The Debt Read online

  “They ran out of ale, I had to get you a lager,” Anne says, plunking the drinks down on the table and blocking my view. It’s for the best. I think I was starting to creep the guy out. You can only stare at a stranger for so long before it becomes weird.

  “Thanks,” I tell her, clearing my throat. “Beer is beer.”

  “Right you are,” she says, sitting across from me and raising her glass. “Cheers then.”

  “Cheers then.” I raise my glass and we clink them across the table.

  While I drink the first frothy sip, I can’t help but look over Anne’s shoulder at the man. He’s no longer looking at me, engrossed once more with reading. I feel a strange pang of disappointment, like I wanted him to keep looking, which only makes me feel disappointed in myself.

  No matter how good looking a guy is, there is no way in hell that I should even be considering the opposite sex anytime soon. Not only is my heart still broken over Mark, but I’m a complete mess of a human being, inside and out. I have a long way to go before I’m fully functional again, and no man, unless he has some weird fetish and I can’t rule that out, wants to be with a woman who is confined to crutches, who has a leg so battered and disfigured and useless it can barely be considered a limb. I’m damaged goods in so many ways and the only man who would want to be with me has to be damaged himself.

  That’s one of the things I like about Anne. Despite the tragedy that shaped her life and the damage she suffered, she still has a healthy outlook on life. She’s trying to move on, to find the positive. She was a single mom when she lost her little boy, Sam, and even though her daughter is eleven now, she still hasn’t settled down with anyone. She’s trying though, going on dates, even if they don’t go anywhere. I know her demons hold her back, but the fact that she’s making an effort makes her a comfort to be around.

  I also like the fact that she talks. A lot. She can be pretty shy when you first meet her and she has this quiet demeanor, but when you get her going, she won’t shut up. I think she keeps a lot bottled inside. Last week we went out for coffee after the meeting, and now that alcohol is in the equation, it’s making her mouth move at a rapid rate.

  Anne can only stay for a pint and a half though, having to hurry back to relieve the babysitter.

  “You sure you don’t want me to get you a cab?” Anne asks as she gets up.

  I raise my second pint. “I have to finish this. And I may finish what’s left of yours too.”

  “All that beer, I don’t know where you put it.”

  “Crutches are the best exercise,” I tell her. “It’s like portable pilates.”

  “I’ll see you next week, then,” she says, then taps her fingers on the table. “Oh, and there’s that festival on Sunday, if you still wanted to go.”

  “I’ll have to see,” I tell her. She had mentioned a small music festival going on in the outskirts of the city. Some folk genre of music that I have no interest in whatsoever, never mind the fact that I might just be completely exhausted by the time Sunday rolls around. I can manage to get around the city on my own, but a festival full of crowded, rowdy, drunk people might be pushing it. Add in bad music (it’s folk music, let’s face it) and it sounds like a nightmare.

  She waves goodbye and leaves, and I settle back against the booth. As I sip my beer, I look over to the Gerard Butler lookalike’s table. A pint of beer is there, half full, but he isn’t.

  This time I barely feel the disappointment. I hadn’t paid much attention to him while Anne was talking up a storm, and it was probably for the best. I have other things to focus on.

  Like going to the bathroom.

  I exhale noisily, hating the fact that I have to get up, wishing I hadn’t taken for granted all those times in the past where I grumbled about getting to my feet, having no idea at all how lucky I was to have legs that worked, to move freely without the aid of crutches, to not pop pills every morning and night in an attempt to quell the pain.

  But I suck it up. I have to. The rest of my life is now just sucking it up. Don’t complain, don’t dwell, don’t be scared, don’t be angry, don’t be sad. Just suck it up and live with it.

  The pub isn’t as busy now, just a few people at the bar and a couple more at the tables. Good. That means less eyes on me. I already spotted a few people earlier looking at me as if they recognized who I was.

