Exposed (31 page)

He tucked the white shirt into midnight blue pants and pulled on the matching suit jacket. It paired well—as far as he could tell—with a narrow tie striped in gray and sky blue. He’d even cleaned his dark brown boots and worked a shine into the worn leather. Ivan smiled at his reflection and walked out the door with flowers in hand. 

His mother stopped him at the truck. “Oh, my boy,” she breathed. She reached up and let her hand rest against his freshly shaved cheek for a moment then set to work fixing his tie knot. “Did you find the right flower?”

“The
perfect
flower,” Ivan told his mother. 

She finished the tie and then fished a hand through the apron around her waist. “A gift,” she said, holding up a green velvet pouch. “It’s not for June, exactly, but for you to give to the right woman. Now seemed the time to share it with you.”

Galina opened the pouch and held up a necklace that caught the golden sunlight. The chain was thin gold hanging with an emerald pendant. The jewel shone in the late afternoon sun and seemed to shimmer with a million facets. 

“Mama,” Ivan breathed as she let the necklace pool in his palm. “This is beautiful.”

Galina’s eyes sparkled with unshed tears when she looked up at her son. “It was your grandmother’s. She had me sew it into my clothes the night before we fled. She said it’d fetch enough money from the black market to pay our way out of the Soviet Union a dozen times over. But …,” Galina swiped at an eye. She had never been one for tears. She touched the tiny diamond hanging from the necklace’s clasp and let out a shuddering sigh.

She held her hand under Ivan’s and closed his fingers over the lovely necklace. “This is something that reminds me of my mother and Russia—two things I loved and will never see again in this life. But you can give it a new life, give it stories that won’t be so bittersweet.”

“I will, Mama,” Ivan whispered.

He slipped the necklace back into the pouch and secured it in his trouser pocket. Then with the flowers on the bench seat beside him, Ivan started the truck and eased away from the Sokolov farm. Toward June.

A wide smile spread across his face and lit his eyes. The summer sun glowed through the truck, but anticipation made the hair on his arms stand on end. 

At the end of this drive, June waited. Hopefully, a new life waited. A life together.

Ivan couldn’t wait to see her, to sweep her into his arms, and kiss her deeply for all the world to see.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

June

June’s skin was mottled with bruises. Blues and purples bloomed up her arms where she’d held them up to protect against the steel and brick and wood. A wash of welts turned her chest and right cheek angry red. 

An entire day since she’d forced her way into the steel vault, and still her skin burned. Her bones ached and every breath was a struggle. 

The night had passed as a series of nightmares that didn’t fade away with the new sun. Dread was a poison in her blood, a fever in her mind. 

And Butch’s threat …. June read the note through again, searching for some way out of this. Some way to save herself and protect Ivan. But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. She felt like a time bomb ready to detonate, and Butch held the trigger.

A fresh wave of terror rolled over her, dragged her under. In her nightmares, Ivan was there. Ivan was there covered in blood, dead like Betty and Jan before him. 

June buried her head in her pillow and sobbed. 

Each gasp for breath was a fire in her bruised ribs, but the physical pain was nothing to the weight of it in her soul. She couldn’t let Ivan be dragged down with her. She wouldn’t. 

Fear paralyzed her. Fear of the immense pain of her power; fear of what others would think of her if they learned the truth; fear for what else Butch could make her do. Fear she’d lose Ivan. 

There was no way to make everyone happy—least of all herself and Ivan. Butch had them in his cross-hairs. 

Honesty was too dangerous. She’d lose her job, her friends, Ivan. Especially Ivan. Why would he want to be with someone who was so weak-willed. Because the fact was—the thing that June couldn’t let go of—there had to be some desire already there for Butch to manipulate. Otherwise, it would have been so obvious that it wasn’t
her
thoughts demanding she steal from the vault. 

It was because of her they were in this mess. All because of her.

June crawled out of bed and stood at her mirror, prodding at the bruises along her arm. They hurt, but at least she was feeling something other than the darkness.

