Page 30 of Debt of My Soul

Most of the men here aren’t in committed relationships, but there’s a constant supply of women on the compound. Many looking to trade intimate moments for a hit of the latest batch that came in. A few have girlfriends, but even then, if Blitz wants one of them, he takes them. No questions asked. Call it the perk of his position as next in line. The only time he backs down is if they’re married.

A couple years ago, a guy named Cider found out another guy on the compound was sleeping with his wife. Cider killed him. And at that point, new rules were instated about marriage and messin’ with another’s wife.

Stepping through the door, I move to turn on a low-light lamp in the living room before removing my boots. They are large, clunky things needed for riding my bike and occasionally beating the shit out of people. As is part of my job as the enforcer.

It’s only part of the work I do for Darrin, though. When I first started with him, after I was allowed in the compound, I had the rookie jobs. Cleaning up blood, unloading shipments from the border, or sobering up the guys after a long night. Since then, Darrin has trusted me more and more. I liaise between Darrin and the dealers often. I go to them. Check their count and their stash.

In the corner of the cabin, near the door, is an old coat rack my grandfather made me, and I fling my black leather coat on it. He gave them to all three of us grandkids a few years ago for Christmas. He doesn’t have much time for woodworking anymore, but the deep cherry and smooth lines make it the only nice piece of furniture this whole place has.

The couch is an old burgundy leather from Double Lucky’s, and the recliner is from my father’s shop. Everything I used to own I sold to come here four years ago.

Wood paneling wraps the kitchen, and I installed open shelving with reclaimed wood instead of upper cabinets. The light pine lower cabinets are full of knots, and most needed replacing when I moved in. Then two years ago, tired of all the wood, I replaced the butcher block countertops with a precut piece of granite.

Sliding a cast iron skillet from the lower cabinet, I place it on a burner before kicking the stove twice to turn it on.

I grab five eggs from the refrigerator, which is usually what I reach for most nights as a midnight snack. They splatter in the sizzling pan and the heated butter pops out to sting my skin.

I don’t flinch. Only stare at the eggs as they cook, exhausted.

Blonde hair and gray eyes flicker in my thoughts from this evening. My mother kept going on and on about how lucky Adam was that he’d found someone. Him being such a “good boy” and all, he deserves to have a “nice woman”.

I snort and my eyes slide around the dimly lit cabin and over the knitted Afghan folded neatly on the couch. If only my mother knew.

Fleur, though—her narrowed eyes at me. They dilated in fear and widened in apprehension when she found out I was Adam’s brother. He hadn’t told her. Probably for good reason.

But that fear melted into something … more. Furrowed brows and deepening lines in her expression—curiosity. Like she had a million and one questions to ask, and I can be sure Adam won’t answer them. If he tries, they’ll be lies.

I flip the eggs. Yolk spills out of one, creating swirls of golden yellow in the curved pattern of a horseshoe. Scowling at the eggs, I stab the others, violently breaking each one until they’re seared through.

Mismatched plates are all I have, and I reach up for a blue one with red speckled dots and slide the snack onto the plate. Starved, it takes two forkfuls to devour them, and I clean up in a hurry, craving sleep.

But before I can shower, I take out my notebook and draw those eyes. Glistening silver in the sun but storm gray in the clouded day. They claw at my mind, and I draw. Dumping out the vision of how they widened in fear, yet also detonated with irritation when she saw me today. Who is this woman? And why am I drawn to her?

When I’m finished, I pad into the single-person bathroom and twist the shower handle to near scalding. The blistering burn doesn’t even register with me anymore.

I feel nothing.

Chapter 14

Fleur

Barbeque invades my thoughts for the entire week since the Fourth of July community event. Some of the best-smoked brisket I’ve ever had.

Adam said his mother told him I was welcome anytime, and that she’d be happy to smoke more meat for me. I’m so obsessed with the food. I almost took him up on the offer right there on the spot.

With some additional work projects and my own farmhouse slowly entering the finishing stages, I haven’t seen Adam much since the Fourth. It may be for the best. He was rattled by Liam being there. Questions distract me when I talk with him and threaten to blurt out of my mouth. What’s the deal with him and his brother? Why is he being secretive? Probably not the best move on my part if I hit him with an interrogation.

Today we have three new check-ins at the bed-and-breakfast. All the rooms need to be turned around. The Floral Room, The Art Room, and The Writing Room are three of the five here at the B&B; each one decorated to live up to its name.

Dusty pink wallpaper with an explosion of unique flowers line the wall of—you guessed it—The Floral Room. When I firstcleaned the room, I wondered how anyone could stay in the room without going batty from the wallpaper, but the more I’m in it, the more peaceful it feels. Soft, muted pastel colors create an enchanting whimsy.

In contrast, The Art Room is bold and brash with straight lines and dark frames housing art I’m not sure I’ve seen the style of before. The room has a masculine tone.

The Writing Room is bland in comparison to the other two. Matte white walls with white linens and furniture. One piece of art hangs on the wall that says:Start with a Blank Slate.The blank walls are void of color. Very blank.

As I scurry to the laundry supply closet to gather towels for the new rooms, the smell of chocolate wafts through the house. Mrs. Northgate is baking her dessert for the bar, and I secretly hope she made extra. She mentioned deciding between chocolate pie or fudge. Either way, I’d be happy to sample anything she cooks.

I scramble through my cleans. Spraying and wiping, disinfecting, then spraying and wiping some more. Surprisingly, cleaning often gives me a sense of relief from the loneliness. The out-of-control feeling abates when I’m knee-deep in toilets or fresh linens.

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