Fracture (14 page)

     “Declan! I can’t afford this!” He brushes aside my hissed words and pulls out a handful of bills, exchanging them for the bags of food.

     “I’ve been eating your food. Think of it as paying a debt.” His mouth thins as I squint up at him. “I’ve seen your cupboards. You might be able to stretch it out, but that’s not enough for two people. This’ll last a few days. Maybe. And it’s only going to get worse.”

     It wouldn’t surprise me if another food shortage hit. It has in the past. Sometimes it lasts for months, others only a week or so. There’s no way to predict them. Laying in supplies would be smart, except it’s impossible to do, given how expensive everything is.

     “It’s not your job to take care of me, Declan. Besides, you don’t like doing it anyway.”

     He stares at me. Doesn’t he remember his own words, thrown at me in the first days of our acquaintance? “Right,” he says shortly. His eyes freeze over and he shuts down, aloof Declan firmly in place. “Hate to say it, but me leg’s starting to ache.”

     We start the trek to my flat. “Did you know you slip into stereotypical Irish talk sometimes?”

     He snorts. “I do?”

     “Yeah. ‘Me’ instead of ‘my’ is the common one. You don’t do it very often. And ‘lass.’ Still not convinced that’s Irish.”

     “The Irish have had lasses for centuries. You’d rather I used the even more common
mavourneen
or
a grha
?”

     “No, thanks.” I’ve read enough romance novels to have a passing knowledge of terms of endearment in a number of different languages. He wouldn’t mean either one. I adjust one of the straps of the bags across my chest. “Why’d you bring both cameras when you’ve only used one?” He’d had it slung around his neck the whole time we’d been out.

     “Never know when it’ll be needed.” He gestures to a doorway. “If I put it away and take out the other one, will it make you feel better?” I stick out my tongue. “Ah, now, are you prepared to use that?”

     “Well, I
would
 except you won’t let me,” I retort without thinking.

     Heat sparks in his eyes, and he drops his bags to cup my face, his mouth over mine a whisper of sensation. “Have you been holding back on your talents? For shame,” he murmurs.

     My response is lost to his mouth, claiming mine and reminding me who’s in charge. Him. Burdened as we are by bags, I can’t get as close as I’d like, which is skin on skin. At one point, adventurous me would have thrilled at this, knowing I was getting off feet away from total strangers, any of whom could walk by at any moment. But that part of me died along with Ryan.

     At least, that’s what I tell myself, to reason away why I can’t sink into Declan’s embrace, lose myself in the battle of lips and tongues we’re engaged in. Because the truth is closer to impossible.

     I can’t trust this man enough to let go like that.

     “Clever mouth. Clever tongue,” he whispers, the sound hoarse with desire. “Should go home and find a use for them.”

     Somehow I think it’ll end as it always does, me writhing helpless beneath him, as pliable as a cooked noodle, begging for more. Anything to lose myself in that morass of feelings.

     I wish I could tie him up. Take my time and learn him the way he’s learning me.

     Wait. Why do I care if I’m a selfish lover or not? I get off, multiple times, every time. As long as he continues to do so, why would I want to change that? This distance he’s keeping between us is there for a reason, I suspect, and I don’t want to speculate on it.

     One last kiss and we step out onto the sidewalk again, Declan’s other camera looped around his neck, bags of food in hand. “You going over to Murat and Ismael’s this evening?” I ask. Television broadcasting is more reliable of late, and he’d been over there several times for football matches. Me, I haven’t set foot in their flat since I’d roused them the day Declan was attacked.

     “Likely. They said something about whiskey. Though I’d kill for a Guinness.” We round a corner and wait for a flock of teenage girls to stumble out of our way, chattering and taking up the entire sidewalk. They’re all skinny legs and ponytails, and when they see Declan they giggle and elbow each other in the ribs, heads bent toward one another to murmur about how hot he is. Normal. I’d almost forgotten there were families around, mothers and fathers and sons and daughters, ranging in age from toddling to doddering. “And yes, I promise not to stagger home drunk and take advantage of you.” He snickers. “I’ll make sure I’m sober for that.”

     “Har.” The street looks familiar. They all are, really, though this one sticks out. Especially the twisted hunk of burned out metal.

