Endless as the Rain autor MS Kaye
Endless as the Rain
Opis
Long-felt desires, hopes as long as vain — sad sighs— slow tears accustomed to run sad into as many rivers as two eyes could add, pouring like fountains, endless as the rain — cruelty beyond humanity, a pain so hard it makes compassionate stars go mad with pity: these are the first passions I’ve had.
Rozdział 1
Apr 9, 2022
I was good at quiet. If I walked quietly, if I moved without anyone noticing, if I was just background, silent as the clouds, I could catch a glimpse of beauty. Some places were touched with tiny flashes of the sublime. You just had to pay attention. That wasn’t always so easy.
My favorite lane was the strongest of these touched places. On my way home from a late day at the end of tax season, the gravel crunched under my feet and a breeze bounced among the trunks to lift my hair from my back and play with it. The lowering sun filtered through the fresh, bright green leaves above, a natural sunscreen for my fair skin. I lifted my face to it, to feel its warmth, to feel the color it brought to my cheeks.
The crunch was louder, from more than just my feet.
I looked around to see a black sedan creeping up behind me. I moved to get out of the way, barely on the gravel. I kept walking and vaguely appreciated that the driver didn’t speed by in impatience and kick up dirt and rocks. The car continued at the same careful pace.
Just as the passenger door was at my arm’s length, the car stopped. I guessed the driver must be seeking directions, and waited for a window to roll down. They had to be lost. I’d never seen an unfamiliar car on this road. It was only used or even known about by old residents of the neighborhood.
The back door opened, and a man stepped out.
I caught a glimpse of his tailored suit and overly straight posture as I glanced around, deciding if I should keep walking, walk quickly...or bolt into the trees toward one of the houses.
“It’s getting late,” he said. “Would you care for a ride home before it gets too dark?”
His voice—it sounded vaguely familiar. As I looked at him properly, part of my mind was distracted. His skin was like white marble, sculpting a beautiful face, but hard, unchanging, unyielding. Except his eyes. They were puddles in the stone, the only gentle thing about him.
I stepped back.
He lurched forward and grabbed my arm just above my elbow. His grip was oddly gentle.
I tried to pull away, and opened my mouth to scream.
“Please,” he said.
I paused to look at him.
“Don’t make a sound.” He said it like a request.
I didn’t understand.
He pulled me toward the open car door.
With all my strength, I yanked at my arm with zero success. His grip didn’t hurt. It was like he allowed a slight amount of movement—just enough to make sure my arm wasn’t bruised by my own struggling. It annoyed me, as if restraining me was no more difficult than restraining a toddler.
I pulled at my arm again.
Nothing.
I balled my hand into a fist and shifted to swing it at his face. Before I could make contact, he scooped me up in one swift movement and set me in the car. “Stop! Let me go!” But my yelling came too late; I was already in the car, my voice quieted by the closed windows.
The man sat, and I slid away from him and pulled at the other door handle. Of course, it was locked. What in the world was happening? He had the wrong girl. That had to be it. He’d mistaken me for someone important.
“Jammed?” he asked the driver.
The man in the front looked down at something on the seat next to him. “Yes, sir.”
The man next to me slammed the door shut. “Drive.”
The car backed down the lane, away from my street, and then spit gravel as it turned onto the main road.
“What do you want?” I demanded. What could he possibly expect to get from me? I had no money and no one who would pay ransom.
Jaw still tight, the man next to me said, “To protect you.”
What?
I came at him, ready to attack.
He grabbed my wrists, still somehow gentle. “Please, Adriane.”
I stopped and stared at him. He knew my name. He hadn’t mistaken me for someone else.
His eyes were different. In the sun, they’d glowed like uncut emeralds, each angle and defect shining the light back at me. Now, behind the deeply tinted windows of the car, his eyes were shadowed, deep like an unexplored cavern.
I ripped my hands away, and he let go. I turned toward the side window, keeping him out of sight so maybe I could think straight. You have to get out of this, Adriane. Think.
But the door was locked, and these two men were obviously extremely capable. They weren’t like the other men I knew, the accountants and clerks. They were clean-cut and well dressed, but something more… They knew things, things they probably shouldn’t know, things that might put them in danger, things that made them dangerous. It was in their quiet calm, their straight postures, their confidence.
