Her Anchor (21 page)

It was funny in a way. Nothing could have made him feel, for those brief and precious moments, more human or fallible again. He would've cried if he could.

It had taken him over a week, but he'd found her. During the few hours between the fall and Ana's mad dash to escape the nightmare she'd inadvertently hurtled into, a nuclear bomb could have charred the earth's surface black, and Castor was sure he'd still have been able to trail her scent to the edge of the world.

He'd found the small studio apartment she'd spent her time in when not pacing his warehouse. That's where he'd learned her name, seen it scrawled on a letter she'd stuck to her fridge with a curious little bull's head magnet. The rest of the apartment had been bombed with clothing, but mostly sparse and empty save for a few plants on the window sill knocked over in her rush.

Then he'd started the journey east by night, spending his days huddled in motel rooms with blackout curtains, avoiding any stray beams of sunlight while watching the news or reading to pass the time until nightfall. He'd read a paperback romance, dog-eared and shoved into the back of the nightstand, about a rogue cowboy saddled with the moral dilemma of either turning in or escaping to Mexico with a genteel but feisty oil heiress who'd had a bounty placed on her head for crimes she may or may not have committed. Castor's frown was severe. He hoped Ana's idea of romance did not resemble any of the breathless and delusional muttering he'd read.

Because he wasn't going to be able to deliver.

******

The first time he appeared, Ana sat dumbfounded on the sidewalk, shin scraped and bleeding. She'd wandered drunk, straight into the opening door of a convenience store on the corner of Antigues and Claremont. A round man in blue coveralls hunched over her, somehow pissed off and concerned in equal measure.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't see you there, came out of nowhere."

After Ana had seen Vincent, she'd needed a drink or two or five. She'd sat like a miserable cliché on a barstool at Charlie's Pub until she'd worked herself into a stupor, stumbling on a poor and fuzzy memory back home.

"So did you," she sputtered aloud, though she hadn't meant to.

She put a hand over her mouth, groaned like the idiot she felt she was. "I'm sorry, sorry, my fault."

The man helped her stand, brushing off his hands to signify the end to their interaction. She steadied herself, then leaned back against the brick wall of the storefront.  A shock of black hair gleamed under the powdered light of the streetlamp across from where she stood. It took her a few moments to focus, but just as the fog cleared, she realized she was staring at nothing but the lone light shining a puddle on the pavement.

"Get a grip, Ana," she whispered. Her stomach twisted in tight knots, remembering his feet again, his black hair from behind as he went over the edge of the landing. The grotesque thunk of bone and flesh hitting concrete. She couldn't hold the guilt at bay this time. She wretched on the sidewalk in front of her feet.

The next time was bolder, almost confrontational. As she would later learn, Castor had a tendency to go from zero to sixty with no in between. Moderation and rationale would desert them both—abandon them to the fickle governance of fear and wild idealism.

Ana and Vincent had at this time settled into routine meetings at his restaurant. She'd arrive sometime around noon, setting up her temporary work station while Vincent hovered around her in intervals, chatting and giving her the same wicked grin he'd besieged her with in earlier, decidedly better years. They'd close the day together, usually over dinner and increasingly more serious conversations.

Conversations about things like why she'd ever left, how he'd managed it poorly, more poorly than she knew, and how he'd wrecked Laura's heart in the wake of it all. She didn't bring up how five years into a relationship with Laura after the fact couldn't have possibly been considered 'in the wake' of her departure. His motives and carefree way of making serious declarations would always be a mystery and a reminder to exercise caution.

One rainy evening, Ana felt it. A pin prick of fear starting somewhere near the base of her spine that spread like a thin and crawling vine throughout her arms and throat.

Vincent, leaning over her shoulder to view the photos she was retouching, made a low
hmm
, eyes cutting up sharply to meet the stare of the man sitting opposite them a few tables away.  He looked down toward the book he held in his hand, one corner of his mouth curving out slightly.

The tilt of his chin signaled something familiar, but Ana shook it off as though subconsciously willed to file it away for another time. His profile was erudite—the jawline sharp and distinct, the high cut of his cheekbone and soft curve of his aquiline nose gave him a certain air of importance. He was arresting.

"What?" Ana asked, looking up toward Vincent who was now straightening himself out.

He pulled out a seat to Ana's left and sat down, back to the stranger. "He was staring at you."

Ana shrugged in a poor attempt to feign indifference. Every part of her body felt like a tightly wound string being ever so finely but mercilessly plucked. "Who is he?"

"Not sure. Never seen him before."

Ana's expression must have given something away—her curiosity, the indecipherable familiarity she was trying to work out.

"Have you?" Vincent's tone was light but she sensed the uneasy way he forced it.

Just then she swore she saw the man huff a small and silent laugh.

