Fracture (6 page)

     Murat won’t let it go. “What were you thinking, getting that close?”

     “Close to what?” Declan’s gaze swings from me to Murat, brow furrowed. It locks on the frame in my hands. “What is that?”

     If I could push it into my body, I would. “Nothing. The living room floor’s starting to crash. We can’t stay here much longer or we won’t be able to get to the door.” Ignoring the furious looks from the two men, I slip the picture into Declan’s bag, toss in the nectarines and
The Master and Margarita
for good measure, and skirt the edge of the living room, heading for the door. “Coming?”

     The trek from Maršala tita to Grbavicka is slow and silent. Occasionally Murat or Declan will mumble something and the other will mumble right back, but they ignore me, for the most part.

     We’ve been walking for a half hour, keeping to the shadows as much as possible, when Murat stops, Declan stumbling next to him. “We are going to your place, correct?”

     I hadn’t given it much thought. Or any thought, really. But Declan and I need a place to go — or, rather,
Declan
needs a place to go. “You can take him to your flat, right? One of you can sleep on the floor or something.” I’m being bratty. I don’t care.

     “I have only been there once, but I am certain I can find your flat again.” Murat’s gaze burns with anger. What? Does he think having someone around will keep me from doing stupid things? As evidenced by the picture I rescued, that’s not the case. “We will go there.”

     Since Murat’s the one bearing most of Declan’s weight and not me, I don’t have much choice. We start moving again, and twenty minutes later we reach my building.

     Murat deposits his burden on the old couch in my living room and stalks out of the flat, slamming the door behind him. Declan’s face is impassive, his gaze sharp as he watches me drop the bag on the floor and pull out the nectarines, book, and the framed photo.

     I can’t have it out. Not yet. I’m not ready to see Ryan’s smiling face every day. Opening an empty drawer in the kitchen, I slip it inside.

     Declan, unsurprisingly, hasn’t moved. “Think you can stay out of danger for the next few days? Or is it too much to ask that you wait until I’m rid of this sling?”

     How is this Declan the same man who flung himself over me, who let me hold on and held on
to me
just a short while ago? He’s even crueler than the man from this morning, and there’s no trace of the charm he turns on and off at whim.

     It makes him easier to deal with. With a shrug, I pick up the bag of nectarines. “Want one?”

     He studies me, no,
scrutinizes
me for long, long moments. Finally, he nods. Then he slouches down, wincing at the movement, and tips his head back to rest against the couch. Lines of tension bracket his mouth, fan out from his eyes.

     I should apologize. For running out on him this morning, for not stopping to think before I risked my life to retrieve a simple picture.

     I head for the kitchen instead.

     I’ve got to remember to thank Cristian the next time he finds me. The nectarines are delicious, plump and juicy and that perfect combination of tart and sweet. Inside my flat, it’s silent save the slurping of nectarine juice.

     It’s strange, being here with someone else in the room. Since I moved in almost two years ago, no one has been inside. Certainly not the actual tenants. I suspect they’ve either left the city or are dead, which makes it easier on me. I won’t have to explain why a stranger is living in the flat.

     But Declan’s continued silence means I feel obligated to make conversation. “Do you want something to read?” I wave my hand at the bookshelf. Books are crammed in every which way, stacked two deep, and when I ran out of room I used the floor.

     He still says nothing, only continues eating his nectarine and watching me with cold, cold eyes. He stares for so long I start to squirm. Finally his gaze shifts to the shelf behind me. “Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a problem?”

     “Ha ha.” I know how it looks. I raided every English-language bookstore in the city. And by “raided,” I mean
stole
. When you have very little money, you get desperate for entertainment.

     Licking the last of the juice from my fingers, I wipe my hands on my jeans and stand, wandering over to the bookcase. It’s tall and wide, and the books cover every topic imaginable. Some of the books are Ryan’s, those pieces of him that melded themselves to me and I couldn’t let them go. I’ve thumbed through his copy of
The Art of War
so many times I can’t open it any longer, for fear of it falling apart. Others are mine, ones I picked up later.
The End of Alice
.
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
.
Night. Prisoner X. The Communist Manifesto.