  I inch my way down the booth until both my legs are out from under the table, then I grab my crutches. I use the table for balance, careful not to tip over my drink, then when the glass starts to rock, threatening to spill my beer, I adjust my weight onto my good leg, my abs straining as I attempt to stand.

  My balance isn’t what it used to be though, and I reach out with my crutch to try and get some leverage as I start to pitch to the left.

  I can see it all in slow motion. The crutch will slip, too much weight and momentum will shift to my left leg, and I’ll be too far back to straighten myself. I’m going to fall and probably break my wrist as I try to stop myself, if not smack my head on the side of the booth.

  I close my eyes, suck in my scream, hoping I fall in silence, like I’m landing on a cloud, and that no one around me will notice.

  Then a fierce, hot grip wraps around my left arm, holding me up.

  I gasp and my eyes fly open, staring up at my rescuer.

  The man I noticed is right beside me, staring at me intently, his hand around my bicep and somehow keeping me from crashing to the ground.

  “I’ve got you,” he says, his accent thick, Glaswegian maybe. His voice is deep and wonderfully rich, like cream.

  I can’t even form words so he pulls me up until I’m standing up straight on my good foot, his arm acting like a crutch.

  “That would have been a nasty fall,” he goes on. I continue to stare up at him like a fool. He’s tall, at least six foot two if not more. I’m only five feet four inches so it’s like staring up at a giant.

  A big, beefy, brawny giant. The guy has shoulders like mountains; he’s built like a friggin’ tank. No wonder he’s able to keep my whole body up with just an arm.

  You need to use your words, I remind myself quickly.

  “Thank you,” I manage to say. Then I shake my head, closing my eyes. “That would have been really embarrassing.”

  “Embarrassing?” he repeats. Oh, that accent. “You would have really hurt yourself.” His tone is worried, bordering on protective.

  I open my eyes and flash him my easiest smile. “Well, as you can see, I already have hurt myself.”

  He nods and looks down at the cast on my leg. I’m in a pair of capri leggings, with a long, striped sweater on top. I’m living in dresses and shorts these days which is pretty ironic considering once the cast comes off next week, I don’t think I’ll be in any hurry to show off my leg ever again. Apparently I won’t even recognize it. Just thinking about it scares me half to death.

  “Is it a good story?” he asks.

  “Huh?”

  “Your leg, little red,” he says. “Usually there’s a good story attached to a broken leg.”

  I give him a tight smile even though I’m relieved. It means he doesn’t know who I am, hasn’t seen me on the news, shot on a shaky camera phone or filmed with the prime minister as he visited me in the hospital. “It’s a long story and not really a good one,” I tell him. “But thank you. This whole thing is taking some getting used to.”

  “I bet,” he says, and for a moment there his eyes look pained. But he smiles, a charming lopsided twist of his lips. “Where were you going? I’ll help you.”

  “I’m fine,” I say quickly.

  He studies me for a moment and I try and keep the carefree look on my face. He then takes my other crutch and holds it to him. “Let me help you,” he says again.

  I sigh, rolling my eyes. I don’t want strangers to help me, and yet at the same time, I’m flattered by his concern. Unlike the men outside earlier, there’s nothing predatory about this man. He’s gorgeous, that’s a given, and
built like men I’ve only dreamed about. But there’s a sincerity coming off of him that I can’t ignore. Maybe it’s just my hormones, my broken heart, my mind’s gratefulness for some sort of distraction from this new life. Whatever it is, I’m not complaining.

  But still. I’m stubborn.

  “I don’t need help,” I tell him, though I’m regretting my words the moment they come out of my mouth.

  He raises his brow slightly. “I’m not saying you need help, little red. I’m telling you to let me help you.”

  I narrow my eyes at him briefly. “Little red? I’m not sure we know each other well enough for nicknames.”

  He smirks, and it makes his eyes dance. “Well I don’t know your real name, now do I? But I do know you’re little and you have a flaming head of hair.”

