Page 41 of Hearts Held
He grabs my hand, leading me to the door. As I open it, I suddenly deflate.
I do not find any trace of a present or gift box in the foyer, nor in the living room or awaiting me on the staircase.
Just as I turn toward Everett questioningly, I hear the back door open and shut. Then Biscuit andsomethingemerge from the kitchen. “What is that creature?” I ask, pointing at the large mammal sitting in my hallway next to Biscuit.
“That’s just Biscuit,” Everett dryly replies.
To which Biscuit appears offended. “Oi! I beg ya pardon, sir? I made sure your surprise was well-kept and ready for the missus. I ain’t no creature. Imma gentleman.” Biscuit grabs his leather suspenders and stands proudly with his round, five-foot stature.
“Seriously, what is that a malformed pig?” I outstretch both hands, studying the massive canine with stocky shoulders, a prominent, wrinkly forehead, a short snout and large jowls. It is peering into my soul. I’m slightly concerned it might steal it, since it’s a ginger-colored canine, but maybe I have some hope, since it has a large white patch on his chest. It tilts its head, then snorts in my direction. “Did you gift me a malformed pig?” I repeat, staring with disdain.
Everett chuckles under his breath. “How dare you, woman. This is a Dogue de Bordeaux, a special breed from France, and one of the only good things that comes from that country, other than pastries and wine. Besides, I figured you may like a companion.”
“What on Earth drew you to that conclusion?” I drawl, narrowing my eyes, feeling frustration line my features. “I don’t have time to take care of a pig!”
Everett moves in front of me, his large frame shadowing my frustration and causing prior tension to emerge from the pit of my stomach due to his close proximity.
“My dear dove, once this dog bonds with its owner, it is very loyal, especially toward female owners. It will rip out someone’s throat if they try to harm you. They have a bite force of five hundred to six hundred PSI. Biscuit is going to assist in caring for your dog-pig, as you are a shameful workaholic.”
My teeth grit together as he continues.
“In addition, I’d like to make sure someone can protect you at all times, and unfortunately, I do not want my men—nor any man—to be looking at you for a prolonged period. I may gougetheir eyeballs out.” He emphasizes the last word, then turns to Biscuit and states, “Sorry, Biscuit, no hard feelings.”
Biscuit shrugs his shoulders. “S’all right, boss, wouldn’t expect anything less.”
I place my hands on my hips. “I’m naming it Pig.”
Biscuit muffles his own snort by clasping his hand over his mouth, as Everett leans into my ear and states, “Dove, you could name it Jesus. I just want you safe.” Unexpectedly, he kisses my forehead, then he and Biscuit exit my home. Before Biscuit leaves, he leans into my space and states, “Told ya my other nickname was Trouble, missus.” Then he winks at me before exiting the building.
I stare at my new friend, Pig, as he snorts yet again in my direction.
Chapter 10: Everett
You Can Run, Adam Jones
The cold concrete welcomes me as I brush my fingertips along the walls of the underground tunnels. These tunnels were created for shelter, in case of aerial strikes or other potential dangers townspeople could need protection from. We also utilize the tunnels to move merchandise and bodies.
I focus on my breathing.
Inhale—one, two.
Hold my breath.
Exhale through my mouth—three, four, five.
After a difficult time sleeping, I drove back into town to run away from the familiar, haunting eyes of my frequent night terrors. The tunnels are a stark contrastto the underground bunkers I was tortured in during the war. Here, there is a sense of familiarity.
Clarity.
Quiet.
After several minutes to myself, I hear the echo of pounding steps resonating through the tunnels.
“MR. EVERETT, SIR!” Clint’s voice comes closer with each step. Stopping in my tracks, I turn to face him, studying his reddened face, panting body and the stark terror flooding his eyes.
“Clint, it is four o’clock in the morning. What are you doing up?” I ask, like an irritated parent.
Placing his hands on his knees, he bends forward trying to regain his breath. “Sir. There’s been…another…attack. Another lady is…dead,” he states in between breaths.
