Jigsaw (Black Raven Book 2) (47 page)

Testing her ability to speak on the words that she knew had to be said, she drew a deep breath, then said, “I should thank you. But you shouldn’t have done that.”

He gave her an it-was-nothing shrug and sat next to her, facing the river, with his guitar case and his backpack at his side. “It was hard as hell to get you out.
Man
. Cowboy boots in the mighty Mississippi?”

Only one of those boots had made it out of the river. Her jeans were dripping wet and cold, cold, cold. Clouds were starting to build, and what had looked like the start of a pretty day now looked like a wintry, gloomy one. Perfectly apropos.

He gave a low whistle. “You were going vertical in a big way.”

She drew another deep breath and realized that her lightheadedness wasn’t the reason his words made no sense. She had no clue what the soaking wet kid was talking about. “What?”

He narrowed his eyes as he studied her. “Vertical slashes on two wrists mean business. Horizontal is for amateurs. The saying is
‘go vertical, not horizontal.’”

“Never heard that one before,” she mumbled, shrugging deeper into the dirty blanket while she figured out what to do next.

“It’s suicide slang.”

Sudden, instant nausea made her realize a few simple, life-altering truths. One-she’d attempted suicide. Two-she’d now have to live with that fact, because her attempt had failed. Three-she was actually talking about it with her rescuer and he was someone who knew about suicide slang, for God’s sake. “There’s such a thing as suicide slang?”

He stripped off his soaking wet t-shirt. He was young enough that he barely had chest hair, but broad-shouldered and muscular enough that he had wrecked her plan to end the horror her life had become. For a second she worried he was going to peel off his wet jeans. Instead, he just looked at her with a puzzled expression on his face. “What do you mean is there such a thing?”

“I’ve never heard of suicide slang.”

“Lady—”

She wasn’t that old. “How old are you?”

A flash of defensiveness immediately surfaced in his eyes. “What’s it to you?”

“Whoa. Calm down.”

“I’m calm,” he said, “and I’m twenty.”

“I don’t think so.” She studied the taut skin on his cheekbones, the bony leanness of his chest. He was muscular, but he looked like he needed some age on him before he filled out. Maybe seventeen. Perhaps sixteen. Young enough to feel like he had to answer her question, even if his answer was a lie. He bent, lifted a sweater out of his backpack, and held it out to her.

She shook her head. “No, but thanks. You put it on. Aren’t you freezing?”

He gave her a small smile. “It’s a hell of a lot colder where I’m from.”

And he’s sleeping on the levee in New Orleans. Which means he’s run a long way from where home is, because truly cold climates are far, far north.
“Where’s home?”

He was staring at the water, his jaw clenched hard. “Someplace I’m never going back to.”

Understood.

“How old are you, really?”

“Old enough to pull you from the river.” He pulled the sweater over his head. It was blue wool, pilling with age at the armpits, with loose threads at the neck and waistline. As he pulled his arms through it, she saw the imprint of her teeth on his left wrist, then her gaze fell on scars on the inside of his wrists. Thin white lines rose above the smooth skin in an area where no sharp edge ever should be. His knowledge of suicide slang now made perfect sense. From the direction of the scars, she knew he’d gone horizontal. Not vertical. Hence the reason he was able to live to see another day, if the slang truly was an indicator of the correct way to end it all. She dragged her eyes back to his. He gave her a knowing nod. “And what difference does my age make to you anyway?”

“Well, what’s your name?”

“Why?”

“Because you just saved my life, and I’d like to thank you properly, while I apologize for biting you.”

“Pic.”

“P-I-C-K?”

“Without the K. Guitar pic. Got it?”

A made-up name if ever there was one.

“Got it,” she nodded, noting the absence of a last name and knowing by the wary look he was giving her that she shouldn’t push for it. She bet he was lying about his age, and lying about his name. He was young, and sleeping on the levee. Either a runaway, or homeless, which made him one of thousands of young homeless kids who frequented the streets of New Orleans on there way to somewhere else. Or not.

Homeless youth had been a pervasive problem in the city for so long the individuals themselves had become invisible. They were even called ‘the invisibles.’

Suddenly, this one wasn’t invisible.

“I’m Andi,” she said, extending her hand to his. He had no way of knowing how big of a step the handshake was for Andi. The woman who had once been a free hugger and a happy toucher, now rarely let others touch her. Usually, the people who touched her were those who she knew, loved, and trusted-and she could count those people on one hand. He took her hand with a firm grasp, and she shook his. “With an I.”

His blue eyes turned serious again. “You gotta call someone. You need help.”

With the words
you need
, she cringed harder than she was shivering, because he’d just uttered the two words she’d grown to hate. “Understood.”

Arms loose at his side, he shook his head. “Really. Someone needs to know that you just tried to commit suicide. You need to call someone.”

“Thank you, Pic, but I’m not seeking advice, nor do I need your opinion of what I need to do.”

Because dear God, in the last six months, I’ve gotten more than I can handle. You need to get out. Maybe you’d feel better if you went out more. You need to exercise. Exercise relieves stress and anxiety, don’t you know? Try yoga. You need to start painting again-it will give you something to do with your time. You need to go to your appointments. You need to see your therapist. Are you taking your meds? You need therapeutic oils. I hear lavender oil helps with tension headaches. Maybe hypnosis will help with your nightmares. You need Ambien. I sleep like a baby when I use it. You need Xanax. It works wonders for anxiety. You need breathing exercises. You need acupuncture.