  “I suppose it’s better than crippled girl.”

  “Or you could just tell me your real name,” he says, still holding the crutch to himself. “I can’t promise I won’t stop calling you little red, but it might help.”

  “Jessica,” I tell him, managing to stick out my hand, the one crutch digging under my arm.

  “Keir,” he says, the R rolling roughly off his tongue. I swear it does something to weaken me at the knees and I was already weak to begin with. His hand grasps mine, warm and solid, and he gives me a firm shake. “You’re not from here…” He peers at me closer and I freeze instinctively, thinking he may have finally recognized me. “Or are you?”

  “Lived in Edinburgh for six years,” I tell him rather proudly. “But I’m Canadian. Born and raised in British Columbia.”

  “Aye? Where in BC? I spent some time there in my youth.”

  I want to laugh at that. He can’t be over forty, that’s for sure. “A town called Kamloops. Nothing more than a railway stop with a pulp mill. At least it was back then. There are some nice parts, but I grew up on the other side of the tracks, so to speak.”

  And then I clamp my mouth shut. Why am I telling him this?

  He takes it in stride. “Well, I grew up in Glasgow, also from the wrong side of the tracks. Bet mine were a wee bit grittier than yours. Kamloops is something of a cowboy town, isn’t it?”

  I nod, still shocked that I shared something like that with a stranger. No one likes to admit they came from shit. “Anyway, I’m happy here. It’s a great city.”

  “Good,” he says. “It means you won’t be going anywhere.” He looks me up and down quickly. “Although I guess you were going somewhere right now.”

  “Just to the bathroom,” I tell him, holding my hand out for the other crutch. “And you can help me by giving me my crutch back.”

  “You don’t want a gentlemanly escort to the bathroom?” he asks. “Perhaps inside? It can’t be easy getting your pants down.”

  I try not to smile and glare at him instead. “Don’t be cute.”

  He gives me the crutch back and raises his hands in mock surrender. “I’m not being cute. You’d know it if I was.”

  I take the crutch and tuck it under my other arm. He steps to the side to let me pass by.

  “Little red,” he says, his voice throaty as I head to the back of the room.

  I pause to look at him over my shoulder.

  “Will you have a drink with me when you get back?” he asks.

  I chew on my lip for a moment, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach. It’s been so long since I’ve felt them, long before the accident.

  Which is why you need to smarten up, I tell myself. Get the fucking butterfly net and bring those suckers down.

  “My sister is picking me up soon.”

  “So have a drink with me until she comes.”

  He seems so honest, so earnest in his proposition. It’s impossible to say no.

  “I’m not really looking for a…” I trail off. I don’t want to be presumptuous, but at the same time he has to know I’m not like other lone women you might find at a bar. Though perhaps he already knows this.

  “I’m not looking for anything but company while I enjoy a pint. That’s all,” he assures me. He must see the concession on my face because he smiles quickly and says, “What will you have?”

  I tell him the lager is fine since they’re out of ale and then turn and hurry off to the bathroom. I don’t want him to see me grinning like a fool.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Keir

  I found her by accident.

  But can it really be called an accident if you find what you’ve been looking for?

  Kismet, maybe. Fate. Words that never meant much to me, theories that my mind would have squashed. Back in the day, of course. Everything was different, back in the day.

  I watch as she hobbles off to the bathroom, using her crutches like a bloody champ. The woman has so much life, so much grace, that just being around her, even for a second, seems to have lifted some of my burden. Not much, but some.

  It was just dumb luck, I suppose. Or maybe it fits into the whole Secret bullshit, that the universe will provide you with what you’re seeking. You get what you put out into the world.

  And I’ve been seeking. I’d been searching for Jessica Charles for the last month.

  A few weeks after the accident I went to her hospital in London only to find she’d been discharged.

  I did Google search after search, trying to find out where she may have gone.

