Copper and Salt

  Copper and Salt

  Michaela Grey

  Human trafficking is sadly all too real and it doesn’t get talked about very much. You can visit the Polaris Project at https://polarisproject.org/ if you’d like to learn more about how you can help. This book is dedicated to those unseen victims and a portion of its proceeds go to Polaris.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Michaela Grey

  Blindside Hit

  Cold Stone Heart

  1

  When Oren Asher stepped out his back door that brutal Cheyenne morning, the last thing he expected to find was a body sprawled on his porch, one arm outstretched as if reaching for the doorbell.

  “Shit.”

  Oren dropped the bag of trash he’d been taking to the can and crouched beside the body, rolling it carefully over to reveal a young man, his eyes closed. His skin hadn’t frozen to the ice yet, which meant he hadn’t been there long.

  Oren didn’t waste time trying to revive him outside. Instead he bent and scooped the young man up and into his arms in one quick motion, booting the door open and striding back inside.

  His burden was horribly light, despite the fact that the young man appeared to be at least twenty years old, his hair blond where it wasn’t matted down with dirt and blood. His skin was pale, veins standing out faint and blue as Oren cleared a space on the couch and laid him down to listen for a heartbeat.

  It was there, faint and irregular but present, and Oren drew a breath of relief and grabbed the heavy throw off the back of the couch.

  “You would pick the biggest ice storm of the year to be caught in,” he said aloud as he gently bundled his guest into the layers. “Phone lines are down. Everyone in town is without power. Hell, pretty sure most of Wyoming is without power right now. I couldn’t call emergency services if I wanted to.” He paused. “Which I, of course, do want to.”

  The boy didn’t stir, his head lolling and his eyes still closed as Oren wiped his hands on his pants, grimacing. His fingers felt tacky, sticky and dirty, and he suddenly desperately wanted a bath.

  He eased back onto his heels and surveyed his handiwork. The young man looked like a human burrito, wrapped in the blanket as tightly as Oren could get him, and Oren chewed thoughtfully on his lip.

  “Stay right there,” he said.

  He hurried for the bathroom and turned on the wall heater, then began to fill the huge claw-foot tub. He dug his first aid kit out from under the sink and then dashed back to the living room.

  The stranger was still unconscious when Oren gathered him into his arms and carried him up the stairs and into the bathroom. He set him on the floor in front of the tub and pulled back the layers of the blanket, grimacing at the filthy shirt revealed.

  “I’m sorry about this, for the record,” he murmured, and used the scissors from the kit to cut the shirt off.

  He bit his lip until he tasted blood as he peeled the tattered rags away from bruised and torn skin. Most of the young man’s torso was covered in lumps and contusions in various stages of healing, as if he’d been beaten on a regular basis. Even in his unconscious state, he seemed to curl protectively around his right side, and Oren felt carefully along his ribcage, hissing at the lump there.

  “Looks like you’ve got some cracked ribs at least,” he said. He wasn’t sure why he was talking aloud, except that it seemed to lessen the weirdness of the situation, having a half-dead, almost naked stranger on his bathroom floor. “I’m gonna take your pants off now, okay?”

  He eased the thin khakis down lean thighs purple and green with old bruises, breathing through his mouth and trying to remember how to pray. His abuela had taught him, once, but he couldn’t quite bring the old rhythm to mind—the young man roused, opening dark brown eyes, and grabbed Oren’s arm with startling strength.

  “Mihai,” he whispered, holding Oren’s eyes.

  “Is that… is that your name?”

  The young man shook his head, panic in the set of his face, the tension of his shoulders. “Alex.” His heels scrabbled against the hard tile floor as he tried to sit up.

  “Okay, Alex,” Oren said as soothingly as he could. “Easy. We need to get you warmed up, and when the phone lines come back, we’ll call an ambulance. We’re snowed in right now, but—”

  “No!” Alex jackknifed away, colliding with the tub and making Oren wince in sympathy at the hollow thud. “No ambulance!” He was trembling as he pressed himself into the corner, thin shoulders against the wall, drawing his knees to his chest.

  Oren held out a hand but didn’t move from his position. “Okay,” he repeated. “No ambulance. We do need to get you warmed up though, look how you’re shivering, you see that?”

  Alex looked down at himself, his eyes unfocused and vague, and didn’t answer.

  Oren inched a little nearer. “Come on,” he coaxed. “You’ll feel better once you’re warm.”

  He kept his hand out, waiting, and finally Alex relaxed his grip on his knees and took the edge of the tub, ducking away from Oren’s hand as he pulled himself upright.

  Oren shuffled backward to give him room, staying close enough to catch him if he fell, and Alex stepped into the tub, hissing at the hot water as he sank into it. He drew his knees back up, turning his head away and resting his face against his knees as if indifferent to anything Oren might do.

  There were fingerprint bruises on Alex’s neck, Oren realized as sick horror wormed in his stomach, livid and distinct like a big hand had held him, pinned him down—Oren scrambled to his feet, willing himself to not throw up, and backed away.

  “I’ll… be right back,” he managed, distantly aware that his voice was trembling, and bolted.