     I’d never fully understood, nor paid much attention to, what Ryan’s thesis was about. All I know is that socialist theory was a part of it. Socialist theory and the renewed interest in a Communist state in Russia, building off the fears we’d see a regenerated Communist bloc in our lifetime. Not something I would have expected the US government to be wary of, although they’re so skittery these days, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d reconvened the House Un–American Activities Committee.

     After Ryan’s death, needing a distraction from all the desperate calls and letters and emails home, I started reading everything I could get my hands on regarding communism and socialist theory. It’s an endless source of fascination to me, and I thought — still do — that the more I knew about the subject that was barring me from American soil, the better off I’d be. Forewarned is forearmed, and all that shit. What if I somehow made it out of Bosnia and wasn’t allowed refugee status? I could end up in the hands of American forces and thrown in prison. If I ever had to explain Ryan’s thesis in an attempt to wiggle my way out of trouble, I didn’t want to make an even bigger mess of it.

     Whether this theory is correct is another question. I haven’t had much opportunity to pursue it, spending my time stealing medical supplies and avoiding grenades. Mostly it just makes me feel closer to him.

     “Anything catch your fancy?” I glance over my shoulder. He’s gone back to studying me, like I’m a puzzle he needs to solve. I shrug, covering my discomfort. “Or not.” My palms are starting to itch. I rub them over my thighs, the tingling growing until it’s almost painful. It happens when I’m nervous. “I need to go back out, get more food.”

     “No.” The answer is harsh and immediate. He struggles to his feet and hops over to me, pain etched on his face. “You’ve already proven your stupidity. You don’t need to keep proving it.”

     Why? Why does he care? Why would it
matter
to him what I do? He has a roof over his head and apparently the determination to get around on his own, broken leg and all. Murat, Ismael, and the doctor all know where he is now, and they’d be around to check on him regardless of what happens to me.

     “I’ve got a conscience,” he continues. “I’d rather not have your death on it, lass.”

     “We still need more food, though. I don’t have enough to feed two people.” I barely have enough to feed myself sometimes. “And we’ve no guarantee how long we’ll be safe here. I need to find a place to move to. You’re not exactly mobile. I am.”

     His entire body goes rigid, then relaxes. “Fine.” The look he gives me is blank, devoid of everything, coldness included. He turns and limps back to the couch, lowering himself with the care of a beaten man, old before his time.

      There’s too much pain on his face. “Sure you don’t want a book or something? I can see if I’ve got some painkillers. Don’t know how much good they’ll do, but it’d be something.” Without waiting for an answer, I duck into the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets until I locate the ibuprofen.

     “Here.” Sitting onto the couch next to him, I shove a glass of water into his hand and shake out a couple of pills.

     He balances the glass on the arm of the couch before holding out his hand for the pills. Tossing them back, he chases them with water, draining the glass. A fat drop clings to his lower lip, disappearing when his tongue swipes over it. “Can you get this sling off?”

     “You’re supposed to keep it immobile except when—”

     “Except when I’m doing the exercises. I know. I’ve dislocated my shoulder before. It hurts like a motherfucker. I’ll live.” I help him unhook the sling. He jerks his head toward the book I set on a nearby table. “Keep reading. It’s a good distraction.”

     He’s probably right. We could both use distraction at the moment. I retrieve the book and settle into the corner of the couch, the space familiar in its ability to cocoon me. I locate the bookmark and start reading.

     It’s not as one–sided as last time. Declan interrupts on occasion, asking questions or musing on a particular point, the discussion and reading eating up the minutes. After about an hour, my already abused throat on fire from continuing to talk, I glance up from the page and see he’s asleep. His chest rises and falls in steady, even movements, the lines on his face faded.

     It’s the perfect time to get up, to leave, to go about all the tasks I need to accomplish. But the terror of the day has drained me as well, and I curl up in my corner and shut my eyes. Just for a little while.

* * *

     I’m trapped by something warm and solid. Warm, solid, and smelling faintly of dish soap.

     Dish soap?

     My eyes snap open as a hand brushes over my arm. “Declan?”

