A Debt Repaid Read online

  “Hey, heb je hulp nodig?”

  When I open my eyes, I see a man standing near my feet. And not just any man … He’s dark and handsome with a buzz cut, a scruffy black beard, and round glasses on top of his chiseled nose. And not just his nose is chiseled; his jawline is intense too, and I can’t stop gaping at him without saying a single word.

  “Gaat het goed?” he asks.

  “Um …” I mumble. “I don’t speak—”

  “English? Ahh …” The bright white smile that appears makes my heart do a double take. “Are you okay? Do you want me to call someone?”

  I clear my throat and pull my blanket up. “I’m fine.” It’s a lie, and I’m sure he can tell, but I don’t wanna bother anyone. Besides, how do I know if I can trust him? Can I even trust anyone here? I don’t know this place or these people. Anyone could be out to get me.

  The man narrows his eyes at me. “You don’t look fine.”

  I pull my blanket up farther as he sits down beside me. “Don’t be afraid,” he says, tilting his head. “I don’t bite.”

  Right then, he leans in and clacks his teeth together, making me jolt in my seat.

  He laughs out loud. “Got ya.”

  I blink a couple of times and give him an awkward smile. “You got me.”

  “I’m kidding,” he says. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna steal your stuff or do something dumb.”

  “Oh, I didn’t assume you were going to,” I reply, blushing a little. Am I that easy to read?

  “I know you weren’t,” he says. “I’m just saying. But hey … you look like you could use a little help.” His eyes drift toward my dress that peeks out from underneath the blanket, so I hide behind it. “Nice outfit.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “It’s still got the tag on it,” he says, pointing at my neck.

  My pupils dilate as I grab the tag and hold it in front of me so I can see. “Shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Relax, I’m not here to call the cops on you if that’s what you think.” He laughs. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. You seem like you’re having a bad day.”

  “Oh …” Now my whole face is red, and I swallow. A bad day is a big understatement, but I’m not going to explain it to a stranger. That’d be both dumb and dangerous.

  My stomach growls, and he immediately glances at my belly and then back up at my face. An infectious smile follows.

  “Hungry?” he asks.

  I try to ignore it, but the rumbling continues.

  “You know what? I’ll get you something to eat,” he says.

  “What?” I mutter as he nods. “But why?”

  I’ve never known anyone to randomly offer food to a stranger on the streets.

  He shrugs. “You’re hungry, aren’t you? So why not?”

  That’s hard to deny. But should I take him up on his offer? What if he’s one of Easton’s henchmen and wants to take me back to him? I shiver at the thought. I have to be careful.

  The guy gets up from the bench and holds out his hand. “C’mon.”

  I inch back, hesitant to grab his hand.

  “Don’t be scared. I won’t do anything, I promise,” he says, adding a smile that would make a girl’s knees buckle.

  “Where will you take me?” I ask.

  He points at the street behind us. “My house is right around the corner over there. We could grab a bite there. I’ll fix you up some lunch.”

  His house? Should I go? What if it’s all some elaborate scheme to get me to come with him? My stomach growls again, protesting my paranoid thoughts and telling me to trust a fellow human being for once. And a nice-looking one too, for that matter.

  “I know you’re hungry. We can all hear it,” he says, chuckling with that low voice of his. But it’s not the same kind of low tone Easton used. In fact, he doesn’t sound at all like Easton, whose voice would often make me weak, shiver, or create goose bumps. This man’s gentle voice is how you’d expect a doctor to sound when he tells you you’re fine. And it makes you smile from ear to ear.

  “I have amazing sandwich making skills,” he adds, extending his hand even farther. “Unless you don’t like those. I have plenty of other food too.”

  I sigh. A man like him, so kind and easygoing, couldn’t be one of Easton’s henchmen, right? I doubt Easton would hire someone who doesn’t exhibit any violent or dominant tendencies.

  Besides, what’s the harm in a little bit of food? I could eat and then slip out when he isn’t watching. He’ll never notice I’m gone.