My only chance was to be calm and watch for an opportunity, for them to make a mistake, anything. My body tightened as I fought to keep myself still.
The men didn’t speak. Their silence was perfect. I turned slightly toward the front so I could see the driver and watch the other man from the corner of my eye.
The driver only drove, nothing else. He looked left before making a turn, showed me his face for the first time, and I saw nothing in his expression—no worry or concern, or even excitement at having caught their target. He turned his ash blond head back toward the windshield.
I did not look at the dark-haired man next to me, and yet I saw everything peripherally—his two-day-growth beard, the way he sat rigidly still, how he focused on the windshield, and how the fist that rested on his leg clenched so tightly it shook. His presence seeped into my skin like fog on an overcast day. Quiet and slow, it overwhelms your vision, seems to cloud your ears as you try to muddle your way through—but you can’t. Headlights can’t pierce it, and wind can’t clear it. It clings to you.
Then he opened his fist and pressed his hand flat on his thigh. His chest expanded as he took a breath.
“I know you’re frightened,” he said.
I didn’t respond, only stared straight ahead.
“But please believe me,” he continued, “you are not in any danger. I won’t hurt you.”
Again with the please.
“You said I was in danger,” I retorted. Whatever he’d meant by that.
His voice was gentle. “Not from me.”
I turned toward the side window, away from him, trying to frustrate or annoy him and cause him to make a mistake, leave me an opening, something.
He was silent.
I kept waiting for them to talk, maybe talk to each other about what they were going to do next, or maybe to explain what in the world they were doing. The freeway rushed by, and then we exited onto a secluded road. The misty, wild forest reached out to the car as if trying to pull me out, rip me away. The sun was beginning to fall and peeked out from among the trees, piercing the car with flashes of pink light.
I looked around me to find something to break the window.
“They’re bullet-proof,” the dark-haired man beside me said.
“Who has bullet-proof windows?” I snapped. “What are you, a crime lord?”
His jaw clenched even tighter.
We turned onto a hidden drive.
Crap. I pulled at the door handle again. “Let me out,” I demanded. “I don’t have money, and I don’t know anyone important.”
“But you have information that puts you in danger.”
“I’m just a bookkeeper.” As we passed a manned gate, my voice rose. “I don’t know anything.”
“Please give me a chance to explain.”
The driver took the bends up the hill too quickly, and I held on to the handle of the door to keep from sliding on the leather seats. As we made the final curve, a house appeared from beyond the branches, a huge, brick house, surrounded by gardens and more of those wild trees. Wait, a house in the hills? That wasn’t a normal hideout for a kidnapper, was it? I would’ve imagined some dank alley, not a beautiful estate overlooking the ocean.
Both men exited the car. The driver opened my door and offered his hand.
I positioned my feet just right. And then I burst out of the car, shoving my hands at the driver’s lower stomach to try to knock him off balance. He stumbled back.
I turned to run, no idea where I was going or how to get off this property.
But the dark-haired man was there in front of me like a brick wall.
As I tried to get around him, he took my hand and said, “Please.” His hand was cool and still oddly gentle, and something in his eyes seemed so sincere.
“Kidnapping someone isn’t generally the best was to get them to listen,” I said. “If you really just want to explain something, you wouldn’t have done all this.”
“I waited until the last moment. There was no more time.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“There are men in your house. If you would’ve turned the corner onto your street, it would have been too late.”
“What?”
“Please,” he said. “Just let me talk to you for a few minutes. I’ll explain.”
I continued to glare at him.
“You’re already here,” he said. “Just sit with me for a few minutes. After I explain, you’ll have a better understanding so you can make more informed decisions.”
Such a logical argument annoyed me.
I took my hand away from him. For some reason, I felt like contact with him made it harder for me to think. He let go easily.
We met each other’s gaze for a few seconds. The sun brightened the color of his eyes, like imperfections in uncut emeralds.
As if he’d read my decision, he started toward the house.
I followed.
As he passed the driver, he held his hand up, telling the driver to go, not follow into the house. “Thank you, Anthony.”
Anthony got back in the car and left, and I followed the other man, hoping I hadn’t made the wrong decision.
Endless as the Rain
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