Genevieve

Holden watches me carefully from the doorway, his back against the frame and his arms crossed. He’s swearing the same dark suit from the night before, except he’s rolled up his sleeves and removed his tie, and in the dim light of my new bedroom I can see blood splatters on his shirt. I don’t know whose blood it is. The thought slightly sickens me, and as I pace the length of the room I make sure to avert his steady gaze.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, his mouth turning up at the corners. “You’re acting like a madwoman.”

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up. I’m trying to think.”

I glare at him, entirely annoyed, and continue toward the opposite wall. I’ve been treading back and forth across the bedroom for nearly five minutes, my arms crossed like his, attempting to gather my thoughts in the wake of this whole ordeal. It’s a habit that helps me focus, and right now, it’s the only thing keeping me from attacking Holden a second time.

My father left to meet with a client about ten minutes ago, after apologizing profusely and explaining in a frenzied stutter that he simply could not be late. He had hesitated before leaving, though, looking as if he wanted to say something profound but couldn’t quite manage the words. He’d finally left us with an awkward wave of the hand, and although I wished he had stayed to answer my questions I did not miss his presence. My father is not a terrible man, but I do not love him, nor am I certain that I even like him… which is why my present situation leaves much to be desired, and why I am currently treading barefoot along the walls of my new room and trying to think of a plan, an escape, anything to get myself out of this mess.

“Okay, I have some questions.” I finally say, my voice breaking the silence. My hands on my hips, I plant my feet in the center of the room and turn to face Holden.

He doesn’t move from his perch at the doorway, but he assesses me with a cool stare and straightens by just a fraction. “I can’t promise I’ll be able to answer all of them,” he replies after a beat, his tone casual yet calculating. I can feel my cheeks growing warm under his gaze, but I'm determined to find the answer to a question that's been bothering me since I came here.

“First of all, why are my legs shaved?” I ask, arching a brow.

“Mr. Church had some women come in and clean you up while you were unconscious. You were covered in blood. Not much of it was yours.” Holden says this without blinking, and I am beginning to understand that he is accustomed to these sorts of things.

“I think hair removal was part of the process. They did your nails, too. Next question.”

I exhale, relieved, and continue. “Alright, how old are you?”

Holden blinks twice, looking slightly thrown, so I elaborate: “I mean, you look almost my age. And you’re working for my father’s drug cartel, for Christ’s sake…”

“I’m twenty.” He replies gruffly, his jaw slightly clenched.

“... That’s young.”

“May I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Do I scare you?”

The setting sun beyond the window hits his face in the dark, and again I’m struck by the stunning pale green of his eyes, like the color of sage and old, glass bottles. His question takes me by surprise, but I know my response almost instantaneously.

“No. I trust you. I don’t know you but I trust you.” I reply, shocked by my own honesty. As a general rule I do not trust people, especially men and strangers. But there is something in his eyes, and the way his lips move when he speaks, and his voice when he says my name. I can’t explain it but I know he will not hurt me, at least not intentionally.

His expression doesn’t change as he processes my response, but he blinks and swallows, and I think I can see a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

“You’re right,” he mutters, unfolding his arms and placing his hands in the pockets of his suit pants. “You don’t know me.”

“But you know me.”

“Yes. Very well.”

Holden pauses, deep in thought, before stepping forward into the room. The light from the window casts a warm glow against the lines of his face, his lips, his dark hair and long lashes. The blood stains on his shirt take on a shimmering golden color in the sunlight, like little stars blinking in the twilight, and for a moment Holden seems almost unearthly; almost angelic.

“When I was eight years old,” he starts, his voice suddenly flat, cold. “My father gave me my first gun. A Colt Mustang XSP: small, lightweight, concealable. Powerful. My father, he… he led me into the basement of this apartment, to an old man handcuffed to the ceiling pipes, and told me to shoot.”

Holden pauses, studying my face for a reaction, and seems slightly surprised when he finds none. He continues, enunciating his words carefully.

“The man had a broken nose, and there was dried blood caked on his mouth and chin. It was all over his shirt. He looked like he had been down there for days, maybe even weeks…” He trails off, expressionless, his eyes locked on mine. “I missed him on my first shot. The bullet grazed his left arm and ricocheted off the back wall. I tried a second time and landed a perfect hit, straight through the heart.”

Holden stands in the doorway, watching me with his beautiful, kind eyes, and for a moment he seems very far away. And the perfection of this confession is that I can see it all so well; I can see in the flat planes and angles of his face and in the way his hands keep to his sides when he walks, how his experiences have shaped and bent him into the man he is today. He is broken, and beaten, and jagged at the edges. But so am I.

“So, Genevieve,” he mutters softly, after a moment of silence. “Now you know me.”