  Outside in the dim hallway, he braced his hands on his knees and tried to breathe. What have I gotten myself into?

  After a minute, he straightened and went back in. Alex didn’t stir, and Oren realized that he’d fallen asleep sitting upright, leaning against the side of the tub.

  “God, you poor kid,” Oren whispered. He knelt and picked up a sponge.

  Alex startled awake with a choked gasp when Oren touched his shoulder and Oren held up his hands.

  “Just going to clean you up,” he said quietly. “That okay?”

  Alex eyed him, wariness rampant in his dark eyes, but finally he nodded once, wincing at the movement.

  “You just hold still, I’ll do all the heavy lifting,” Oren said. He set to work, squeezing warm water over Alex’s skinny shoulders and sluicing away blood and grime, leaving clean skin and yellowing bruises behind.

  Halfway through, he stopped and drained the tub and refilled it with more hot water. Alex sighed, tension visibly leaving his muscles, and pillowed his head on his arms on the rim of the tub as Oren worked.

  “That was a real humdinger of a storm, wasn’t it?” Oren said, mostly to fill the silence. Somewhat predictably by now, Alex didn’t answer. “Thank God I don’t have to go out in it—well, much, anyway. I wouldn’t have been out at all if I hadn’t needed to throw out my trash, which is lucky for you. Otherwise you might have turned into a popsicle right there on my back porch.”

  “What is… popsicle?” Alex asked, his voice slow and b
urred with sleep. He had an accent, Oren realized, but he couldn’t place it. European, he thought, but he couldn’t be more specific than that yet.

  “It’s—oh, frozen juice, or ice cream, on a stick. Kids like to eat them in the summers,” Oren said, easing Alex to the other side of the tub. “Very popular in the south—not as much up here, I guess.”

  Alex said nothing.

  “Can you tilt your head back so I can wash your hair?”

  Alex wordlessly obeyed, revealing a long, slender neck covered in more bruises, and Oren poured water over his head, careful to keep it out of his eyes. He worked the shampoo through the strands with gentle fingers, wincing every time Alex did, and then tilted Alex’s head back again and rinsed the shampoo from his scalp.

  When he was done, Oren was relieved to find that apart from a cut on his forehead, Alex didn’t have any open wounds. An ambulance was not immediately necessary, he decided, sitting back on his heels. He was pretty sure Alex had fallen asleep again, dark lashes fanned out over pale cheeks and his mouth drooping downward in exhaustion and pain.

  Which reminded him—Oren rocked to his feet and stood up to rummage in his medicine cabinet. He had some leftover narcotics from his appendix surgery the year before. He shook one out onto his palm and poured a glass of water before turning and stooping to the tub.

  “Hey,” he said gently. “Can you take this for me?”

  Alex lashed out, smacking Oren’s hand away with a snarled curse that definitely wasn’t in English, clipping the glass with his elbow and knocking it out of Oren’s grip. It shattered on the floor as Alex cowered backward, flinging his arms up over his head as if waiting for Oren to hit him.

  Oren didn’t move, stunned, staring at the puddle on the floor that was soaking into his socks.

  “Okay,” he said after a minute, his voice a little unsteady. “So maybe no drugs. You, uh… think you can get out of the tub? Wait, hang on, let me clean this mess up first.”

  He grabbed a towel and mopped up the worst of it, peeling off his wet socks and aware that Alex was watching him behind the crook of his elbow as he worked, careful to keep his motions calm and relaxed as a result.

  “Stay there,” he said when he was done. “I’m going to get you some clothes.”

  He was half-expecting Alex to be gone when he came back with a pair of sweats and long underwear, vanished like some strange hallucination brought on by too much Oscar Wilde and tequila before bed, but no, Alex was right where Oren had left him, clutching his knees and staring out the window.

  Like before, Alex didn’t accept his hand, gripping the edge of the tub and pulling himself to his feet. He wavered as he stepped out and Oren wrapped the towel around him quickly, using it as an excuse to prop him up as he dried him off and helped him step into the clothes.

  “Hold onto my shoulder,” he directed, and felt Alex obey, fingers light as butterfly feet against Oren’s flannel shirt. When Oren was done, he straightened, face to face with Alex for the first time. He was a little shorter, he realized, Alex taller and thinner than Oren’s sturdy five foot ten.

  Alex swayed and Oren caught his elbow, alarmed.

  “Can you walk?” he asked.

  “To… where?” Alex slurred. “Siberia… no. Living room… maybe.”

  “Oh my god, you have a sense of humor,” Oren said, delighted. “I like you already. I was actually thinking my bed.” Alex slanted a look at him and Oren shook his head. “It’s not like that. It’s a one bedroom house, and the couch is terrible, all lumpy and miserable, but if you’d prefer to be on it….”

  “Yes,” Alex said firmly. “Couch.” But when he put weight on his right foot, he nearly went down, and only a quick lunge by Oren saved him from sprawling.

  “Sorry,” Oren panted, letting go as quickly as he could. “Let me look at that ankle, I think I missed something.”

  Alex eased himself onto the closed toilet lid and Oren felt the joint, hissing through his teeth.