  Then when I found out she was in Edinburgh, I drove up here. It was either here or back to Glasgow, so it was an easy decision. I needed a place to live, to start again, and she was the excuse.

  I went to the yoga studio she taught at, like a goddamn stalker, and found out she wasn’t teaching anymore. I figured that, but I couldn’t get any more information out of them without looking suspicious. I played the role of the long lost friend, concerned about her after I saw her on the news. But from the look on the face of the receptionist, it seemed that wasn’t uncommon. Jessica suddenly had a lot of long lost friends.

  The trail grew cold and I figured it was just as well. My reasons for finding Jessica Charles were entirely selfish, and in the end, it was nothing that I deserved. I was prepared to make peace with that as much as I could.

  But today I was leaving the house, just coming out of Circus Lane, heading around the corner to see if my cousin Lachlan wanted to go get a coffee, when I saw her on her crutches going across the road. She went right into the dark church, taking the stairs like a pro, and stood in the aisle for a moment, praying to God or perhaps cursing him.

  I hovered by the doors, not wanting to interrupt, to be caught. I couldn’t be sure it was her, even though all my instincts said otherwise. I’d watched her face on the news so many times, my heart begging for her forgiveness in my dreams.

  Then a friend approached her, and she turned her head. The way the candles in the church flickered just so, it was almost like seeing an angel. A prayer of mine that was finally answered.

  I didn’t know what to do next. I didn’t want to follow her down the stairs of the church. I got the feeling that it was some sort of support group, and even though I meant her no harm, I knew that everything I was doing looked bad.

  So I walked across the street, to the place I’d come to call my local pub even though I’d only lived in the neighborhood for two weeks. I waited outside with a drink, listening to the smokers yammer on about their jobs and loveless marriages. I waited until I saw her come out of the church with her friend and start heading toward the pub.

  I took a seat inside with my beer, buried my head in Dance of Dragons, and pretended I’d been here all along.

  I wasn’t planning on saying anything to her. I used to have a speech all prepared. I would tell her who I was, who I had been, and then tell her how the shooting had been my fault. I would tell her I was sorry and beg for her mercy, anything to get rid of this guilt.

  But that started to change a few weeks ago. The more I saw her on TV as the bloody spokeswoman of this disaster, the more I realized that it wasn’t enough to just say
I was sorry.

  And now that she was here I realize it will never be enough.

  I guess I could have stayed quiet. I could have just observed her and maybe found some peace with the fact that she seemed to be holding it all together very well. I was well on my way to pretending she didn’t exist.

  But then she started to fall.

  I had no choice.

  I stepped in and helped her, and now I know I can’t turn away from this.

  I’m almost afraid now to turn my back to her and go to the bar, as if something will happen to her while she’s in the bathroom, as if she’s a helpless victim without me around. I know none of that is true.

  But still, I get the drinks as quickly as I can, two pints of lager, and then place them down where I was sitting before. The booth is easier for her to get in and out of.

  What are you doing, what are you doing?

  The voice, the same voice that’s been haunting me since August, is whispering in my ear. I know I should probably cut my losses and go. I know that seeing her smile, her tenacity, should be enough to tell me that she’s okay, that she’ll be okay without my help, without the truth. I am no one to her, just a stranger. She doesn’t need to know me. She’ll be better off for it.

  And yet, I stay.

  Suddenly she’s beside the table, peering down at me. I hadn’t even heard her come out of the bathroom.

  “You’re quiet as a mouse on those things,” I tell her, playing the part again of the charming stranger, the harmless man at the bar.

  “I’m only loud when I open my mouth,” she says, giving me a saucy grin.

  She has a gorgeous smile. A gorgeous everything. I can see why the media latched on to her image and her story, because there’s nothing more compelling or heartbreaking than a beautiful young woman in distress. Everything about Jessica looks like it belongs on the screen in front of millions, garnering their sympathy, endearing them to her plight.