     Mrs. Vucik’s car.

     The vise on my lungs comes out of nowhere. Multi–colored spots and tendrils flash and zip through my vision, obscuring the street. Declan, curled up, groaning. The shouts and sickening thunks and cracks as fists and steel–toed boots meet flesh. Smoke and debris and blood. Dirt. Damp. Gasping about hell. We’re in one of its circles, unable to die and unable to escape.

     Someone’s calling my name. Declan. Or Ryan. I’m not sure which, they’ve amalgamated into the same person. Broken and left to die. One gave up. The other didn’t. I manage a lungful of air and it makes me dizzy.

     I can’t see anything.

     Large, warm hands, cradling my head, turning it this way and that. A fist pounding into my back, rubbing in between my breasts. Meaningless, soothing words. Grey encroaching and retreating. Something pinches my cheeks. The sidewalk stares up at me, my head between my knees, and the blood rushes to my head where it belongs.

     “Christ.” Heedless of the camera bags hanging off me, food bags scattered on the ground Declan crushes me to him. “Scared me,” he mutters.

     Scared
him
?

     “Don’t make a habit of it.” He eases back, peering into my face. “You started gasping and wheezing. Looked like you were having trouble seeing.”

     I nod, swallowing to wet my throat. “Panic attack. Or something. Recognize this place?”

     He glances around and frowns. “Should I?”

     “You were jumped right over there.” I point to the middle of the street, roughly where he’d been lying. “I blew up the car with a Molotov cocktail.”

      “Huh.” He studies the car, then removes the lens cap from his camera and starts clicking. “Where’s the alley? You made me crawl to an alley.” He limps out into the street. “Never mind. I think I’ve found it.”

     How can he switch off like that? Just … act like nothing happened? Like this isn’t the site where everything changed and I was jolted awake after sleeping my way through the last two years of my life? The blood’s been washed away by the rain, but the stain is forever imbedded in my memory, merging with another that had a different outcome.

     A crack. A rip. A fault line tripped.

     “Declan.” Shaky. I’m shaky. My voice is shaky. “I’ll see you at home.”
Come with me. Make sure I'm okay. Keep me safe.
He grunts and continues shooting.

     The next few blocks pass in a fog. It would have happened eventually. The neighborhood is bigger than most, so it would have been possible to avoid the block all together, but not practical. And Declan’s reaction wasn’t completely out of character. The initial spurt of concern, quickly overtaken by disinterest.

     It stings.

     Fine. It fucking hurts.

     Good thing he’s going out tonight. Good thing I am as well. The delayed opening of Mila’s club is happening tonight. A night of dancing and drinking with women who could very well be friends. A night free of the sinuous bonds of desire chaining us together.

     “Nora.”

     I stumble, Cristian catching me before I can faceplant onto the sidewalk. “Cristian. What are you doing here?” I’ve never seen him this close to my flat before. Another block, and he would have found out where I’ve been hiding.

     “I have been looking for you. I did not have a chance, the last time we met, to ask you for your answer. We can’t wait any longer.”

     Oh. That. I sigh. Putting it off won’t do me any favors, and it’s past time for me to stop leading him on. “I’m sorry, Cristian. I can’t do it. I don’t speak the language, for one. And I don’t know where you got the idea that I’m good at sneaking around.”

     He smiles. “You are better than you think if I am not able to find you at whim. The language barrier we can get around. You will learn. You must know some of it. You have been here years already.”

     Actually, I’m terrible with languages. The rudimentary French I took in high school has long fled the scene, the basic verb tenses and conjugations finding no purchase. “My answer is no, and it’s not going to change.”

     His eyes widen in disbelief. “You do not want to go home? You want to stay here? Die here?” 

     “Cristian, your offer sucks. Once the war is over, I’d be able to get out.” If I had somewhere to go. “It would only make a difference if you could get me out
now
. You can’t. You’d need information all the way up until the bitter end.” I shift Declan’s camera bags against my hips. “Your side wins, you’ll have the clout and pull to offer favors. Now? You’ve got nothing.” Oh, this is going to anger him. I can tell. I stifle a flinch and the instinct to apologize, to promise to think about it a while longer.

