Chapter three

~FARAH~

I turn the compass in my hand, watching the needle tremble before continuing to point north.

"That's fancy," Callie says, plopping down onto the cot beside me. "How much is it worth?"

I close my fist around the compass, the clasp cutting into my palm. "No idea. Not much. It's a cheap prop from a movie set."

"Bo, I know five-year-old's who are better liars than you."

Bo is short for Little Bo-Peep. She gave me the nickname on my second day at the shelter after I witnessed her steal some cigarettes from another woman and I declined to smoke them with her. It's meant as an insult, but it's a better nickname than some of the other women get.

"If you get asked to clean at Richter's again, I wouldn't go," she adds when I don't say anything. "They got police crawling around."

I glance over at her, but her face is unreadable.

Paranoia has dominated my thoughts since I fled from Chicago two months ago, knowing anybody could be an undercover police officer. But with Callie, the paranoia is necessary.

She appears to be like me, where she needs to get paid under the table to avoid any paperwork. I don't know if she's hiding from the police like me, but I won't be throwing stones from my glass house.

So, it's possible she is being nice to forge a relationship with someone she has common ground with. But she could also be trying to snipe a job from me. We are playing a game of survival of the fittest, and I may not be vicious enough to win.

"Did you steal that compass?" Callie asks.

I flush.

She must be thinking I took it from a job and stumbled on the truth. I shouldn't have taken it before I disappeared. Even when other girls my age were shoplifting and I wanted their approval, I didn't do it. It was too risky, too much like Neal, and I knew the guilt would follow me around.

But as I prepared to leave that man's mansion, I wanted something to remember our time. He had my name. I had his compass.

It turns out that wasn't necessary. Everything reminds me of him.

A dim streetlight brings me back to the lamp on his bedside table.

Whenever I make a bed, I flatten the creases while I remember how he thrust inside me with such intensity that it caused waves in the blankets.

I dream of him at night, and I wake up with my hands pressed between my legs, the ache between them deeper than I can reach.

"I have a new job that I should head out to," I say.

"Just apply to Kitty Den?" She rolls her eyes. "You don't need to be holier than thou. You'll earn more there than you are scrubbing floors."

"This one was a much better deal," I say. "They were willing to pay ten dollars an hour because it's a house they just bought, and they want it to be cleaned up before they move in."

"Ten dollars an hour?" she snorts. "That's too good to be true. If you get murdered just because you didn't want to suck off some club owner, you're getting exactly what you deserve."

"You'll come to my funeral, though, right?" I tease her, sliding the compass back into its pouch. "You'll make sure I'm cremated? I know you'll find adventurous ways to deal with my ashes. "

"Hell yes," she says, a dreamy look crossing over her face. "I'll freeze them into ice cubes and serve you in a cup of iced tea to Kara."

I put my hand on her shoulder. "I always wanted to be a tall drink of water."

She plops back down onto her pillow, burying her face in it. In a way, she reminds me of Neal. The hard outer shell and the biting words, but underneath all of it is someone who is trying to just not get buried under the weight of the world.

I slide on my jacket and shove the pouch inside the pocket. It's all a big joke because we can't take any of it too seriously, or else we'll have to grieve the truth.

We're alone in the world. All those temporary, gasping, trembling connections will disappear, leaving only dreams.

And twin unborn babies.

The front door is open. Even in this small town, it's unusual to be so unconcerned with security, but it's propped open by paint cans, and the buzzing of a power tool echoes through the walls, so it must be part of the owner’s renovation efforts.

I knock on the door. If the only person in the house is the person using the power tool, they won't hear me, but I don't want to accidentally become a home intruder. The last thing I need is to be arrested for a crime and for the police to discover that I'm a fugitive.

I take a step in, glancing around to see if there is anybody else around.

It's a gorgeous house. The wood flooring is a rich shade of brown with some scuff marks and scarring that give it some character.

The exposed beams are stained a similar shade, while the white walls create a sharp contrast with the wood.

Soaring ceilings make the house feel even larger without losing any of its intimacy.

My stomach growls, loudly proclaiming that I haven't eaten since 3 o'clock yesterday.

I'd had enough money to eat ham sandwiches for lunch and dinner for a couple of weeks, but half of it disappeared to the other women in the shelter, and I had to finish the rest quickly before it molded.

If I don't work today, I won't eat, so persistence is my only weapon.

No one answers. It looks like I'll be adding trespassing to my list of crimes.

I take a few careful steps inside, stopping at the center of the entryway.

"Hello?" I call out.

I listen. The buzzing is too loud to determine which direction it's coming from, but on the threshold to the room on the right, I notice a trail of sawdust. I follow it like it's rose petals. With the amount, I half-expect to find a tree at the end of it.

But instead of a tree, I find a man.

A tree of a man, sure, with his height and broad shoulders. His back is turned toward me, bent over as he uses a table saw. He's not wearing a shirt, the muscles in his back flexing as he holds the wood steady .

My heart beats faster. I imagine my hands tracing along his shoulder blades. I imagine his hand off that piece of wood and cupping between my legs.

Do pregnancy hormones hit this early?

I knock on the wall, not wanting to interrupt his work. My hand is lightly trembling. It must be from the hunger.

He doesn't respond. I need to catch his eye.

