Authors: Harlow Stone
Mind Lies (19 page)
I nod, giving her one last squeeze before walking toward my past—and, hopefully, a brighter future.
“Ye’ lost?” asks the older man untying the giant ropes holding the vessel to the dock.
I shake my head, looking for the tattoo on his left hand. Once I spot it, I tell him what Paddy told me to say—my ticket onto the small ship.
“Heading home to see Nessa,” I softly tell him. Straightening, he tosses the rope and gestures with his hand to come along. “Ye don’t waste time. Come, Lass.”
My heart pitter-patters when he says lass, but I swallow my hurt and follow him onto the ship.
“Home is nae where ye sleep, Jerrilyn. Home is where ye heart is full.”
Nessa’s words from the past echo through my head as I head toward the first place I ever felt at home.
The first place my heart became full.
“Deep breath, Jerri.”
I don’t make a habit of talking to myself, but when I work late and few people are around, I can’t help it.
It’s creepy.
As are many of the men working out of the warehouse-side of the building.
O’Doyle Imports has been my employer for half a year now, and if I wasn’t so dedicated to my job as head of the purchasing department, I wouldn’t stay here so late.
I enjoy my work. Not just because I hope to own my own store full of treasures one day, but because this job gives me extensive knowledge when it comes to the importing and exporting of goods and the purchase and acquiring of foreign treasures.
This job is exactly what I need to help develop my business sense for when I open my own shop.
Moving to Ireland for the job was a big leap, but considering I had left little back home in the States, it was an easy choice to make. Having arrived almost a year ago, I’ve had plenty of time to settle in and learn the lay of the land, so to speak, before starting work.
I have no regrets.
I absolutely adore it here. The people, the smell, the beautiful landscape. It’s welcoming and makes me feel at peace, even though I only know a few people . . . including the man who continues to screw me silly on a semi-regular basis.
Locklin.
Opening the door to the warehouse, I smile a little as I think of the dark and broody man who left my bed this morning. Several shipping containers came in today, hence the reason for me working late, again.
It’s dark outside. The warehouse is dimly lit. I search for shipping tags and content forms on the large desk in the back corner. Usually, all the paperwork would be on my desk by now. But someone has been getting sloppy lately because this is the third time I’ve had to come and search for it myself.
Shuffling through bin for today’s imports, I crane my neck when I hear muted voices. Yet another reason I hate working late.
As I said, creepy.
I find the papers I need and begin reading them as I walk. Then I note, yet again, that a container or two is unaccounted for. This has been at least the sixth time since I have worked here that this has happened—and it has become a real pain in the ass. When I get frustrated enough to contact the higher-up, they always take care of it. But the bottom line is I hate not being able to sort this out myself.
I make a quick cruise along the back wall of the warehouse, checking off container numbers, getting closer to the voices.
“Hello?” I ask, walking closer to the end of the space where the larger containers are held. I shiver, feeling like the idiot in a horror movie, when a Russian accented voice from behind asks, “Late workin’?”
I spin around, hoping to find the quiet security guard who occupies the booth out front.
But I’m not that fortunate.
I’ve only seen the creep behind me twice, but I’d have been happy not to see him again. He’s the type with the dead eyes and constant leer that instantly puts you on edge. One of the women at reception had said he’s probably harmless, but the look on his face has suggested otherwise to me in previous encounters.
Calming my racing heart and clutching the paperwork to my chest, I give him a small nod before responding, “Just finishing up. Someone forgot to bring the receiving papers to my desk today, but I found them.”
He stares blankly at me, and I move to make my way back to the office when he moves slightly to the right. “You were talkin’ to someone?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No. I thought I heard people talking.” I let out a dry laugh, hopefully excusing myself from this awkward conversation. Unexpectedly, a banging noise from behind causes me to jump.
“Help. Help us,” moan voices from behind. I spin in that direction, forgetting the creep in front of me.
“What the?” I mumble. Heart racing, I speed toward the container making the noise.
“Would not do that if I were you,” the creep says from behind as I swing the latch on the container next to a big bay door. But before I can get it open, he grabs my hair, hauling me backward with so much force that I lose my footing and land on my tailbone.
