Page 27 of Iron Cross

Maybe I remembered him too fondly, when I should have remembered the reason I left. They weretorturingpeople. Not just prisoners, but Aoibheann as well. Sinead, who had helped me escape, had been raped while under their protection. So many others were harmed beneath the boot of “the life”.

Poverty was better than the poverty of spirit and character that our son would inherit, if he lived in that world.

“See you around, Anna Jones,” the handsome Aaron said, giving me a smile and a wink. He walked away, down to the end of the bridge, perusing the other kiosks on his way. With him went any hope of a romantic cure to my loneliness. How could I possibly move on when I had Eoghan on the mind?

This life had to be good enough. Cillian was enough. The way I had been enough for my father.

Right?

Magda and I followed his retreating back, leering at the rounded posterior that teased us from beneath the hem of his winter jacket.

Even if I was resigned to my fate, I was still a straight woman…

“Sweetheart, if you won’t give him your number, I will.” I didn’t need to look at Magda to know that she was smiling.

“You’ll give him your number?” I asked, purposely misunderstanding her.

She slapped my arm. “No, silly. I’ll give him yours.”

“I barely have enough time for me and Cillian, much less anyone else.” It was my ready excuse. “Anyway, you don’t know if he’s a serial killer or… I don’t know.” I tried to think of the most reprehensible thing. “He could be a debt collector, loan shark or a health insurance claims adjustor.”

Allwere as bad as the mafia in my book. They were the ones who had killed my father.

“I don’t have time,” I said again, just to scatter the thoughts in my head.

I felt like I hadn’t slept in over two years. The best sleep of my life was when I was at the hospital, unconscious as they cut my son from my belly.

Life was swinging from caffeine rush to caffeine crash, day after day.

Magda looked at me, and quietly snorted her judgment. “With a man as handsome as that? There’s no such thing as too tired.”

Oh, she did not mean that in a wholesome way.

Magda was of the age where she could say anything, and no matter how off-color, we had to accept it. Mr. Magda must have had very healthy hips to have kept up with her in her prime.

“If he knew me, he wouldn’t be interested,” I said with a small laugh.

More truth. I had spoken more truth as Anna Jones than I ever did as Kira Kekoa. That was the irony of leading a double life. The small leaks of honesty came out in the strangest moments. I wanted to lock them away. To keep them hidden for myself, alone. Too much truth felt naked.

I hated it.

A familiar, slightly menthol scent filled the air. I turned my head, feeling the familiar sensuality of the aroma. A cigarette. It wasn’t quite the menthol Dunhill that had been so familiar, but it was close, stirring up an old feeling that I associated with the love of someone else. Someone far away.

It was the scent that had marked my afterglow each time I had been in my husband's arms.

My knees felt weak as I looked around, searching for the source.

Was he here? Had he found me? Was he here to bring me back?

Did I… want that?

Chapter eight

Once Upon a Time

Kira

My son stood with the pencil in his left hand as he scribbled on the coloring book paper - one full of horrid monsters from a scary fairytale. He liked to color things. He was bad at it, of course. He was two years old. Children of that age were only good at one thing - wearing out their parents. A task they took to with gusto!

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