There had to be a way … something. She could walk through walls, for goodness sake. Maybe if she stole everything back from Butch, used her power to get back into the vault ….

June spun away from her mirror and slammed her fist into her bedroom wall. It hit solid plaster, and her knuckles exploded in pain. 

No
. This was
her
power.
Hers
. She was its master.

She punched the wall harder. Harder still.

“Work,” she pleaded with her power. “Dammit, just work!”

She attacked the wall until her hand went numb from pain and her knuckles bled. But the wall was solid under her skin and bones, her power gone. Absolutely gone.

No, she couldn’t accept that. This was
her
power to control. 

Yet still, the wall was immovable under her hand. She hit the wall so hard the tremors reverberated up her arm. June gave up punching and slapped her open hand against the wall. She screamed in frustration and pain. And still, the wall was unyielding.

It was useless. 

June dropped her forehead against the cream-painted walls. “Please,” she whispered. “Please work.”

Through the fog of pain, an idea formed. June didn’t know if it was hers or
his
, but it was something.

She’d find Clayton.

He knew the truth—the truth about all of them. Maybe … maybe if she confessed to him, they could set things right without hurting anyone else.

Without hurting Ivan.

June tugged at the edges of her sweater as she waited in Cora’s empty bakery. She’d pulled on the first clothes grabbed from the heap in her closet. She looked a mess, but at least her bruises were covered.

Giant sunglasses still over her eyes, June leaned against the bakery case. The cool glass felt wonderful against her fevered skin, and June nearly sighed in relief.

This could work. Clayton would know what to do.

But it wasn’t Cora or Clayton who walked out the kitchen door. It was Bethany. June’s mouth screwed to one side.

“Is your sister in?”

Bethany had blue icing along her cheek and stained on her fingers. She was carrying a large tray of sugar cookies cut in the shape of lilies.

“Nope,” said Bethany, trying to bite back a giant grin and failing. She opened the case door and slid the tray inside.

June took a breath. “Do you know when they’ll be in? I really need to talk to Clayton.”

Bethany looked around, then leaned in close over the counter. “Okay, you have to promise not to tell.”

June frowned behind her sunglasses, but nodded.

“Well, they’ve been so busy lately and—”

The door tinkled behind them, and June glanced behind to see Frank strolling into the shop. Her stomach dropped and she groaned.

June snapped her head back to Bethany. “And?” She couldn’t hide the urgency from her tone.

“And,” Bethany whispered. “They spent last night at The Cheshire Cat …,” the girl’s eyes went starry. “For their
honeymoon
. They said they wouldn’t be bothered for a full twenty-four hours.”

“Who’s gone?” Frank asked, his smile wide.

“No one,” June said quickly.

Frank looked at her with his head cocked. “You’re being secretive,” he said. He was trying to be jovial, but June just wanted to get away from him. 

Think
, June pleaded with her brain. Okay, so Clayton wasn’t able to help her yet, but he’d be at the dance. She’d tell him then. That could work—there was still time to make this right before Ms. Stewart discovered her empty deposit box or Butch used her again. The plan settled into her mind, gave her something solid to hold on to.

“I’ve got to go,” she said to her feet, already striding for the door.

But Frank was on her heels. “No need to bolt, Junie,” he said, catching up. He caught her arm at the door, and June bit back a hiss of pain. “Whoever you’re
not
looking for, let me help. I’ve got time to kill before the dance.” 

“I’m fine, Frank,” June said, trying to lengthen her strides away from him.

He didn’t take the hint. He jogged around her and turned to face her. People were passing them on the sidewalk, glancing their way. Across the street, Ruth Baker was taping flyers to lampposts.

“Come on, June,” he whined. “You’ve been all but ignoring me lately.”

“Frank,” June snapped. She stopped dead and stared at the man. His eyes went wide for a moment and he looked around to see who’d heard. But June was so beyond caring anymore. She didn’t have the energy. 

“Frank, you are my friend. But that’s it. That’s all you are to me and ever will be.”

“You know,” Frank said, his voice low. “You used to be nice, but ever since you started hanging around that … that man. If I were a lesser man, I’d have a name to call what you’ve become.”