  “It’s swollen,” he said. “My one summer as a lifeguard for the YMCA didn’t really qualify me for this shit, but I don’t think it’s broken? I’d feel better if you went to the hospital and had an X-ray to be sure, though.”

  Alex jerked his foot out of Oren’s hands. “No.”

  “Okay,” Oren said, scooting backward. “No one’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

  Alex’s laugh was jagged, splintered, and it hurt something in Oren’s chest.

  Oren stayed close as Alex stood up, then motioned for him to put his arm around his shoulders. They made their way out of the bathroom and down the narrow hall to the landing, slow and limping, and then paused.

  “Stairs,” Oren said unnecessarily.

  Alex said nothing, but his look suggested Oren might be a little brain-damaged. He breathed heavily through his nose and gripped the banister, taking the steps slowly as Oren kept pace.

  When they were finally in the living room, Oren was a nervous wreck and Alex was trembling again.

  “Let’s never do that again,” Oren said as Alex sank onto the cushions. Oren tucked the blankets around Alex’s shivering body and felt his forehead. “I don’t think you have a fever. Maybe we got lucky and you’ll avoid coming down with anything. When’s the last time you ate?”

  Alex blinked, clearly trying to focus. “Two… days?”

  “Two days ago?” Oren asked, horrified. “Jesus, kid. Okay, hang on, I’m going to get you something to eat. You just rest.”

  Alex closed his eyes, his mouth shaping a word silently. Oren couldn’t be sure, but he thought it might be the same one he’d said when he’d come to in the bathroom. Mihai.

  Oren was glad for the open floor plan of his house, the kitchen down a short flight of steps and the couch in plain view from the stove as he heated up yesterday’s chicken soup.

  Alex stayed huddled in place, a motionless ball under the blankets as Oren bumped and clanked in the kitchen, humming to himself as he worked.

  He needed to call the authorities the second the phone lines were back up, he knew that, loath as he was to take that step. Alex was clearly on the run from something or someone, and whatever it was, Oren didn’t want to get involved with that. It would be better for everyone if he handed the young man over to the police and let them take care of it, except for the spotlight that would turn on him.

  Was there a way he could turn Alex over anonymously? Oren paused, spoon held above the saucepan, as he considered that option. Drive into town once the roads were clear, take Alex to the hospital and drop him off, maybe leave before they got his name?

  No. Oren began stirring the soup again before it burned, shaking his head. Better to give it a day or two, let the ice melt, see if he could get some more information out of his guest about his origins. Maybe he had an innocent backstory and all this stress was for naught.

  Oren snorted and poured soup into a mug. And maybe Ryan Reynolds will leave Blake Lively for me.

  He climbed back to the living room with a steaming hot mug of soup, making sure Alex knew he was coming with deliberately heavy footfalls. He set the food on the coffee table as Alex stirred and sat up, behind him.

  “Can you feed yourself?” Oren asked.

  “Yes,” Alex said quietly.

  “Good. I’m going to get the first aid kit and wrap your ankle and ribs. The cut on your forehead needs to be bandaged too.”

  He left Alex to start eating and headed for the bathroom, spending a few minutes tidying up the wreckage before gathering the supplies he needed. Then he ducked down the hallway into his bedroom and grabbed one of his thickest pairs of socks before going back down to the living room.

  Alex was already done with the bowl of soup, curled back up on his side with his hand tucked under his cheek, eyes closed. Oren knelt in front of him and opened the kit, taking out the antiseptic ointment and gauze.

  “This is going to sting,” he warned.

  Alex said nothing, but his throat worked as he
swallowed.

  Oren dabbed the ointment along the cut on Alex’s forehead, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. Once it was dressed and bandaged, he touched Alex’s shoulder.

  “Can you sit up for me? We need to wrap your ribs.”

  Alex squeezed his eyes shut tighter and shook his head, pressing his face against the cushion.

  Confused, Oren waited, but Alex didn’t move.

  “Come on,” Oren coaxed, “sit up and after, you can have more soup.”

  Alex clenched his fists, a vein throbbing in his temple, and pushed himself upright. When Oren reached for his shirt, though, Alex shoved him away.

  “No.”

  “It’s not like that!” Oren said for the second time. “I’m sorry, but I have to lift your shirt to get to your ribs to wrap them properly.”

  “Why?” Alex demanded, his brown eyes anguished.

  “Because I’m pretty sure they’re cracked,” Oren said carefully. “Remember? We talked about this. Did you hit your head—”

  “No, why….” Alex clutched at his hair as his English failed him and he lapsed into another language, round vowels and crackling syllables that spilled over in a rolling wave of sound. He covered his face after a minute and his shoulders shook. “Mihai.”

  “That’s the third time you’ve said that word,” Oren said. He was still kneeling on the floor, far enough away that Alex hopefully wouldn’t feel threatened by his presence. “Is Mihai a person, Alex?”

  Alex lowered his hands. There were tears on his cheeks. “I have… no money,” he said. “Why do you help?”

  Oren stared at him for a minute as he considered and discarded several responses. What other option is there? Basic human decency demands it. I couldn’t exactly let you freeze to death.