Pic frowned, folded his arms, and cocked his head to the side. “There’s got to be someone for you to talk to right now, and you really shouldn’t be alone. Serious help. Suicide is serious.”

“Would you please quit using that word?”

“What word?”

“Suicide.”

“You need to admit—”

“Stop telling me what I need to do!” If her words and tone weren’t enough to shut him the hell up, pressing her fingers in her ears certainly should do the trick.

He opened his mouth anyway and, unfortunately, she could hear him. “Hey. I’m just calling it as I see it. If you can’t even admit what you just did—”

“It’s complicated—”

“Always is,” he said. “You need a support system, and that starts with calling someone and telling them what just happened.”

I have the best support system money can buy. My support network-of friends, relatives, doctors, therapists, counselors, and prescription meds-is so wonderful it led me straight here, to the river.

Looking into Pic’s blue eyes, she felt for a split second the lightning bolt of clarity that had come to her when her head had first slipped under the water, when she’d known there was no way out.

What I need is a goddamn backbone, and that obviously isn’t coming from my support system, because if it were, I’d have it by now.

“You’re not going to call anyone,” Pic said with a frown, “are you?”

The reality was there was no one for her to call at 6:45 a.m., because the one person in her life whom she wanted to call now, and every other second of every day, had died. God, but she missed her dad with every single breath she took. Her father had blamed himself for what Victor had done to her. She’d let him, because in a way, he was culpable.

Damn, but she’d even blamed her father—and then, on Christmas day, just one month earlier, her father had died of a massive heart attack. He’d died, without Andi ever having the chance to tell him she forgave him. The aftermath of guilt and regret Andi felt brought unresolved issues that were now forever wedged hard between herself and the man who had always adored and cherished her. Her grief over losing her father and misery over unsaid words, on top of everything else, had brought her to the river.

“No,” she whispered, loud enough for Pic to hear it, and pulled the blanket closer around her. She freed one of her hands, brushed away a tear, and wondered if her tears would ever stop falling when she thought that telling her father she forgave him was no longer a possibility.

“Are you going to tell anyone about this morning?”

She didn’t need to think for long about that question. “Never. No one will ever know.”

Because they’ll never, ever stop pitying me if they know. They’ll never, ever treat me like I’m normal. I’ll never get the chance to be normal.

I’ve officially had enough pity for one lifetime.

“But you need help. Someone needs to know-”

She gave him a smile. “Someone does. You do. Dammit, but I’m freezing. And I know you’ve got to be as well,” she stood. “Which is pretty stupid of me, because I left my purse over there,” she gestured with her chin to where she’d left it, “and my car keys are in it, and my car—with a perfectly fine heater, thank God—is parked over the levee. Come on, Pic. Let’s go.”

He stood and shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

His face had paled and his eyes were wide. She saw fear in them.

He really, really is young, and he’s scared someone will find him. He’s terrified he’ll be sent back to wherever he ran from. From the fear in his eyes, that’s a place as scary to him as the hell in which I live.

“Yes, Pic. You are. Because I’m going to turn into an icicle if I sit out here for one second longer. I really, really want to talk to you and I want to do it over breakfast.” She didn’t want to eat, but she assumed he did. “And I will not press you for information about where you’ve run from. Or what your real name is, or how old you really are. I trust you to keep my horrible secret about what happened here this morning, and you can trust that I won’t push you to tell me anything you don’t want to tell me. Understood?”

He looked like he wanted to nod, but he didn’t. She eyed his tattered sweater, his banged-up guitar case, and his overstuffed backpack.

“I’m going to buy you the biggest breakfast you’re ever going to eat. It’s the least I can do. Hot, fluffy pancakes.” Yearning replaced the fear in his eyes. “Crispy waffles, with strawberries and whip cream. Eggs. Ham. Hash browns. Fat sausage links. Whatever you want. Sound good?”

Even though he said he was twenty, she knew as sure as her teeth were chattering that he was a teenager, and a young one. Maybe sixteen. Possibly fifteen. He was sleeping on the levee, and she’d bet made-to-order, hot meals had been a premium for him in his recent history. She knew she’d lured him at the mention of pancakes, and she didn’t wait for his response. With Pic’s dirty blanket wrapped around her shoulders, Andi turned and walked to where she’d left her purse, confident her new friend would follow.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stella Barcelona has always had an active imagination, a tendency to daydream, and a passion for reading romance, mysteries, and thrillers. She has found an outlet for all of these aspects of herself by writing romantic thrillers.

In her day-to-day life, Stella is a lawyer and works for a court in New Orleans, Louisiana. She lives minutes from the French Quarter, with her husband of seventeen years and two adorable papillons who believe they are princesses.

Stella is a member of Romance Writers of America and the Southern Louisiana Chapter of the Romance Writers of America. Her first novel, DECEIVED, was inspired by New Orleans, its unique citizens, and the city’s World War II-era history. While DECEIVED introduced the continuing character of Black Raven Private Security Contractors, in her second novel, SHADOWS, A Black Raven Novel, the Ravens take flight in a cyber-thriller that was inspired by current events. Stella is hard at work on her fourth novel, CONCIERGE, A Black Raven Novel, which will be released in early 2017.