Mistakenly sensing his boss was concerned with the lack of attention shown to a new customer, the mop-headed boy, Will, sprinted like an uncoordinated bird toward the man's table. Vincent didn't have a chance to wave him away before he was standing awkward and nervous in front of him.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked, voice fading into a squeak when the man set his bored gaze on him.

Ana didn't hear the response, but Vincent was already walking behind the counter to both observe their interaction and get back to work. Will left the table stiff-legged, and the beautiful stranger stood from his seat, staring directly at Ana as he crossed the room and took the seat next to her.

For a few seconds that seemed to span into eternity, Ana couldn't breathe. She felt alarmed and intrigued and anxious all at once as he looked at her clearly and without hesitation.

"Do you remember me?"

Ana shook her head, body on autopilot. She heard herself nearly whisper, "No. But maybe..."

Castor tilted his head to the side, owl-like and strange at first. Ana tried not to notice.

"Yeah, funny that. Thought I recognized you, but now I'm not so sure."

Will set a glass of water alongside a plate of fries in front of him. The man didn't acknowledge him or the food in the slightest. Ana's heart was beating out of her chest.

"Someone was sitting there," she blurted out lamely.

He leaned back in his chair, looking out through the front windows of the restaurant. "I know. He still fuming back there?"

She glanced quickly behind the counter to find Vincent not so subtly drilling holes into the back of the man's head. She smirked, surprised at how much it amused her. "A little maybe."

"Good. I sense a bizarre imbalance of power."

"What?"

"Between the two of you. Why do you let him have the upper hand?"

She jerked her head back, as though slapped on the nose by an invisible hand. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Maybe not the circumstances. But I can see it all the same." His manner was casual and confident. Ana wasn't sure what in the world was happening right now.

"I'm Ana," she offered, head bowed as she glanced up to meet his decidedly interested gaze.

"Castor."

"Did you come all the way over here to tell me that, Castor?"

He leaned forward as though conspiring with her. "Just came to let you know I exist. I'll be here tomorrow, around this time. I'll wait for you out there." He pointed toward the outside of the building, the corner of his mouth curling up just the slightest before he stood.

Ana watched him as he crossed the room, opened the door and stepped out into the night, noting the sure and graceful way he moved. She let out a long-held breath and shook her head as if coming out of a dream. His water and fries were left untouched.

As she picked through the fries, popping one in her mouth, she smiled privately at their exchange. It was the most interesting damn thing to happen to her in years, and it didn't hurt that it gave her some small if not regretful satisfaction to know Vincent would be chomping at the bit to know what had just transpired.
 

******

Castor knew she was stalling in the bookshop just shy of two blocks down the main street. He wasn't sure how he felt about waiting here—time meant almost nothing when forever was a certainty, but took on an unfortunate importance when his interactions were relegated to mere hours between the setting and rising of the sun.

He'd wait a little while longer. If she didn't come, there wasn't much else he could do. He had insinuated himself into her life to this extent, but the rest he'd leave up to her.

"Would prefer it if you didn't loiter."

He looked up to find a casually dressed Vincent walking toward the front door of the restaurant.

Castor extended his arm, pointing toward the ground in a back and forth motion. "At which point of the sidewalk would I be out of your jurisdiction?"

Vincent seemed surprised at the response, but nonetheless pleased to have his hostility justified. He swung the front door open, probably about to make a threat involving law enforcement and loitering on his property, just as Castor lit a cigarette.

He blew out a huff of smoke through his nose like a bull, face impassive and deliberately calm. "I'm waiting on someone, but if you wouldn't mind taking my order out here, I'll have—"

The front door rattled, bell jingling an amusing cacophony as Vincent stepped in and slammed it shut.

He'd watched them for a week before he decided to eschew all reservations and waltz himself right into her life. He knew how Vincent pined for her when she wasn't paying attention, smiled down at the top of her head as he leaned over her watching her work, found brief but sure ways to touch her.

He'd eavesdropped on their conversations a few times. He never felt much guilt about spying or watching. It wasn't his fault he'd been cast into a hell of solitude, left to observe, stalk, prey. But the touch of sadness, maybe even longing he'd heard in Ana's voice when she and Vincent talked about the past burned him something fierce—a peculiar combination of envy and self-disgust.

Ana wore a brief look of defeat when she finally approached from down the street, but her shy smile let him know she was glad to see him standing exactly where he said he'd be. She gave a quick glance indoors and stepped just out of sight of the front windows. He could hear a murmur of displeasure from inside.

"I don't want to go in there. With you. No offense."

In a way, he liked that she cared about what Vincent thought. He found her sensitivity endearing—it felt nice to believe in the basic goodness of someone. "Where do you want to go?"

"I don't know. Down by the water, maybe? There's a spot."

He raised a brow. "Where you take all the strange men you meet?"

She was already walking away, voice light as the breeze as she called, "Just you, tiger."

He grinned at the back of her head, stepping forward to follow her, but not before he remembered to turn and give a quick wave through the window at Vincent.