I slowly move around the room, staying far enough away that if he strikes out because he thinks I'm an intruder, I'm out of range. It's a skill I learned from growing up around my father—if you can't stay invisible, stay beyond their reach.

When I see his face, it's like plunging down on a rollercoaster—my thoughts whipping around, my stomach flipping, and a mix of fear and excitement flooding my bloodstream.

His hand moves slowly, pressing down on a large red button. The saw turns off. He jostles his dark hair, sawdust falling out of it .

"Oh," I say. "I didn't know it was you. It was... you never told me your name."

Kieran Ragdon. When I'd first heard it, I'd assumed he'd be some rich asshole. I didn't expect it to be the man who carefully wrapped my hand and took my virginity in a way that blurred the line between aggression and security.

"The rate was ten dollars an hour, right?" he asks.

I furrow my brow. I can't tell if he recognizes me or not. What are the chances it was a coincidence?

"Yeah," I say. "That sounds good."

"Under the table," he says.

"Yes."

He's gazing at me, his expression cold. I run my fingers through my hair.

I never thought I was that beautiful, but since I've been on the run for two months, I feel like I was dragged through a dumpster.

My hair keeps getting in tangles, which gives it a wheat-like texture.

Deep shadows press under my eyes, making me look much older than twenty-two, and the cracked lips don't help.

It's completely possible he doesn't recognize me. I'm not sure I would recognize me. I changed from a young adult to a ruined runaway.

"Is there a reason for that?" he asks. "You'd make much better money doing legitimate work."

I shrug. "It's complicated."

"Almost as complicated as your name. Jessica Smalls," he says.

He rubs his shoulder. As the shock wears off, I take in his body. I'd been so overwhelmed the first time we slept together that I didn't fully appreciate it. A swimmer's body—bulky, but only with muscle.

"Are you related to Ambrose Smalls?"

"Uh, no," I say. "I have no idea who that is."

"Are you sure?" he asks. "He lives in Chicago."

"I've never been to Chicago," I say firmly. "Small-town girl. Hate the city. Do you have a preference for which room I should start with?"

"The bedroom," he says. "It will be the perfect starting point. Close enough to the front door that you can sneak out."

I stop, my hand freezing in my hair as I try to get the knots out. "You do remember me. How did you find me?"

"Private investigators," he says.

There is a missing weight to his words, like he's keeping a few words tucked away to keep the scales even. He must be. I haven't used any credit cards and only used burner phones, so it's hard to believe there isn't more involved. I could demand more answers, but the result is the same regardless.

"Why?" I ask. "Why would you track me down?"

"A bigger question is why you're doing a job that requires you to use toxic chemicals," he says. "It's reckless and irresponsible. "

"I can decide what's good or not good for me—"

"I'm not talking about your free will." He glances down at my abdomen. "I'm talking about the health of the twins."

One of my knees buckles. He lurches forward to catch me, grasping my arm to steady me. Heat rushes through me. I slowly stand up straight, pulling my arm away.

"How do—how do you know about that?" I ask.

"Private investigators," he repeats. "You should have told me."

I stare at him. "They're not yours."

"Whose are they?"

"John. My boyfriend."

"John Doe?" he asks. "It's perfectly timed when we slept together. When you were a virgin."

"I slept with someone after you. I mean, I slept with John. We met right after." I force a smile. “It was better with him. Less abrupt. More romantic.”

“Interesting that for the qualities you listed, you didn't mention his skill." He tilts his head. "Disappointment? Or imagination?"

"John is real," I say firmly. "He works as—as a painter."

"You saw the paint cans outside?" he asks. "Well, tell John that you're coming back to Chicago with me. I need to know my children are getting the best care."

I scowl, crossing my arms over my chest. My stomach growls again, loud enough for him to hear. He doesn't react. It stings.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," I say. "I have a life here."

"Do you?" he asks. "Or is it just a life where you think the police won't find you? I have enough influence to ensure you get charged with attempted murder for the woman you injured during the Bettiol fire."

The blood drains from my face. "How do you know about that? "

"Everyone knows in Chicago. Next time, I'd suggest you don't hurt a pretty woman. They tend to get significant screen time."

"What happened to you?" I hiss. "You were so nice when we first met. Now, you're threatening me?"

"Yes."

I anxiously brush my fingers through my hair. My left hand gets stuck in the knots.

"You're a whole lake of assholes, aren't you?" I ask.

"Nah. More like a fast-moving stream—doesn’t look that dangerous till you’re drowning in it," he says. "I have my plane waiting for us. You can come with me or wait for the police to come and arrest you."

The night we'd met, his eyes reminded me of dark roast coffee, the warmth spreading throughout me. Now, they're cold and, from a distance, black.

I look down at the table saw. The blade glints from the light through the window. He must have bought this house to set me up. There are no coincidences, just consequences, and I'm about to suffer through mine .

"I'll come," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "But if you expect us to become a loving family, you're sorely mistaken."

"I don't expect that. Nor do I want it."

His voice is sharp, slicing through me like the table saw cut through the wood. Deeply, with precision, and without needing to consider my past of living through natural disasters. He knows he can carve through me with the right tools.

I follow him out of the room. I can survive this too. He'll regret uprooting me and trying to turn me into another plank of wood.