I cry out in pain and reach behind me, scratching any exposed skin I can find on his arms and hands.
“Bitch,” he grunts, hardly fazed from my attack. He hauls me roughly by the arm and slams me face-first into the metal shipping container containing god knows who.
“Get off, you son of a bitch! Help! Help me!” I wail, and my heart breaks when at least three voices sounding much weaker than mine holler back.
“Help us!” a few women cry, and not only in English.
A cry for help in what I assume is also Russian comes from the container.
He slams me face-first into the hard, unyielding metal of the container. “Who the hell are you?” I grunt.
“Let us go!” the women howl.
I kick my sandal-clad foot behind me into his shin. He grunts and then presses his erection against my hips. I swallow the bile quickly rising into my throat and open my mouth to scream again.
Forcibly grabbing my jaw and twisting my head to the side, he cuts off my cries.
“Not someone you want to meet in warehouse at night,” he grunts into my face, his accent thick.
“Let us go. We won’t tell anyone,” I meekly say, my one-hundred-and-twenty-pound body continuing to struggle against his two-hundred-plus one. He doesn’t answer but roughly twists my arm behind my back instead. “I don’t get paid to let merchandise go. But perhaps I get bonus for extra.”
My entire body shivers, and I struggle against his firm hold on my arm and scream as loud as I can, kicking and losing my sandals in the process.
“Help m—”
“Quiet!” he commands, flashing a knife in front of my face, touching it to my cheek.
I shake my head lightly. “Please, no. Please.”
“Nosy bitches not good for business,” he says before licking up the side of my neck.
Gagging, I try to shift away, but I feel the knife at my waist. “No! Please don’t!” I wail, twisting my body away from the blade. He slams me forward again, my head crying out in pain. He lets my arm go but then grabs the waistband of my shorts.
I scream when his fingers pull the waistband away from my body. I try to pull away from him, feeling the knife slice through my belt.
I’d rather die.
That’s all I can think of as I fight, which only seems to anger him further. I feel the breeze of the night on my lower back; he has succeeded in cutting through my shorts. A pain unlike anything I have ever felt shoots through my body as his knife pierces my hip.
“Agh!” I cry in agony.
Suddenly, the man disappears from behind me, and a muted thud follows.
I spin around, leaning against the container for support. As I try to flee, strong arms surround my shoulders.
“No!” I push my arms out before a soothing voice says, “Easy, Lass. I’ve got you.”
Choking out a sob, I look up into stormy-blue eyes. “Lock?”
His jaw ticks before he bends down and places a forceful but gentle kiss on my lips. “We need to run, Lass. Okay? I’ll keep you safe, but we need to run.”
I nod. “The women?” I mumble, pointing to the container. I hear a clang behind me, jumping at the noise. A man dressed in black, who had arrived with Locklin, opens the door. To my horror, there are three women huddled into a corner.
Their faces are dirty, and the stench of human waste is strong. They look from me to the man who opened the door, to the evil man out cold on the floor.
“We don’t have much time. Come,” the dark man tells the women. They remain in the corner and look at me with wide, scared, yet hopeful, eyes. Locklin steadies me with his arm and says, “Tell them, Lass. They’ll be safe, but they need to go. Now.”
I nod, ignoring the tears pooling in my eyes; seeing the woman in huddled in the container is a difficult sight. One is no more than a girl. “You’ll be safe, but you need to hurry!” I emphasize, using hand gestures
Surprisingly, they trust me, perhaps recognizing me as the woman who was screaming a moment ago. Perhaps their trust is based on pity; surely they can see the blood pouring down my face and leg, that I’m hurt.
Breathing through my mouth to avoid the smell in the container—God knows how long they were kept in there—I watch as they exit the container, taking slow painful steps with the man dressed in black guiding them.
That could have been me.
I give each woman a nod and a small smile, telling them with my eyes that I hope to high heaven they remain safe and untouched for the rest of their innocent lives. The young girl, who can’t be much older than sixteen, has tears streaming down her little heart-shaped face as the other two hold her up, like support beams on either side of a weak structure.
That poor girl.
All have bruises or welts on their wrists.
