If Tomorrow Never Comes (5 page)

It was not until
noticing the spot of blood beneath her head that panic replaced fantasies.
 
Barely managing the stamina to crawl to her
body, he sat motionless admitting that he, of all people, was afraid to touch
her, the reality a painful blow to his male ego.
 
He was convinced she was feigning the injury,
just as she’d fabricated her illness earlier, gathering strength for another
surprise attack.
 
When long moments
passed with no sign of movement, fear landed a mighty blow.
 
Holly shit he’d killed her.
 
God dammit, one second he was mourning the
loss of an excellent opportunity to get Scorpio the next watching intently for
the slightest sign of life.
 
Finally
mustering enough nerve to touch her reality slapped him in the face.
 
She wasn’t faking.
 

Fearful of the
ramifications, gathering her into his arms made him all too aware of how petite
and innocent she seemed.
 
A reflection
nipped at the bud when her body snuggled against his chest and her warm breath
began moving sprigs of hair.
 
Pure
poison, that’s what she was, why should he believe her to be anything else
considering his life had become a gigantic roller coaster ride since they met,
a reflection that made him release her less than gently onto the mattress.
 
When her head turned into the pillow relief
came in the form of a huge sigh easing the tension expanding his chest.
 
Thankfully, the cut was small and the blood
had already clotted.
 
She stirred.
 
He jumped and clenched his fists.
 
Luckily, her disguise of frailty returned in
time to destroy his urge to knock her senseless.

“Shit,” followed
by more colorful expletives rolled off Jake’s tongue.
 
Angrily withdrawing handcuffs, he roughly
secured one of her wrists to the bedpost.
 
Hell would freeze over before he’d ever trust her again, and this time
he meant it.

                                 
               
CHAPTER 7

Abhorring
dust and dirt, Margaret vigorously vacuumed her apartment daily, an unbreakable
early morning habit.
 
When finished a
flick of the switch ceasing the humming made loud and clear a crash, a thud,
and a male screaming obscene vulgarities.
 

“Lord
Almighty,” she exclaimed as her robust body waddled across the living room to
pluck keys off a table.
 
Intuition told
her, Jake undoubtedly had another confrontation with his captive.
 
With horrid reflections bursting before her,
she briskly covered the hall and climbed the stairs.

Possessing
a key to every apartment was a blessing, especially during the past two
years.
 
More times than she cared to
recall, just as the sun came up Jake would arrive home drunk out of his mind.
 
Unable to find his keys, let alone use them,
he'd yell for her assistance times when she came to his rescue undressed and
tucked him into bed.
 

Upon
meeting five years ago, there was something about Jacob Morgan that tugged at
her heartstrings.
 
Deep down she knew he
was a good man, surprisingly since she’d known few good men.
 
Back then Jake was blatantly handsome his
short blonde hair immaculately groomed, his clothing always cleaned and
pressed, you could see your face in the shine of his shoes, and those enormous
emerald green eyes were enough to knock a woman dead regardless of their
age.
 
That's when Jake knew how to use a
razor, she sadly reflected.
 
He didn’t
drink either she fumed.

It
was almost a year after Jake moved into the tenement before he confided in her
confirming her suspicions.
  
Residing at
the run down complex was nothing more than a cover should anyone become
suspicious while he secretly worked for the Chicago Drug Enforcement Agency, a
confession that didn’t come as a surprise as Jake wasn't at all like the other
tenants.
 

Margaret
recognized the educated refinement beneath his disguise. One day when flipping
through a photo album he left on the table, she wondered how he could abandon
such a lovely home in the suburbs with exquisite furnishings and a
professionally groomed landscape.
 
She
wasn't a busybody who had to know everyone's business the truth was she truly
cared about people, Jake in particular.
 
He was like a lost puppy lapping up her attention as though no one had
ever fussed over him before.

Mature
and responsible, Jake was a good role model for her son, John.
 
They were so much alike, full of life, full
of hell, she reflected with a smirk.
 
In
no time, they became an inseparable pair, youthful and full of spunk thriving
on outdoing one another by telling jokes and pulling pranks.
 
She was a lucky woman to have two fine young
men fawning over her always-showing tremendous respect and affection.
 
Yes indeed, they were the two most important
people in her life.
 

A
tear strolled down her cheek.
 
Now Jake
was all she had.
  
John’s death
devastated them both.
 
On the day of
John’s funeral Jake vowed he’d get the bastard responsible if it was the last
thing he did.
 
Her fear now, in doing so,
Jake was losing his foothold on life, a sad reflection that made her hand come
to a furrowed forehead as though a pain had shot there.
 
John’s death was not the only thing that
changed Jake, a woeful thought shredding her pleasant reflections just as she
reached his door.

With
one hand on the knob, the other twisting the key, unannounced Margaret boldly
entered Jake's apartment somehow managing to duck in time to avoid a bag full
of garbage colliding with the wall ripping plastic and sending decayed garbage
everywhere.
  

After
kicking a stool launching it into the air, Jake grabbed a toe bellowing, “Jesus
Christ!”
  
On his knees, eyes glazed, he
verbalized his frustrations, “I'm going to kill that bitch.
 
I swear nothing you do or say will stop
me.”
 

Though
he was, wearing despair like a mantel, and showing all the signs of going
through some kind of emotional crisis, Margaret had to bite her lips to
imprison gurgling laughter.
  