     Sure enough, his jaw tightens. “I have done you favors already. Medical supplies. Food. You will see none of these. You have friends here? Loved ones? They will be forced to choose a side.” Many people were choosing to
not
choose, staying firmly in the middle. It irked both sides equally, to the point some were being forced to pick a side or face death. Way to score new recruits.

     “I have no loved ones here. You already took him from me.” Tired of holding it back, tired of patching the walls of my well, the pressure builds. Cracks appear. The walls bow outward. “Your soldiers beat him while I watched. For what reason? What was he to you, that you had to break his spine? Were you scared of what he might do? Were you afraid people would take his research to heart, that it would ramp up the protests to steer Sarajevo back to communism?” I push a finger into his chest, riding the wave of fury. “Did you enjoy listening to him scream for mercy? Beg for it to end? Did you not hear
me
? No one did. Not then. I was as invisible as he was. Congratulations. You took us both.” God, I want to kill him. Rip him apart with my hands. Feel his blood slick on my fingers. “Get out of my face,” I growl.

     A standoff, and only one of us has a gun. He breaks the contact first. “They will have to choose,” he repeats and stalks off.

     “Nora. Your roommate. You should have brought him.” Zlata’s dark eyes glitter in the spotlights dotting the club.

     “What for? He’s got a busted leg. Can’t dance. Plus, he’s white. White men can’t dance.” The cocktail is better than I’d expected. The whole place is better than I’d expected. The industrial feel suits the environment. An actual DJ would have been nice, but the sound system is several steps above decent. It’s been a mix of club hits I recognize and those I haven’t, plus some truly old school R&B. TLC’s “Creep” was playing a moment ago.

     “You are thinking of American men. Yes, they cannot dance. But the Italians, the Spanish…” Mila licks her lips and smiles.

     I snort. “Declan’s Irish. I doubt he’s got any more rhythm than your typical American frat boy.” Ryan had had two left feet. He'd been happy enough to let me go off with girlfriends for the night instead of embarrassing both of us by trying to dance.

     “Who cares about the dancing or his leg? I just want my hands on him. I can do that at the table.” Zlata’s laugh is a husky, sensuous thing, but there’s a steely determination to it. She wants him, all right, and she’s going to go after him.

     I guess the question is whether I should step aside or tell her to back off.

     After the run–in with Cristian, I’d gone home and opened a book, staring at the pages as though they would give me the answers to the questions flooding my brain. When the door to the flat opened and Declan greeted me, I didn’t answer. The last thing I needed was to talk to him, because all it would do is add to the confusion.

     He'd pulled out his laptop and started loading pictures, and after a while, I'd actually managed to focus on the story in my hands. The silence had become companionable, and I'd almost forgot our circumstances. Just a couple enjoying each other’s company, doing their own thing. I'd made dinner, and he'd left to go watch a football match while I'd showered. I'd made it to Mila’s without freaking out, and I was pretty damn proud of myself I hadn’t fallen to pieces today.

     The panic attack on the street didn’t count. Besides, I didn’t cry, didn't try to hide, didn’t sleep away the afternoon like I would have in the past. As little as three weeks ago, I would have huddled under the covers until I managed to fall asleep.

     I’m fairly certain that if I hadn’t stumbled upon Declan in the street, I wouldn’t be here tonight. I wouldn’t have made the conscious choice to socialize. Violence has a way of provoking meaningful actions. But something’s holding me back. Something’s preventing me from putting Ryan in a little box labeled the past. Some
one
. Someone with a lovely accent and the ability to make me think I can start over. Someone who holds me in the middle of the night and tosses off thoughtless comments during the day.

     Declan’s kind of an asshole. Why I’d want to stick with him is beyond me. I’d be better off with a nice guy. Declan is not a nice guy.

     “You’re welcome to him, babe.” I down the rest of my drink.

     “You do not want him for yourself? If I am taking such a man from you, I should replace him.” Zlata waggles her eyebrows. “What kind do you like?”

     “I think you mean type,” I say dryly. “I’m not interested.”

     She frowns. “How can you not be interested in men? Many varieties to choose from. I know I want to sample as many as possible.”