All have pain in their eyes. I’m afraid to know how it got there.
“Come, Lass,” Locklin softly says as he guides me to the side of the building. The man in black waves the women toward a green van labeled as a seafood delivery van. “They’ll be safe, Lass. I promise.”
With a wave toward the van, I numbly nod and give a small smile to the women as they pile in.
“Danke,” the oldest, a blonde woman, whispers before guiding the others to safety. She has true appreciation in her eyes.
The van speeds off seconds later. Locklin goes still in front of me.
“We need to run, Lass. Now,” he grumbles, dragging me by the arm. Headlights shine across the front of the building.
“Run, Jerri!”
Tripping over the loose gravel of the driveway, I do my best to stay on my feet. There’s blood running down my leg, and my hip is on fire. Locklin’s grasp on my fingers tightens to the point of pain as he pulls me off the driveway and down the hill.
He’ll keep me safe.
I know he will.
Jolting awake, I take in my surroundings and ground myself for a moment before swinging my legs over the side of the small twin bed. Light streaming through the porthole in my room tells me it’s late morning as I get up and head to the small ensuite for a shower.
Travelling on a freight ship across the Atlantic is not glamorous, but it’s not filthy or gross either. Paddy ensured I got my own room down the hall from the captain’s suite. The rooms are simple—white and steel. But they’re clean and relatively quiet, save for the roaring of the ocean and the hum of the ship.
After my shower, I dress in a simple pair of jeans and black sweater before leaving my room and heading to the mess hall for something to eat.
Three meals are served every day, and I’ve missed breakfast again, which leads me to the fruit counter. Grabbing a banana and making a piece of toast, I wrap up my breakfast in a paper towel and head to the main deck.
It’s my fourth day here, and in a couple more days, we’ll dock in Belfast. I can’t say it has been an uneventful journey. It has been quiet, and if I’m not engaged in mind, I’m occupied by sitting in this plastic chair, which is bolted to the deck, watching the men below me move to and fro as they do all the things that require keeping such a large vessel afloat.
Leaning back with my feet planted on the railing and breakfast in my lap, I think back to the women I saw that night, the innocent women I used to think of constantly before my memory was gone.
After Locklin rescued me and helped me get settled with Paddy and Nessa, he assured that his friend, the man in black, got them to safety, that no one would hurt them anymore. His details were vague, much like the man in question, but there was no doubt in my mind that he spoke the truth.
Locklin is not a man who would harm women, or allow harm to come to them.
To my surprise, it would be almost a month later before he would tell me about his front as an exporter of fish and seafood in Ireland.
Was it an actual business?
Yes.
It was a longtime family business passed down to Paddy from his Scottish grandfather. That’s how I met Locklin. He’d come into our office to set up shipping, but these visits became more frequent; he wanted to initiate contact with me. Soon these interactions became our unconventional relationship.
Locklin worked for Paddy for many years before the business became more of a front for him to uncover what I now know was human trafficking, which is something Locklin holds close to his heart after what happened to
her.
Siobhan.
It would be almost a year after my attack before he would finally tell me about her as well.
“Miss?”
I turn, seeing a kind man, Flynn, behind me. “Yes?”
He smiles kindly, his gray hair blowing against the ocean wind. “Phone call for you outside the captain’s deck.”
I smile back and follow him through the maze of portals before taking a seat at the small table in the hallway and putting the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Ye sea sick yet?” Paddy’s voice heartily grumbles down the line. I smile and reply, “Not yet. It has been a smooth cruise.”
He laughs. “Flynn says the seas are smooth until ye reach the port. Nessa’s nearly dancin’ awaitin’ ye to git ’ere. . . .” He trails off.
“I can’t wait to see her either, Paddy. It has been too long.”
“Aye, Lass, it has,” he grumbles. He begins to speak again but hesitates.
“What is it, Paddy?” I ask.
He sighs. “Ah, Lass. I don’t like lyin’ to me boy. I know ye said it was important. But I’ll tell ye he called today. I dinnae know if I ever hear him so hurtin’. Says he made a poor choice, but he’s workin’ on fixin’ it. He would nae tell me what it was.”