Attempting
reassurance, she said sympathetically, “Calm down, Jacob, it can't be all that
bad.”

Too
angry for rational conversation, having all he could do to stand, Jake snapped,
“Get out of my way, she’s dead meat.
 
I’m
going to kill her, that’s all there is to it.”
  
Two limping steps later, he yelped again.

Although
Margaret was secretly admonishing herself for being so insensitive, it didn't
prevent her blue eyes from turning to fire.
 
Shaking a finger beneath his nose, she blustered, “You're staying right
where you are, young man, until you explain what happened.”
      
    

With
disgruntlement written all over his features, the dam holding back Jake's
inhibitions broke.
 
“For a week I've been
buying food, dammit, good food, like you said.
 
I've even been cooking.”

A quick glance
at the kitchen turned Margaret pale.

“She
has the nerve, like she's the Queen of Sheba, for God's sake.
 
She, says it tastes like shit, refuses to
eat.
 
I've even taken the handcuffs off
so she can use the toilet, and clean up.
 
Still, she refuses.
 
She has lost
more weight.
 
She smells.
 
Hell, she looks like the beast she is.”
 
Eyebrows crashing, crossing his heart as
though a good boy scout, he continued to ramble, “Honest to God, Margaret,
nothing more than a wild beast.”
 

“She,
attacked me, almost stabbed me with a piece of broken glass.
 
She won't sleep on the bed, merely sits on
the floor all night and then threatens to rip my heart out if I get anywhere
near her.
 
You have no idea what it's
like to spend night after night in a broken lawn chair.
 
My back hurts, and my head is pounding.
 
I'm going to kill her.
 
I am.”

Noticing
where Jake's glance fell, Margaret managed to snatch the gun off the
table.
  
Abhorring guns, terrified of
them, her hand began to shake uncontrollably.
 

Aware
of Margaret's feelings regarding violence, of any kind, Jake was stunned.
 
“Dammit, Margaret, put that gun down before
it goes off and you shoot my ass.”

Trying
to steady the hand holding the weapon at her side, Margaret shouted, “Your
cursing is going to send you to hell, Jacob Morgan.
 
Now, don't you move, you're not killing anyone,
you big oaf.”
 

When
he defied her, hoisting the gun she aimed the unsteady nozzle at him.
 
“Now sit in that chair over there, while I go
speak to . . . to . . . Well, I bet you don't even know her name.
 
You didn't even think to ask, huh?
 
You just don't give a hoot, do you?
 
You are no better than she is.
 
I ought to turn you both loose on each other
and right now, I’d take bets on that little thing in there.
 
Shame on you, Jacob.”

Jake
was speechless, a loaded gun was dangerous in the hands of a mad woman.
  
He’d seen Margaret angry with him many times
before, but this time she was trembling, her reprimands affecting him more than
he ever believed possible.

 
Placing the gun in her apron pocket, Margaret
stomped toward the bedroom like a mother about to administer much needed
discipline. Upon opening the door as offensive odors blasted her, she instantly
admonished herself for trusting Jake to handle things on his own.
 
With the shirt the urchin wore wrinkled and
soiled, her hair, a riotous mess, dirt smudges all over her body she resembled
a wild beast.
 
It was difficult to see
her wrist cuffed to a bedpost, as she sat upright on the floor knees pulled to
her chin, her back against the box spring and mattress sulking like a spoiled
brat.
 
Evidently, she was feeling much
better.

Fully
believing an old-fashioned spanking was in order for both of them, Margaret
stood tossing her head this way and that.
 
They were nothing more than stubborn, selfish, and conceited over grown
children.
 
Well, someone had to end this
vendetta before each killed the other.
 
Apparently, to her chagrin she’d been unanimously elected.

Knowing
better than to invade the girls’ territory, Margaret sat for a long time in the
lawn chair, hands folded over the gun, staring at the mysterious urchin.
 
Appearing to be in her early twenties,
somehow the girl had survived living on the streets for a long time, a feat
next to a miracle considering her size and weight would have limited strength.
 
In conclusion, the girl had to be extremely
cunning, feisty, and brilliant, even for a man like Jake.
 

Deploring
someone staring at her, having been the center of ogling eyes for longer than
she wanted to remember, Jordan began to fidget under the stranger's direct
gaze.
 
Something in the old woman's eyes
told her there was no other recourse but to spill her guts.
 
Furiously, she shouted. “I hate him.
 
He's a mean son of a bitch, just like all of
them.
 
He, smells, and has a temper to
match that of a grizzly.
 
I won't
eat.
 
I won't clean up.
 
I won't tell him anything.
 
I won't!
 
Nothing you say or do will change my mind, nothing, so you may as well
get your fat ass the hell out of here.”

 
Margaret got what she was after.
 
The girl had a voice all right, as foul and ill
tempered as Jake.
 
Wisdom, born from
experience, told her, just like Jake, she was hurting and Margaret had to
wonder what awful things happened to cause a child to hate so much.
 
Just imagining called up goose bumps that ran
the length of her spine and made her decide she was better off not knowing the
particulars.

“My
name is Margaret.
  
I'm the
superintendent.
 
I live below this
apartment.
 
When you became ill, and
collapsed, Jake called on me.
 
I’m the
one who undressed, gave you medicine and cleaned you up.
 
You have my word Jake did not touch or harm
you in anyway.”