Justice Mine: a Base Branch Novel Page 2

  Her brow knit as she fished the magnetic card out and swiped it across the reader. Unease dampened her excitement of being home, much as it had when she’d rushed through her door this morning. She’d expected wide arms and girly squeals of delight from her longtime friend. What she’d gotten was a meek smile from a Willow look-alike, mild interest, and a request for Mags to vacate the flat for the evening. Her first evening back.

  Magdalena wasn’t conceited by any stretch, but had it been so wrong of her to expect a warm welcome from the roommate she’d had since freshman year? Shit, it’s not like I’m a sophomore. She snorted. They didn’t have a neat term for what she was. Lifer, maybe? No, that’s a prison term. Seventh-year senior, maybe. Who the hell cared? This damn dissertation was the final hurdle to get her life rolling. After so much time wondering what she was going to do with herself, Mags knew. She finally knew.

  She breathed a sigh of relief at the accomplishment then groaned when she rounded the last banister and came face to face with her front door. The thing may as well have an unwelcome sign tacked to it for all the warmth its current tenant gave. Willow’s cold reception hadn’t been the only thing off with her flatmate. Gaunt features hollowed the beauty’s usual voluptuous curves. Something the two had in common from the start. In the land of stick figure models they were the buxom babes, sticking out in a crowd, well, like their asses did.

  Sure, nothing was wrong with Willow shedding a pound or two. Lord knows Africa had melted a few off Magdalena. But the deep, dark circles under Will’s eyes looked like bad horror film make-up. More than anything though, Mags didn’t like the way her friend had hugged herself so tightly around the middle, like she’d shatter if she didn’t hold the running crack together.

  With deliberate care not to disturb the artists’ guild meeting, for fear of further alienating Willow, Mags turned the key in the lock and eased the door open without a sound. She slipped inside and closed the door behind her with the same consciousness. Expecting heated debates of Pissarro over Gauguin, when silence greeted her Mags pursed her lips, irritated at having to be so quiet as to not draw attention. She pressed to the side of the corridor, slipped off her sandals then tiptoed toward her bedroom.

  She tried not to look into the living room, but it was an exercise in futility for a nosey gal like herself. Surprise double-arched her forehead. Not a single person crowded the small living space. The teal sofa sat vacant. No tushes warmed the rug, a grey vomit of geometric shapes. Only Willow’s small sketchpad lay on the coffee table.

  Before Magdalena could take a step into the common room, a throaty moan reverberated through the otherwise still apartment. A wave of heat rushed over her body from the tips of her pink toenails to the top of her messy bun. She exhaled hard against the sensations brought to life by that tiny noise and tried to shake the tension coiling in her most intimate zones. For the love.

  It had been a long time since she’d thought about sex and even longer since she’d had it. A damn shame. But getting aroused from Willow’s moan made her skin feel a little dirty and the rest of her feel a whole lot horny. She eyed her tits and the fabric covering her erect nipples. Sorry gals, but now is not the time.

  Willow could have said, “Hey, my boyfriend’s coming over and I need to get laid. Could you give us a few hours alone?” Sure, she’d have been jealous her friend had chosen to get laid over welcoming her home, but she’d have understood. Willow had been way overdue for a good lay when Mags left.

  Hell, maybe he’s married, or her professor. Maybe he’s a she. Magdalena smiled. The possibilities were endless, and she didn’t have time or brain power for all of them right now. She’d talk to Will tomorrow.

  With a shake of her head, Magdalena crept down the hallway, ignoring the sliver of light piercing the darkness from Willow’s bedroom, and ducked through the first doorway. Grateful, for once, a streetlight with the same wattage as the sun hung just outside her window, she avoided the two large suitcases she’d dumped in the middle of the wood floor only hours ago and closed in on the third smaller one on her desk chair.

  Like it had every other time before, the painting above her tiny lilac desk stole her breath. Strokes of vibrant green livened the background while bold swaths of violet, curls of yellow and brown, and wisps of white formed the most intricate Bee Orchid she’d ever seen. Her hand rubbed away the ache its sight composed in her heart. Better to have loved and lost. Than to never have loved at all. The pain eased with those words because they were true. She and her dad had taken them up as their motto the day her mother died.

