A betrayal of trust. The worst possible thing you could do to someone. No, he wouldn’t betray the trust she’d shown him thus far. He’d rather die.
* * *
Waking up fully clothed, wrapped up in the hottest potato of a man ever, with a dog nose wet against her face, was not exactly the most pleasant experience ever. Add to that Uma’s burning desire to pee, and she was pretty darned miserable. But opening her eyes to Squeak’s smile helped, followed by a glimpse of a naked Ivan, curled around her like an enormous vine. She kicked away the comforter and smiled at the John and Yoko portrait they made.
Uma’s breath puffed visibly in front of her, confirming that it was absolutely freezing. Squeak pushed at her again, and she extricated herself fully from the big man’s hold, making sure to cover him up again. She speed-walked to the door to let the mutt out and cast a fruitless glance around, maybe hoping a bathroom had sprouted overnight. It was a brief struggle to locate shoes under the bed and a near-hysterical moment spent thinking she’d left her purse at the bar, keys and all. She finally found it sitting on Ivan’s anvil, in plain sight.
Once she got herself as together as was possible, Uma went to open the door again, unsure whether to leave Squeak out or not. The dog answered that question by pushing her way back in, followed by two black cats, and running to Ivan’s bed, where she rooted her way back under the covers.
Uma smiled at the sight of them there, awash in a wave of premature, bittersweet nostalgia. This could—and probably would—be the only time she’d get intimate with this man. If he ever saw what was hiding under her clothes, he’d run as far as possible.
Without letting herself think about what she was doing, Uma reached into her purse and pushed the battery into her old phone—a relic from her other life. As it powered up, Ivan snuggled farther under his comforter and wrapped a thick arm around his dog. Maybe he thought he was still snugged up to Uma. She smirked.
The photo would be perfect: lovely, warm man, smelling like sleep, his big body no longer an instrument of intimidation, but one of pure, sweet pleasure. Ivan’s hair was a dark, tousled mess that Uma wanted to run her fingers through. There were so many things she hadn’t gotten to do, to touch and smell…and taste.
Two legs peeked out from beneath the blanket—one human and one canine. Uma pressed the button, and the stupid, electronic shutter-click sound was like coming home. She glanced at the screen, memorized the image, and quietly pulled the door closed behind her.
The music started, just as her finger moved to power off the phone. It was immediately recognizable and entirely chilling.
Joey’s ringtone.
She’d know it anywhere. A glance at the screen showed his photo, the one she’d taken of him singing karaoke one night in a bar with a bunch of his colleagues. He’d done “My Way” in a near-perfect Frank Sinatra imitation. And there it was, “My Way,” ringing out as if he’d been waiting for her all this time. As if he’d known the second she turned on her phone.
How? How had he done that? Did he know where she was? Could he trace her? Or was it some kind of auto redial?
Uma’s shaking hands dropped the phone, and it landed with a dull thud in the grass. She bent and shut it down, frantically, before rushing back to Ms. Lloyd’s house, happy glow utterly decimated.
16
After the phone call from Joey, things changed for Uma. Everything was worse. Much worse. The fear was constant, and even the pain was back, her skin raw. Twice, her boss commented on the constant scratching. She must have looked like a smack addict coming down.
The worst part, though, when she really allowed herself to feel it, was how she’d lost all sense of hope. Again. That tiny spark she’d barely sensed a few days before was gone, leaving nothing but a brittle, hollow shell, her heart a dried bean rattling around inside—hot and parched and feverish with fear.
Joey was out there. Uma could swear she felt him closing in. And all because of that photo. She’d followed an honest impulse, and everyone could be punished for it. For a stupid picture. She regretted that impulse; she truly did. If Joey found her, she’d have to delete it—the only proof she had of what had happened with Ivan. The thought made Uma sadder than anything else.
But she couldn’t involve Ivan in her sordid life. She wouldn’t put him in the crosshairs like that. The biggest favor she could do for him would be to stay out of his way. If Joey ever found out about him, he’d obliterate him.
So, Uma avoided Ivan all day Sunday—a difficult task.
She walked to the bar for her car, keeping an eye out for passing vehicles. She also went so far, later in the day, as to hide out in the kitchen when Ivan dropped by to see her. It killed her to pretend she wasn’t there.
Because Ivan would do something crazy for her. He’d said so himself. He’d go after whoever hurt her and go back to prison and it would all be Uma’s fault. She liked him too much to destroy him like that.
So, instead, she let Ms. Lloyd lie, straight to his face.
Sunday night was the worst she’d had since arriving in Blackwood—dark, agitated hours spent fighting the memories of Joey’s hands on her. The hot prick of the needle in her skin, the electric buzzing of the machine in her ear, ink blossoming stark on the carpet beside her face. She eventually succumbed to sleep only to dream of him killing Ivan.
When Monday finally dawned wet and nasty, Uma felt hungover, the pain physical.
The only spark was the thought of the self-defense class that night, until she realized she’d have to skip it. She couldn’t risk going.
Her eyes closed against the memory of Ivan. His touch, his arms around her. For such a short time, he’d made her feel so alive, so real. No way would she risk going to class and running into him again. Finally, Uma pulled herself out of bed, heavy and exhausted.
Breakfast was a gray smudge on the day, the first of many. Laundry, cleaning, lunch, all succeeded each other as occupations for her body, while her mind…her mind ached, alone, somewhere outside of herself.
“Girl, you’d best get your head out of your ass right now,” Ms. Lloyd said when Uma burned dinner that night.
“Sorry, Ms. Lloyd.”
