Golden Burn (Songs of Crime #1)

14. Odin

14

Odin

‘Sick to My Stomach’- merci, mercy

M artise drops us off at our lodgings—a large open style cabin with cream linen drapes, wooden accents and a direct view of the Luangwa River—allowing us time to get settled.

I’ve been here several times, so the environment is nothing new, but Harriet’s eyes twinkle with delight as she takes in the space. There’s a large bed with mosquito drapes hanging from above, a sitting area with plush white chairs, a free-standing tub with circular wooden side tables meant to hold books and drinks. The verandah has a private pool, tan colored lounge chairs and another area with a dining set for two. The cabin is south of the main camp, nestled into the trees to give it a secluded but immersive feel.

Coming here on my own when Martise first took over used to give me time to relax, to try to savor what little humanity I had left, even with the blood forever staining my hands. Now, looking at the view, standing beside Harriet, it all feels too intimate… too romantic. The bar cart in the corner near the bed calls my name.

“I thought you said we weren’t sharing a room,” Harriet says, her tone flat.

“I lied.” I shrug and sip from the glass. Harriet purses her lips in annoyance. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m not that happy about it either. But it’s for your protection.”

She doesn’t comment, just strides over to the suitcases that have arrived, opens one of them and takes out the clothes that Dom was smart enough to have delivered. She pulls out a pair of tan hiking boots and studies them up close. Satisfied, she begins to smack the bottom sole on her open palm.

Color me curious. “What are you doing?”

“Testing how I could use it as a weapon.”

Well, at least she has an imagination. I lift my glass. “You’d be better off using one of these.” Harriet nods in agreement.

“I’m going to have a shower.” She heads toward the bathroom with her new change of clothes, pausing in the open entryway that’s supposed to be romantic. “Don’t come in,” she demands and points her finger at me like a schoolteacher.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I mumble and return to my drink.

The shower begins to run, and I distract myself by scrolling through my phone, replying to a few emails and texts, setting up meetings and forwarding information to Dom. A text interrupts my work and when I open it, I almost choke on the gin in my mouth. It’s Ford, his face painted with makeup, pouting like a teenager.

Ford: You never told me I looked pretty.

Odin: Is that your definition?

Ford: I’d like to put in a formal complaint.

Odin: For what?

Ford: Failure to state the obvious.

Dom: Martise just sent me Etta’s itinerary; I’ve forwarded it to you all.

Ford: I’m going to need time to look it over.

Dom: Fine. But be quick about it. Odin? Will you be attending any trips?

Odin: No.

Ford: Wrong answer.

Dom: I’ve put you down for the three-day safari.

Odin: Fine.

Ford: The correct response is Yes, Daddy.

I groan, pocketing my phone, as Harriet emerges from the shower, fresh and clean. The shorts she wears show off her smooth legs, made lean from working on her feet for excessive hours. Since the day we met—when she was shaking in her scrubs—I’ve only seen her baggy, loose things. Comfortable, cute things that make her look like a freaking teddy bear.

The t-shirt she wears now is a size too big for her but provides enough of a view of her upper body that I can make out her full breasts, rounded hips and straight shoulders.

Christ.

Now I really regret coming here.

She grabs her sunglasses out of her pocket and places them over her eyes, fixing her appearance so that the ends of her black cropped hair kisses the bottom of her jaw. There’s a slight curl to it that I never noticed before, just a wave.

A hand presses on my chest, making it hard to swallow the last of my gin. Harriet shifts so that she’s staring out at the river and to the flat land that stretches toward the horizon beyond it.

And I… I can’t stop staring at her.

I have to physically shake myself out of my stupor. I place the glass down and head toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Harriet asks, stopping me.

“Need to clear some things up with Dom.” I can’t see her eyes beyond the sunglasses, but I notice the crinkle in her brow. To amplify her displeasure, she crosses her arms.

“Am I safe here?”

“No one will come for us. No one can find us.”

“Promise?” She might as well have reached across and choked me. No. I don’t make promises. Not in regards to safety. So, if the unlikely occurs, I won’t have to fall on my own sword and deal with her disappointment. “I’ll be back later tonight. Get some rest. We have a big day tomorrow.”

I turn, severing the conversation, and stride out the door, sweating under my suit .

I’m going to have to tell her soon; I know this. There’s only so long I can keep her in the dark about my past and my burnt soul, and my inability to make any promises about her safety.

There’s only so long I can keep her away before the demons crawl up from hell and whisper in her ear.

“This is a logistical nightmare,” Ford mumbles as he pours over the itinerary for tomorrow.

“You’ve never had a problem before,” I say, sipping from another glass filled with smooth gin and a single slice of orange.

“Yeah, when I had to just look after you. With Etta around, it makes it harder. The African wilderness is impossible to predict.”