  Willow whimpered and Magdalena automatically turned her head toward the sound. Her twin bed and wall collage of snapshots filled the space between her and the wall from which the passion seeped. Well piss. Where the hell am I going to move my bed? Can’t leave it on the fuck wall. It just wouldn’t do to get shaken out of bed before her alarm went off every morning. She stepped toward the pictures for a quick look at the wall-o-men she’d missed out on while getting her life together. They inhabited a majority of the photos, each a delightful memory of a shagging good time. And if she stayed in this sexed-up place a minute more she’d be tempted to give one or two of them a ring. Old habits and all.

  Mags turned away from her past, figuratively and literally. She crouched and reached for the zipper to collect her USB drive. A slap split the air. The unmistakable crack of forceful skin on skin contact crackled her instincts to life. Willow cried out. The shriek held no hint of throaty lust, only stunned pain. Magdalena’s guts origamied and a crane threatened to spew from her throat. Her hand fell from the bag and she leaned toward the door, straining to hear more and at the same time hoping like hell she didn’t.

  No wonder Will hadn’t told her why she needed the flat to herself. Her pitiful appearance made sense now. Willow dated some sack of crap who beat not only her self-esteem, but her body too.

  Willow May Wren, what the bloody hell have you gotten yourself into?

  Magdalena shot to her feet ready to knock this ass-hat for a spin, but stopped as her mind steamed ahead, taking another corner. She was all boobs and bluster. Sure Baine had shown her a few things over the years, things a lawyer shouldn’t be able to do. Still, she was only a pie piece past five feet and a pie past one-hundred pounds. How exactly was she going to help?

  And leave it to Magdalena's brain to loop again. But…the lady next to her on the plane had a novel with a silver key chain on the front. It had stirred a memory on the forever-long flight. Magdalena placed the book by a conversation she and Willow had at the beginning of her time in Africa. Will had said that bondage novels were all the rage in America and making a splash back home.

  Maybe she’s into BSDM. No, what the hell was it. Bondage. Dominance. Submission? Sado-something? BDSM. Maybe that’s why she wanted me out of the flat.

  Not that Magdalena would ever label Will a freak, not about any sexual proclivity. Except the peeing thing. Golden showers. I’d for sure freak-label that one. Gross. The tension seeped from her stiff muscles and her shoulders wilted. Suddenly her bed seemed like the best place in the world. The only place she wanted to be, regardless of the damn streetlight or kinky bang going on next door. It’d been more than twenty-four hours since she’d garnered any decent sleep.

  Taking even one step seemed impossible. If she gave over to gravity, the majority of her body would make it onto the bed. She slid the tote from the crook of her arm, welcoming the tingle of circulation to her fingers, and settled it and her shoes next to an old pile of fashion magazines. Mags had just given herself permission to dive for the bed when a bitchy male voice screeched its way into her ears.

  “You daft bitch. I get it all. Didn’t he tell you that? I get your cunt and your mouth. I’ll even take your ass, if I fancy.”

  The blows that followed left Magdalena’s hands shaking. Fear and anger churned inside her veins. The world slowed, as did the viscous blood pumping through her body. She wobbled to the closet and gripped the wh
ite doorframe for anchor. Her forehead dropped to the backs of her hands while she inhaled past the nausea.

  “Open your damn mouth or I’ll go and tell them you wouldn’t cooperate.”

  There was a possibility Willow was exploring her sexuality. Lord knew Magdalena had done more than her fair share. But this was nothing like she’d ever experienced. It didn't sound safe. Sane. And how in the hell could Willow consent to the degradation of his mouth and the beating of his…fist?

  Fetish or not, this shit had gone too far. Willow’s appearance earlier in the day told Mags all she needed to know. The relationship wasn't healthy. She pulled the closet open then dove into the recesses of garment bags, scattered shoes, and old textbooks. When her hand hit a slab of wood she fumbled up its length until she found the dowel-shaped top and wrenched it from the far corner. Thank God her dad had made her learn cricket. She’d scoffed as a young girl playing with all his grey-haired friends, but no more. Her fist gripped the bat like it were a billion pounds and Magdalena stalked toward Willow’s room like she had big fat balls.