  My big appetite convinces me to take his hand, after all, and he helps me get up from the bench. Right as I stand, one of the heels on my shoe breaks, and I slip and fall … right into him.

  He captures me in his steady arms even though my face still lands against his chest. A very muscular, tightly packed into a white button-up shirt chest. A strong-scented cologne enters my nostrils, the deep mahogany smell reminding me of a cozy cabin in the woods during the winter, complete with hot cocoa and a burning fireplace.

  “Whoa, steady there,” he says, breaking my chain of thought, and I immediately pull back.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, and I stare down at my feet, one of which hurts like hell. I immediately take off my shoes.

  “You okay?” the stranger asks again.

  “Yeah, I just lost my footing.” I attempt to walk away from him, but my feet keep wobbling.

  “Doesn’t look like it,” he says. “Lemme help.” Before I can protest, he puts his hand underneath my shoulder. “There you go.” He laughs. “You know, I haven’t even introduced myself,” he says as he pulls me along through the park. “I’m Deion. Nice to meet you.”

  “Ahh …” Maybe it’s dangerous to give him my real name. Then again, a first name can never be tied to anyone without the last, so maybe it’s not that bad. Besides, this guy has only been helpful so far. I can’t ignore his attempt to connect.

  “Charlotte,” I reply.

  “Charlotte,” he repeats, and it sounds so sweet coming from his mouth. Not at all like the name of a spoiled princess who acts like she knows the world, even when he proves she’s seen so little.

  “I like it.” He winks, and it puts me at ease.

  We’re outside the park in no time, and he walks me across the street and a couple of blocks down. We stop at a cutesy old building with a tiny front door.

  “This is it,” he says, and he pulls his arm out from underneath mine to fish his keys from his pocket. He opens the door and then returns to get me like a real gentleman, pulling me along with him into his house. The hallway is as narrow as the door, but it leads to countless tiny rooms, all with their own purpose. A kitchen, a bathroom, and a living room, and there are even some stairs that lead to an upper floor.

  After dropping my shoes on the mat, we go into the kitchen, and he gestures for me to sit down at his hardwood table. He leaves for a few seconds only to come back with a blanket, which he wraps around me. He grabs another chair and sits down in front of me, hoisting my foot up from the floor. I almost tug it back in defense, but his calloused hands on my soft skin are warm and non-threatening. He inspects my ankle and moves my foot around. I bite my lip from the pain.

  “Looks like you sprained it a bit,” he says, and he gets up. Walking to his fridge, he takes out a blue hard-plastic ice pack from his freezer, which he wraps in a towel. “Here, put this on your ankle. It’ll reduce the swelling.”

  “Thanks,” I say as he hands me the ice pack. “It doesn’t hurt that bad.”

  It’s a lie that I make up on the spot so I don’t appear weak. As a homeless girl, being picked up by a stranger isn’t exactly a smart thing to do, so I need to be strong right now. No matter how badly it hurts.

  “I’m sure it does,” he says, completely negating what I said.

  He starts a pot of coffee and a kettle of water even though I didn’t ask for anything. “Tea or coffee?” he asks. “I always make coffee, but I figured you might
want something else. I don’t actually know what Americans drink.” He laughs, and it’s such a genuine, infectious laugh that I can’t help but smile too.

  “Tea is good,” I say.

  Jesus, could that sound any more ridiculous? I want to slap myself right now.

  After grabbing a few plates and bread, he starts placing stuff on the table that I don’t recognize. Boxes filled with all sorts of colored sprinkles, some kind of thinly sliced meats in a box, a long, rectangular dark cake-like thing, and butter. I recognize that. And cheese. But the more he puts on the table, the more confused I get. I don’t want to sound rude by asking, so I pretend I’m familiar and smile at him with ease.

  Deion fills two cups with hot water and grabs some tea sachets too, dipping them into the water before bringing the cups to the table. Then he places a knife in front of me. “There you go. Grab whatever you want.”

  My eyes fixate on the knife as though it’s some glorious weapon I could steal. It’s been a long time since I last got one without intent, without it signifying some kind of ownership over my soul. Because knives are potential weapons, and Easton knew that all too well, so he always made sure someone kept an eye on me when I held one in my hand.