June’s voice turned deadly. “If you were a better man, you wouldn’t call me that just because I have an opinion.”

Then June walked around Frank and didn’t look back.

Ruth fell into step beside her, a stack of flyers under her arm. “What do you need?” her friend asked quietly.

June’s long strides slowed and she turned to look at Ruth. And she suddenly knew exactly what she needed. As long as she could, she needed to be happy. She needed Ivan. She couldn’t live in fear of Butch. 

Even if she only had tonight with him, June needed Ivan.

“Can you help me with some makeup? I need … I need to cover some bruises.”

Ruth nodded and followed June home.

Ruth followed June back to her house then disappeared into the kitchen, making June promise she would try some folk remedies before she resorted to makeup. 

While waiting, June rifled through the flyers Ruth had left on her vanity. It was a hand-written paper decrying the Mountain Pearl Dance as the celebration of a prostitute that invited sin into the town’s heart. At the bottom were listed worship days and times for the Lamb of God church. 

June flipped the flyers over and perched at the edge of her bed.

Ruth returned just a few minutes later with cold cloths, sliced cucumbers, and a paste that smelled sweetly of milk and honey. Ruth clicked June’s bedroom door shut behind her and knelt before June at her vanity. Her eyes flicked to the overturned flyers, but she didn’t say anything.

It’d been years since she and Ruth had been alone like this—not since school when Ruth had a reason to escape her tyrant of a father. Though the reason for Ruth being here was terrible, June couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit better with her friend at her side.

June pulled off her sweater and tugged down her sunglasses. Ruth did her best not to gasp.

“Will they cover?”

Ruth pressed her lips together and gently touched the mottled bruises. Her fingertips were fiery, and June winced at the feeling against her already hot skin. 

“Enough,” Ruth finally said.

“How do you know all this?” June asked as Ruth covered her legs in cold clothes.

“Oh, you know,” Ruth said, ducking so her long hair hid her face. “I’m clumsy.”

That wasn’t true. Ruth was graceful and strong—much too graceful to run into door jambs and fall down stairs. Yet, she always seemed to be nursing some new injury. June had always suspected, but to see how adept Ruth was at hiding …. June’s stomach twisted at the realization of just how much experience her dear, sweet friend had at covering bruises.

“It’s not from what you think,” June started, but Ruth waved away her excuse. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Ruth said, slowly rubbing the paste into her shoulder in widening circles. “But …,” she chewed at her lip and darted her eyes up to June’s for a second. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” she lied.

Ruth’s fingers stilled where they’d been working the paste along her collarbone. Her forehead crumpled like she wanted to ask more, to push June to tell her the truth, but then she sucked in a breath and went back to work.

June reached up and covered Ruth’s hand with her own. “Really, Ruthie,” June whispered. “Everything will be okay.”

Ruth nodded and didn’t say more until she was done. She turned June to face the mirror. The bruises were still there, but her skin was less feverish and the redness across her chest and cheek was fading. Ruth helped June pin her hair so it fell over the redder cheek and gingerly helped her pull elbow-length white satin gloves up and over the purple bruises still pulsing up her forearms. June used makeup to cover the rest of the bruises, then faced the gown waiting in her closet.

Ruth considered the gown and cocked her head. “Do you have something more … modest?”

June pulled the beautiful celery-colored satin gown from the hanger and held it out before her. It was the one frivolous piece in her closet she hadn’t been able to part with. “Afraid not.” She held it against her skin. “This is a dance celebrating a prostitute, after all,” she teased.

Ruth
tsk-tsked
, but didn’t respond, and June turned back to her dress. 

The gown was a graceful column dress that swooped in a lovely boatneck and settled across her upper arms. The back of the gown dipped low to showcase her shoulders and narrow waist and gathered in a vee half-way down her spine. A subtle bustle underneath gave her hips and backside a lovely curve, and a slit up the back to her knees swished when she walked and showed off her calves and ankles. 

It was such a beautiful dress. June desperately wished she could be wearing it for a beautiful reason.