His Pretty Little Burden: Chapter 20

“I should ask them all their names,” I murmur to myself as two henchmen clutch plastic bags neatly packed with an entire new wardrobe, each item individually wrapped in tissue paper. They head towards the rear SUV while a few others circle us. I can’t keep calling them all henchmen.

My dress twirls around me, reminding me of its pretty presence. Looking down at it, I smile. I slipped on a white summer dress that skirts thigh-high, exposing my legs to the faint tapping of the warm breeze. I love it. And all the other pieces, but most of all, I love the way Clay watched me, as though missing a single outfit would be simply unacceptable.

“They wouldn’t answer you,” Clay states, and I gaze at him as his deep gravelly cadence hits me.

‘Why?’

‘Because they have been instructed not to.’

‘Don’t you trust what I’ll say?’

‘Get out of your head, little deer.’ He places his palm at the lowest part of my back, his fingers spreading out to touch more, to control more, and it is all so smooth, so dominant.

A flutter sweeps to the delta at my core, thinking about how that hand smacked my bare arse in the car and how he made me feel vulnerable and accountable. It seems strange, but I think I understand it. The spanking thing. The scolding. It is the infliction of caring. It’s caring so much you hold a person accountable, push them to be stronger, to notice their weaknesses.

It’s being cruel to be kind.

He cares.

Escorting me towards the central black sedan, I try to control the way his touch fills my lungs with a kind of airy bliss that freaks me the hell out.

Passing a few drifters lingering near, eager to catch a glimpse of their mayor, I cast my gaze low, not wanting the attention.

Their mayor…

Do they know who he really is?

Is the District like Gotham City and Clay a villainous Batman? Corruption is a steady heartbeat that ensures pockets are filled and people stay employed. I arch my neck to see the tall man, gripping in his appearance, a magnet to every gaze. He’s so handsome. He’s almost agonising to behold, his appearance inducing feverish skin, a galloping pulse, overwhelming faintness.

He is basically a virus.

The henchmen have a perfect formation, seemingly well versed in curtaining their boss from perusal. I can’t even imagine what every day must be like for him, being the subject of permanent intrigue. Always on. The city’s charismatic leader.

“Fawn?”

I freeze when I hear that unmistakable voice. A voice I didn’t expect or prepare for. My hand falls to the slight bump between my hips, hiding it with the small span of my tiny palm.

No!

Not now.

I peer around, my gaze bouncing between the shoulders of Clay’s men, frantic to convince myself the voice was in my mind but then—

I see him cross the street.

Oh God.

He calls over, “Where have you been?”

Stop. I don’t want to see you.

He is jogging towards me now.

As he closes the gap, I shuffle backwards, adding more space before bumping into a hard, warm body that should bring me comfort but only reminds me that I’m a pumpkin. My reality is this boy from my past, and the fairy-tale is the man who consumes my every waking thought.

Clay gently swipes me to the side, tucking me behind a six-foot-five wall of muscle. I peer around him.

The henchmen break apart slightly to allow him room to address Landon, but he speaks to me instead. “Do you know this boy?”

“Yes,” I whisper as Landon gets within a few metres of us. I step out from behind Clay, taking a few shaky steps to face my foster brother, but I can feel his torrid, wild, and powerful energy crashing into my back.

Landon stops mid-stride, his eyes dropping to my stomach. “Fuck.”

My heart fights for freedom within my ribcage like a hysterical baby bird in a tight fist. “I couldn’t—” I stammer on the words, reaching for a reason to why I couldn’t, shaking my head frantically. I don’t need to give him a reason! “I just couldn’t do it.’

“You kept it?” Horror swallows his features. Blood drips from his cheeks. His judgemental gaze infuriates me. I have thought this through. I want to tell him my son won’t know me, won’t ask what happened or be burdened by the gruesome incident that took place the day he was conceived. He’ll be fine. As for me, I’m going to find the truth! The truth he and Jake kept from me!

He continues, “Why would you keep it? I never want to think about that night, Fawn. And you fucking kept it?”

What?

I step forward, nausea washing through me, threatening to fill my throat. “What? You and Jake said you didn’t remember that night.” I knew it! I knew they remembered. I saw the phantom of their betrayal moving through their meaningful glances when we were separated by the police to give our testimonies.

They knew something.

They know what happened to Benji!

Gritting my teeth, I ball my hands into fists, yelling, “Don’t lie to me again!” I hear my voice crack as the words expel. ‘You remember! What happened? Who hurt him?’

“I—’ He fumbles on his lying tongue, suddenly tearing his eyes away from my stomach and pinning them to someone over my shoulder, then to my right, left, to all the powerful bodies surrounding me, supporting me.

For once, I’m not alone.

A large shielding hand slides across the bulge at my lower stomach, gripping with a possessive intensity that nearly scorches my skin.

Landon drops his gaze, eyes paling as he stares at Clay’s hand. He stumbles backwards a few steps and smiles. Spitting out a nervous chuckle, he addresses Clay. “She always gets like this.’ Heat scorches the tips of my ears. ‘You don’t know her like I do.” A-hole. The boy I cared about only four months ago looks back at me, alarm widening his brown eyes. “I don’t remember, Fawn. I meant to say, I don’t want to remember the morning after. Finding Benji like that. I don’t want to remember that.”

Heat blankets my spine as Clay presses me back into his body. As I peer up and over my shoulder, my breath stalls when I see his unreadable gaze shift. His practised charming smile slides into place.

Eyes softly on Landon, he states, ‘She is a bit eccentric.’ Landon grins triumphantly, I nearly vomit, and Clay nods at his men—the nod. The effortless mannerism the most powerful man in the city uses to summon the actions of many. ‘Take her home.’

What?

No!

‘Sir!’ I scramble to stay close to him, but a henchman grabs me as I reach out for his arm. ‘Let me go!’

‘Gentle.’ Clay tsks as I’m manhandled into the rear passenger seat of the waiting car. I try to keep my eyes on Clay and Landon as they exchange friendly words. Friendly! Bile fills my throat, my old friend betrayal wrapping around me like a serpent, squeezing the hopefulness from my pores.

‘Please, Clay. Please!’ I cry out, panicked that Landon will twist the situation, telling him all the details I’ve omitted—turn Clay against me. Make a liar out of me.

Suddenly, I’m surrounded by bodies in suits—circled—and then basically stuffed into the back seat of the idling car.

The door slams with me inside.

Through the thick glass, the world is muted. The privacy of this space, its sanctuary, is now a prison. I tug on the handle, fighting against the mechanism as if my tiny grip can somehow dislocate the pins and latches, breaking my way out of this car to ask him what is happening, to not listen to what Landon has to say about me.

About that night.

About the drugs that weren’t mine.

About how Benji fell, and I’m crazy and have a silly crush and need someone to blame.

About how I trashed my foster mother’s house trying to find that goddamn camera! The one I saw flash moments before my memory fades to black. The one I know has my answers, my first time and Benji’s death on it.

About all the reasons I am really here.

About all my eccentric actions.

Eccentric…

He called me eccentric.

My throat tightens, but I fight the internal sobs, picturing myself talking about thorns and roses and pillow stacks, and I thought for a moment he understood me. I choke within the clutches of betrayal. I thought we connected in a way I’ve never felt with another living soul, despite our age gap, despite our power divide, despite it all.

I trusted him.

What a fucking joke.

Releasing the handle when my fist aches, I pull my knees up and cuddle them—alone again.

Eccentric.

Just like your mum, Fawn.