  But not this guy. This guy turns around and walks back to his kitchen sink to grab more stuff he can place on the table like round dried crackers and more otherworldly foods I’ve never seen before. Not once does he look at me with rage with the intent to dominate, or with apprehension over my stronghold over the knife as I clutch it in my hand as though it’s my last lifeline. Not with this guy. I don’t need to.

  My grip on the knife loosens, and for the first time in ages, it’s as though an invisible shroud falls off and lightens the load on my shoulders.

  Deion sits back down and grabs one of the round dried crackers and smears it with butter, then tosses a bunch of the chocolate sprinkles on top. I’m amazed when he takes a huge bite and grins as he looks my way.

  “What?” he says.

  He’s always so direct. I’m not sure if he’s offended half the time or if this is how they are around here.

  “Nothing.” I shrug.

  “Sure, there is. You’re not eating, and you’re gawking at me like I shouldn’t be,” he says.

  “Oh, no, I’d never—”

  He laughs. “Relax. I’m only trying to get under your skin.” He scoots the bread toward me, and says, “Grab one of these and top it with whatever you want.”

  I hesitate for a moment before taking out one of the pieces of sliced bread and smearing some butter on it like he did. I grab the box of sprinkles and shake it a little, pouring some of the chocolates onto my bread along with the plate.

  “Oops.”

  “Never done this before, have you?” he asks. “It takes a bit of practice not to spill.”

  “How can you tell?” I mutter. Am I that easy to read, or do I just look like an idiot foreigner? I probably do.

  “You keep staring at the food as if it’s alien food,” he jokes, taking another bite of his round cracker.

  Well, that’s true, but I don’t want to rude, so I refrain from saying so. Instead, I take a bite of my sandwich, and the following explosion of sugary chocolate makes my mouth water.

  “Wow.”

  He laughs out loud. “Good, right?”

  I nod. “And you eat this on bread?”

  “Bread. Beschuit. Whatever you want.”

  I frown. “Beschuit? What?”

  He points at his round cracker. “Beschuit. It’s a hard biscuit. Like a rusk.”

  “Um …” I mutter.

  “Here, take a bite,” he says. Before I know it, he’s shoved the thing in my face, and it’s impossible to refuse. When I take a bite of the dried biscuit, it flakes in my mouth and reminds me of a very crispy cookie but with buttery chocolate on it.

  “Do adults eat this?” I ask, raising a brow.

  He nods a few times. “Sure. A lot of them do even though they probably won’t admit it.”

  “So you eat kid’s food?” I say.

  He chuckles again but hides it behind another bite. “You could say that.”

  “Nice.”

  He grabs a box of colored sprinkles. “You should try this one. Fruit explosion.”

  “Hmm … Maybe my next sandwich.” I swallow down the first one with glee.

  A satisfied grin appears on his face. “Hungry after all, eh?”

  I shrug and bite my lips to keep from turning red in the cheeks. “Just a little.”

  We both keep smiling as we eat in silence. I don’t know why because he must have a ton of questions for me, as I do for him, but neither of us wants to ask. It’s as if we’re both enjoying the moment in silence and the calming peace that comes with it. It’s lovely eating here with him. Like a morning brunch on a rainy day with an old friend even though we’ve only just met. I don’t know why, but it feels as though I can trust him. And that’s nice for a change.

  “Try this one too,” he says after a while, grabbing the long rectangle stick thing. “Ontbijtkoek. But we sometimes also call it Peperkoek, which literally means peppercookie. But there’s no pepper in it, I promise.”

  “Okay,” I say, grabbing a piece and smearing it with butter too. People smear butter on everything here; it’s crazy but delicious too. Just like pretty much all the food. Easton never served any of this. I’ve only eaten American food whenever we sat together at his dining table. He probably wanted to make me feel at home, but it did the opposite. I resented him and my desire for the foods of my childhood. But I actually enjoy this, and eating this is my own choice. It’s a taste of true freedom.