Dom peers up from his laptop, his brown skin dotted with sweat. “Cerbera won’t find us here. We’ve made sure of it. Besides, it’s too close to the wedding, and he’s busy enough. I’m sure our message has been received thanks to our little helper.” Referring to our intruder.

The memory of Harriet coming to me in the gym, her face ashen with panic, and the way her hands shook in the snow while she stayed beside me, waiting for any glimpse of the person who had made her scared in the first place, forces me to finish my drink.

Sour bile pulses at the edge of my esophagus, burning, bubbling. It’s a mixture of anger and fear. Anger at myself and the people that put me on this path, and fear I’ve made the wrong choice, again, which will inevitably lead to more death, more heartbreak, more pain.

God. Gen would be so upset to know what I’ve done and will do.

Too bad I can’t ask her forgiveness. She’s buried six feet under. Nothing but a pile of yellow bones. Alone and cold and eternal.

“Did you see the plans that Cerbera sent through?” Dom asks, pulling me back to the present.

I shift in my seat. “How much am I going to hate it?”

“It’s not as bad as I expected. He wants it in Rome. Church first, then a ceremony at a restaurant—I think it’s owned by a relative of his. Small numbers, only fifty people. His security. Red wine over white. Fish for dinner and lemon cake for dessert. And he wants to give Etta away. Ceremony entirely in Italian.”

“No church. The restaurant can hold both the ceremony and reception. Harriet doesn’t like fish, so it will have to be something different. Don’t care about the wine. Limited security from both sides. Twenty people, not fifty. English. And he’s not getting his fucking hands on Etta. Ford can do it.”

My face is hot. My temples are pulsing. The eyepatch I’m wearing is pooling with sweat. Dom and Ford’s baffled stares only intensify it. “What?” I snap. Ford raises his hands and goes back to looking over the itinerary. Dom tilts his head, his knowing eyes scanning the emotions I’m trying to suppress.

“So, Harriet seemed to enjoy herself a bit more on the plane,” he says casually.

I swap my gin for a glass of water. “And?”

“And you seem irritated.”

I rub the side of my head, a headache beginning to form. “Spit it out, Dom.”

“I’ve just noticed that she seems to be getting under your skin, which, if I’m honest, no one but us has ever been able to do since—”

I put my hand up, not wanting him to finish the sentence. “I get it.”

“Do you? Because we agreed that going ahead with this plan would only be possible if you and Harriet remained enemies. She cannot—and you cannot—develop an emotional attachment. Cerbera will sniff it from a mile away and use it to his advantage.”

Ford lifts his head from whatever he’s reading. “If you have a crush on Etta, you’re going to have to be honest. Because that’s an entirely different shit show that we have to be prepared for.”

“Please,” I drawl, finishing the glass of water. “The only reason she has gotten under my skin is because she’s determined. She’s impulsive, reckless and too intelligent for her own good.”

“She’s also fucking beautiful and way out of your league,” Ford mutters.

My patience thinning, I push back from the table and stand. “Is there anything else, or do I have to stay and listen to your plan for something that will never, ever happen?”

Dom closes his laptop. “That’s all for now.”

I head toward the door, needing space. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Insect’s buzz and animals call from their place on the opposite side of the river, as I make my way back to the cabin. Before going in, I pull out my phone and check the camera feed that Martise installed before we arrived. It points at the bedroom, the living room and the deck, leaving the bathroom out of view. I want to keep Harriet safe, not perv on her.

She’s asleep, the tray of food delivered for dinner empty and discarded on the bed. I slip past her, keeping quiet as I head toward the bathroom. Checking again that Harriet is deeply asleep, I take my sweaty shirt off and strip down to my boxers, grab a new set of clothes, and head into the shower.

As I pass the mirror, the tattoos on my left arm come to life. A treasure from each place Gen and I ever traveled to. A dozen memories from our happiest moments.

The bench we sat on in New York feeding the pigeons till we were covered in feathers and poop, eventually getting in trouble and racing back to our hotel where we laughed till our cheeks were damp. The cherry blossoms in Japan we stood under and kissed for half an hour, the taste of sake on our lips. The waffle cones stacked with gelato and a layer of molten Nutella that we licked and slurped as we wandered along the streets of Florence in the middle of the night, sweaty and delirious from jetlag, but so insanely in love.

The touch of Gen’s fingers as she traced each one while we lay in bed and reminisced on our highs and our lows is no longer as fresh in my memory. No longer as potent.

Stepping away from the mirror, I shower under icy water, rubbing my face till it’s red and raw. I need to get the image out of my head of Harriet standing before me in the plane; her makeup strong, yet subtle, her expression no longer full of loathing, but helpless curiosity. Those fucking blue eyes. No, instead, I’m confronted with a new image.

Harriet, lying on her side, her lips slightly parted, her face impossibly serene. Her body lax with sleep. Vulnerable and delicate.

Trusting.

It’s the worst sort of thing. And for the first time in ten years, I don’t look away.