Swallowing past the lump in my throat and ignoring the fact that a hurting Locklin still hurts me as well, I say, “I’m very sorry, Paddy, but over the phone is not the way to discuss what happened. Two more days, please?” I say softly.
Clearly, he hears the sorrow—pain—in my voice as he replies, “Ye know I’d do anythin’ for ye, Lass. Two more days.”
I sigh. “Thank you, Paddy.”
Hanging up the phone and settling an internal restlessness I can’t seem to shake, I pace the hall with no destination in mind. Locklin was right when he told Paddy he made a poor choice, but there will be no fixing it.
How do you fix the heart you broke? How do you take back leaving someone behind? How on earth do you make a hurting woman’s heart whole again when she knows you didn’t want to be the one to hold it together in the first place?
When she knows she wasn’t important enough to hold onto?
To keep?
There’s only one answer: you don’t.
“Excuse me, Ms. Sloane?”
I turn and greet the captain’s right-hand man, Colin. He’s in his early forties and has been very kind. His wife Laura works on the ship as well, and although I haven’t quite made friends, I’ve had tea with her.
“Hey, Colin. How are you today?”
He smiles. “Good, thank you. I don’t mean to be a burden, and if you would like to say no, that’s entirely fine. However, the chef has come down with the flu, and I was wondering if you’re interested in taking over the kitchen for dinner? There was a small leak in the boiler this morning, so we’re shorthanded.” He fixes his hat before adding, “Feel free to say no, but you seem a little restless, so I thought it was worth a shot since Laura told me you like to cook.”
He smiles sheepishly at me. I return the smile before asking, “How many people do I have to feed?”
Standing taller, he says, “Twenty-six, including yourself. Everything you need is in the big fridge and freezers.”
I nod slowly. “You know what, Colin? I think that sounds like a good way to occupy my afternoon.”
He nods. “So I got myself a chef for the night?”
I nod back, feeling a little lighter knowing I have a purpose for the day. “You sure do.”
* * *
The men sure like their beef on this ship. The past four dinners have consisted of burgers, spaghetti and meatballs, Swiss steak, and Irish stew, of course. Staying with the curve, I had grabbed three large prime rib roasts from the fridge and paired them with grilled root vegetables, large baked potatoes, homemade Caesar salad, and au jus.
“Paddy speaks highly of ya, but he hadn’t told us what a fine cook you were,” the Captain tells me from the head of our table as he devours his dinner. Forgoing the regular buffet lineup, I had placed platters of food on every table and had one of the deck hands help me set them.
“I’m glad you enjoy it, Captain. Thank you. But there’s a catch,” I tell him with a raised brow. He returns a raised brow, signaling for me to continue. “If I cook, I don’t like to clean up. Perhaps some fortunate eaters can help clear the plates and load the dishwashers when we’re finished.”
Chuckling, the Captain, an older man, hollers, “The lady fed ya. That means you fishy-smellin’ bastards are in charge of cleanin’ the kitchen.”
There are hollers and “Hear! Hears!” followed by palms landing heavily on the tables. For the first time in days, I laugh. I’m grateful they enjoyed my dinner and am happy I don’t need to be on my feet anymore. My back is killing me; and, lately, my growing baby has been forcing me to have at least one nap a day.
I know the men on the ship have noticed my bump, though only a few have mentioned it. Regardless, the men have been considerate and respectful, either because they’re fine men or because Paddy gave the ship a tongue-lashing and a warning.
I’m leaning toward the latter.
Settling into bed that night, I place my hands on my full stomach and pray for peace. I hope Ireland provides me with much-needed shelter and perspective. I haven’t thought about children in years—having my own that is. After what had happened the first time, of course I am hesitant. Once I began my relationship with Tom, I went in with the hope that one day I would have a child, but it didn’t take me long to know that it would never be with him.
Or anyone other than Locklin.
How do you picture having children with anyone else when for the past twelve years you’ve been in love with only one man?
I think it’s a blessing.
It’s as if the universe is telling me that even though I don’t get to have
all of him
, I still get to keep a
part
of him.
“Two more days,” I whisper to myself before swiftly falling asleep.