  “Tastes like ginger spice cookies,” I say, finishing the whole thing in two bites.

  “I have no idea what those are,” he jests, “but I’m sure they’re good if they taste like this.”

  “Oh, they’re delicious and so is this.” I’d probably run off with the whole stick if I could, but that wouldn’t be ladylike. Plus, I’m a guest in his house. It’s so nice of him to offer all of this to me, but I wonder what he wants in return.

  I blow out some air, and ask, “I want to be honest with you since you’ve been so kind to me. I don’t have any money, so I can’t repay you for any of this.”

  He looks up from his plate and makes a strange face as though what I’ve said confused him. “Repay me? Why do you think you have to?”

  “Well, you gave me food and—”

  He holds up his finger. “I don’t wanna hear any more of this repaying stuff.”

  I smile when he does. “But I don’t understand. Why help me?” I mutter.

  He frowns. “Why not? Everybody should help when they see someone who needs it.”

  I can’t believe his kindness. It’s almost unreal. But he’s saying it out loud. Still, my mind can’t wrap around the idea that people who actually want to help others exist without ever getting anything in return. I always thought those people were unicorns and didn’t exist. Yet here he is in the living flesh.

  He smiles. “Your thank you was enough for me.”

  Now he’s made me blush again.

  He takes another bite of his food, and then says, “Besides, you seemed like you were in a tough situation.”

  I snort. “That’s putting it lightly.”

  “Hmm?” He cocks his head, waiting for me to elaborate.

  But that’s just the thing … I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want him to know the pain I’ve felt, the humiliation I’ve experienced, and the dark depravity I’ve let myself succumb to. I don’t want this man to see or know any of that, so I don’t say another word and slam my lips together.

  “I get it. You don’t wanna talk about it,” he says. “And I won’t force you to.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, adding a lopsided smile. “But I do appreciate your generosity very much.”

  A cold chill travels up my spine. This amazing brunch almost made me forget about the soaking wet clothes sticking to my body. />
  He gets up from the chair, and says, “I think you deserve a shower.”

  My eyes widen. “A shower?”

  Here? In his house? But we barely know each other.

  “Yeah. C’mon, I’ll show you the way.”

  Before I can say a word, he’s already grabbed my hand, and he pulls me up the creaky old stairs. There are three doors in the small hallway; two of which seem to lead to bedrooms and another one with a lock. He opens the last one and turns on the light to reveal a small shower and sink with just enough room to turn. Deion goes inside and turns on the shower. Grabbing a few towels off the high shelf near the door, he places them on the sink.

  “You can shower as long as you want and use as many towels as you want. I’ll grab some fresh clothes and be right back.”

  I’m left alone again—this time in a tiny space in an equally tiny home—but I’m not afraid. This man has shown me nothing but compassion, and I’ve felt nothing but humbled ever since. I don’t even know what to do or what to say to his kindness, so I stand there and wait until he comes back.

  When he does, he places a pair of pants and a big pullover on the sink. “They’re a bit oversized because they’re mine,” he says with a laugh, “but I’m sure you could make it work with this belt.” He places a brown belt on top too. “Anyway … um …” He scratches the back of his head while I’m still staring at him, wondering if this is okay and I should take him up on his offer.

  “If you need anything, I’ll be downstairs,” he says, pointing at the stairs before walking out the door and leaving me to it.

  After hearing his footsteps all the way down the hallway, I lock the bathroom door and peel off the ridiculous dress. The mirror in front of the sink immediately draws me in, and I stare at the woman in front of me. The woman I’ve been forced to become. An escapee … living a lie that’ll probably burst. Someday. Somehow. I just know it.

  The thought makes my heart palpitate and my head hurt. My father’s placed too much responsibility on my shoulders, and I can’t handle it anymore.

  An exasperated sigh escapes as I turn my head away from the mirror and step underneath the shower. The hot water warms my cold bones and makes the shivers disappear along with the darkness that clouded my mind. In here, there is no judgment and no one to tell me what to do or what’s right and wrong. There’s only me … and him.