  Unprepared. Magdalena was completely unprepared for the scene before her. She longed to shrink into a ball, cover her eyes, and wish the image away. Willow knelt on the floor beside her bed. No rigidity held her posture. Her naked body caved in on itself, shoulders hunched in retreat. All of her beautiful curves had vanished into the pit of hell she found herself wading through. The blood smearing her precious face took a back seat to the horror Willow’s expression unleashed deep in Magdalena’s soul. Vacant eyes stared blankly at the man before her, unseeing. Resignation weighted her usual smile into a wretched frown.

  “That’s right,” the man said as he shoved two fingers into her mouth. “Suck em’ like you will my cock.” Her lips sealed stiffly around the chav’s bony index and middle fingers as he pumped them in and out while his other skeletal hand wound tighter into her bronze hair. Willow gagged and the man spat. “Take it, bitch, and beg for more.”

  When his fingers left her mouth, swinging back high in the air and balling his fist, Magdalena freaked. The truckload of nerves coursing through her veins took an exit ramp. Her convulsing stomach settled to a calm sea. Steady legs carried her forward while strong arms levered the bat like she was on the cut. Before his knuckles moved, Magdalena unleashed the full force of her fury in a hot arch straight at the man’s belly.

  The impact jarred the handle in her grasp and Mags fought against the instinct to release the bat and retreat from the pain. It hurt a hell of a lot more than hitting a ball. Her bones resonated from the force, but the sight of the abusive ass hitting the ground on all fours stole her attention from the pain. His chest spasmed and his face arched for air. It was the first time she’d gotten a look at it. The sight twisted her stomach back in tightly thatched knots.

  He looked like a weasel. She’d thought the things were cute before. But bugger. Near pitch-black eyes matched his slicked back hair. A button sized nose set between those round eyes held not the slightest slant of natural curve. His lips, thinned in outrage, or agony, capped off the rodent-like features that would haunt her dreams for the foreseeable future.

  Rats rally quickly, to eat you out of house and home, and this one was no different. Magdalena took a step toward Will to collect her from the floor and make a run for it, but stilled in a battle ready stance when the weasel staggered to his feet.

  “You stupid bitch. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

  Coming from a naked chap holding his stomach when he should have been hiding his pathetic excuse for a dick, the threat shouldn’t have cut Mags to the quick like it did. Maybe it wasn’t him, but the look of utter panic etched in Willow’s expression that frightened her.

  “Please,” Willow said. Her red cheek shook back and forth as her eyes finally engaged, pinning Mags by the throat. “I’m fine. It’s not what it looks like. Please, just go.”

  Weasel puffed his impotent chest out at that. “Yeah, so fuck off.”

  Screw him and to hell with Willow’s opinion. Her friend needed help. First a doctor then a shrink. Magdalena squared her shoulders and took a step toward the man. To his credit he took one back toward the window.

  “You sod off, mate, or I’ll knock your balls all the way to Manchester. I’m sure United wouldn’t mind lobbing them around, sailing a few in the net. My straight drive’ll do the trick,” Mags said. To emphasize the point she tightened her grip on the handle.

  “Stupid bitch,” he tossed, scooping up his clothes from their neatly folded pile on the bed. “You’ll get yours.”

  “You’re not man enough to give it to me, asshole.”

  “I know people who are,” he snarled.

  3

  The metal-on-metal thunk had never sounded so sweet. Magdalena secured the feeble knob lock in addition to the deadbolt and chain. “Does he have a key?” she hollered through the flat, which still seemed to reverberate with the dramatic aftershocks of a Roman tragedy. When Willow didn’t answer she dragged a chair from the kitchen and propped it under the handle. She hadn’t the faintest idea if it would work or not, but hell, they did it in films. Now the only problem would be getting out if the place caught on fire.