     The hand on my arm stills. “Yeah.”

     
Oh
. His chest rumbles under my ear, his sleep-rasped voice with that lovely lilt slinking under my skin. Tilting my head back, I meet his gaze. Sleepy, yes, edged with discomfort. His arm. He’s got me pressed to his side, caging me with the arm he dislocated. “
Declan
.”

     “Shh. You were cold. Shaking with it. You don’t remember moving over here?”

     I shake my head. “I don’t understand you,” I blurt.

     His lips tip up in a wicked little smile. “I’m not that complicated.”

     I scowl, which only makes him smile wider. “Why do all men say that? ‘I’m not that complicated.’ Right.”

     “It’s the truth.” He tugs me back down, and because he’s warm and the flat is cool and growing cooler, I let him. “Being laid up, forced to sit around while you cluck over my injuries—”

     “I do not cluck!”

     “Yes, you do, although you’re trying not to. I can’t go out and get the food for you, and I can’t find a new place to stay. I don’t like the thought of you wandering around out there on your own, no matter how capable you are, because it’s not smart. I don’t like having to take care of someone else.”

     “How is that not complicated?”

     “It’s contradictory,” he says, nudging me a little closer. “Not complicated.”

     “Why don’t you let me up so I can get us a couple of blankets? Or dinner?”

     “Because I tend to go with what feels good, and having you right there feels good.”

     I snort, his words making no sense but sending a shiver down my spine all the same. “I’m lying on your injured ribs and your shoulder must be killing you.”

     “The ribs are on the other side.” He doesn’t say anything about his shoulder. Giving in, I settle my head on his chest, draping a leg over his thigh in an attempt to get more comfortable. It’s the closest I’ve gotten to a full body embrace in ages, and my skin sings at the contact, begs for more.

     This is enough for now.

     “Where are you from?”

     He chuckles again, and the vibrations hum through me. “The accent and the name didn’t give me away? Ireland. Galway.”

     Galway. Wild and open on the coast. Can he see the water from his house? Smell the ocean? “I wasn’t sure.
Lass
isn’t exactly Irish.”

     “Isn’t it? You look like a lass to me.”

     “Hmph.” I trail my fingers over the cabled ridges of his sweater. “How’d you end up in this godforsaken city? Why didn’t you leave when all the foreigners were evacuated?”

     “Not all the foreigners. There are pockets here and there. It’s an assignment. Got here a few weeks ago. I’m a photographer.” His hand comes to rest at my hip. “You? You’re an American?”

     His warmth is intoxicating. I’m drunk on touch. “Yeah. Pittsburgh. In Pennsylvania.”

     “I know where Pittsburgh is.”

      A giggle escapes. “Yeah, well, that’s where I’m from.” God, I haven’t felt this good since Ryan…

     Since before he died. Before he was beaten to death in front of me, while I stood by and didn’t do anything other than scream and struggle against the arms holding me back.

     The heat’s unbearable and Declan’s touch suddenly heavy and unwelcome, but I’m careful not jostle him too much as I struggle to sit up. He resists, the two of us in a tug of war, and he lets me win, his hand dropping away. A part of me protests at the loss, the slight, possessive pressure a ghost fading with each second. “I should see about dinner.”

     I escape into the kitchen just as my legs start to shake. I grip the counter. Food. I came in here for food. Opening the fridge, I locate a package of chicken breasts and check the date. Over a week old. Using a knife to slit open the plastic, I examine them, sniff them, grimace at the slimy texture. But they seem okay. Or they will be, once they’re cooked. “Chicken okay?” I call out.

     “Yes.”

     The familiar rhythms of cooking blanks my mind, though the preparation doesn’t take nearly long enough. All too soon I’m dishing up the chicken and rice and carrying the plates into the living room.

     We eat in silence, utensils scraping along ceramic filling the void of conversation. More silence as I clean up the dishes. I take my time, wiping the counter aimlessly. Nerves rumble in my belly. I don’t like what he’s doing to me, making me remember, making me
forget
. He’s giving me thoughts and ideas I’m not ready to entertain.