  Magdalena snatched the bat from its prop in the corner and headed back to the kitchen. They’d upgraded to this flat from their closet-sized one after Willow graduated art school. It afforded them more living space, which Will used to create canvas masterpieces. The artful kitchen with gleaming stainless steel appliances had been for Mags’ benefit. If she had the time and inclination she could make any kitchen her bitch, but none really compared to Baine’s. Though, the exquisite mix of old-world charm and modern technology that existed in her brother’s estate really belonged to her father.

  When it’d been Desmond McCord’s home, her father had made that place sing with aroma and she’d been his eager pupil. Mags ignored the flood of happy memories and appliances. She propped the bat under her arm and reached for a glass of water and a dishtowel. The cool liquid soothed her dry throat as she swallowed several gulps. What the fuck had she walked in on? Hell of a homecoming. She took a deep breath, refilled the cup, and headed for the back bedroom, bat in tow.

  Willow lay curled in the center of her double bed, a thick quilt pulled high over her shoulder. Tiny sobs shook the huddled ball of patchwork color. All the anger and fear dripped from Magdalena’s limbs as her heart broke for her friend. Willow had always been the good girl, the angel on Mags’ shoulder, while she’d played the roll of her own forked tailed devil.

  “Willow?”

  “Just go away, Magdalena.”

  The bite in her friend’s tone had wicked teeth. It gnashed at the neatly wrapped package of insecurities Mags struggled to bind and banish in the recesses of her mind. Its gnarled edges flapped open at her friend’s demand. At the banishment. But this was no time to worry about her inadequacies. Willow needed her, whether or not she recognized her own fragility.

  Magdalena shoved her own vulnerability and anxiety back into its obscure corner, and walked to the wrought iron head of her friend’s bed. “I’m not leaving you, Will. We don’t have to talk.” She paused for a minute, realizing the lie only after it left her lips. Her head shook. “No, that’s not true, sweet. We need to talk.”

  “You messed it all up,” Will heaved through hiccupped weeps. “Everything is ruined.”

  “It was messed up before I got here, Willow. If you’re into kink, you find someone who respects you. Treasures you, even. You don’t deserve to be treated like shit.”

  One more step brought her even with Willow’s face. The crusts of dried blood formed a riverbed for the steady stream of tears coursing down her slight cheek. Mascara obscured her lashes and created a near carbon copy of the terrible excuse for make-up artistry she’d seen on the runway two seasons ago.

  “Oh, sweetie.” The endearment came from her heart as did the need to comfort her friend. Magdalena braced her weapon against the wall and r
eached out to smooth back the mussed locks from Willow’s muddy brown eyes. Will’s body lurched beneath the covers. She cringed, every visible muscle constricting like she prepared for an impending blow. Magdalena’s body temperature dropped about ten degrees as she froze in place, her hand hanging in the nothingness that gapped between her and her best friend.

  The constriction in her throat and the moisture hitting her exposed cleavage clued Magdalena in to her own torrent of emotion. She snatched back her hand and held it to her chest. Willow’s wide, wild eyes stared back.

  Through force of will, Mags steadied her quavering insides before she spoke. In Swahili she quietly recited the Introit and Kyrie, a prayer in song for the souls of the dead, she learned from Malaika. The nurse she’d met in a large village she frequented had recited the words far too many times. She had no damn clue what it meant and, obviously, wasn’t particularly religious, but the things she’d witnessed over the last year prompted her to echo her friend’s prayer. Time and again. The familiar words and their foreign meaning stilled her tears and shaking hands. She swallowed past the tightness in her throat.

  “Willow. I would never hurt you.” Magdalena held her hands out, palms open, in surrender. Pretty hard to do with a glass and rag in tow, but she managed. “I’m sorry. I won’t try and touch you again. Not without asking first.”

  Whoever held Willow’s legs eased off their contorting hold and she noodled against the mattress like an unwound violin string. Her breath came in airy gusts across Magdalena’s bare shoulders. Dark circles collected themselves under the lee of Willow’s bloodshot eyes. At least her tears had ceased their flow.