His Ballerina

by Darcy Rose

  “What are you doing?” It’s barely a whisper through chattering teeth.

  “I’m learning what I can about you, Madison Miller.” I thrust the bag at her, wallet included. “And now I know where you live. You know what that means, right?” When she nods, I push harder. “Tell me what it means.”

  Her brow furrows. “You’ll come to my place if you find out I told on you.”

  I could laugh, I really could. She sounds like a little kid tattling in the schoolyard. Is she really that innocent? Or is shock turning her into this scared, whispering little girl?

  Whatever it is, I have to take it and use it. “That’s right. I’ll come to your place—or, if you’re really unlucky, I’ll send somebody less merciful than me. You realize I could’ve blown you away by now, right? They won’t make it that easy, I promise.”

  “I get it.” And oh, look here, there’s an edge to her voice. Not as sharp as it could be, but I hear it. And damned if I don’t respect her a little more now. She’s not as fragile as she looks.

  Though she’s still a tiny thing, and this is a shithole of a neighborhood. I wouldn’t normally come here except to straighten somebody out. I look to the right, then the left. “You out here all alone?”

  “Yes,” she gasps. “There’s nobody here with me.”

  “What are you, stupid or something? For fuck’s sake. Who walks around out here on their own at this time of night? You’re practically begging to walk in on something like this.” I wave a hand in the direction of the dead man, his body half-hidden behind a row of trash cans, while I pull out my phone.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Just shut up and stay where you are. Don’t forget what’s tucked in my pants. Got it?” She nods, trembling harder, as the call picks up.

  “Talk to me. Is it done?” My brother, Ace, oldest of all of us. Now that Dad’s gone, he thinks he’s hot shit, the unofficial father figure, but it’s not easy to forget all the dumb shit a person pulled when they were a kid. I know him too well.

  “It is, but there’s been a complication.” I glance at her, meeting her gaze. God, she’s got gorgeous eyes. I could fall into those eyes and drown. What would they look like if she was happy? If I made her happy?

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. But I’m gonna need you to send somebody down here for clean-up.” I give him the location while watching Madison for any sign that she’s about to flee. While I doubt anybody would think twice about the double-crossing bookie turning up dead in an alley a few blocks down from where he was last seen, it’s not like we want the cops breathing down our necks. Especially when I was seen leaving the bar with him.

  I don’t think anybody in there would be stupid enough to rat me out—still, no taking chances.

  “On it. You sure you’ve got this covered?”

  Sometimes he forgets I’m twenty-three, not thirteen. “Got it.” I end the call before he finds some other way to insult me or otherwise insinuate I might not have things under control.

  Like this is my first hit, for Christ’s sake.

  Once that’s taken care of, I take hold of Madison’s elbow. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  “Oh, my god…” Tears fill her eyes and spill onto her cheeks. I don’t know whether to slap some sense into her or comfort her, and the fact that there’s even a choice to be made terrifies me deep down inside. It’s like there’s something inside me that’s never been there before. Pity? Sympathy? Either way, I don’t like it.

  “Shut up, for God’s sake. Stop blubbering. I’m walking you home, is all.” I pull her a few steps further away from the alley and the body there.

  “Walking me home?”

  “Are you a parrot? And stop crying, would you? There’s nothing to cry about. So long as you’re smart and remember what I told you. Think you can do that?”

  She drags the back of her hand under both eyes and squares her shoulders. Something about that tiny gesture hits me hard. The girl has no reason to believe me after witnessing what I did a few minutes ago, but she’s willing to play along. She’s that brave.

  And a fucking idiot. “Don’t you know how dangerous it is to be walking around out here in the middle of the night? All alone? It’s amazing this is the first hit you’ve ever walked in on.”

  “Who says it’s the first?”

  She surprises me into stopping dead in my tracks just before reaching the sidewalk. “It’s not?”

  “No, of course, it is. I don’t even know why I said that.” She looks at the ground, where broken glass glitters like diamonds between weed-choked cracks in the concrete.

  Something tells me I’m not going to be able to get this girl out of my head for a long time, and that’s a real problem. But it doesn’t stop me from continuing on with her, one hand on her arm in case she decides to do anything stupid.

  3

  Madison

  This is it. I’m dead, or as good as dead. No way this guy is going to let me live after what I saw.

  His hand is tight around my elbow, a silent reminder that I can’t get away from him. I could fight, couldn’t I? Every bit of advice I’ve ever heard regarding personal safety flies through my head all at once, a jumble of warnings and tips.

  Throw your wallet in one direction and run in the other direction. Well, he’s already had my wallet, and he didn’t seem interested in what was inside beyond the name and address on my driver’s license. So that’s out.

  Scream fire. People are more likely to come to your rescue when they think their property might burn. There aren’t that many people around here right now, not at this time of night. Most of the buildings up and down the street are storefronts or used to be before they got boarded up. There might be people living in the apartments on the second and third floors, but what are the odds that any of them will come running? So I doubt that will help.

  Kick him where it hurts. Sure, and I might even enjoy doing that, considering how scary he is and how intimidated I am after watching him murder a man in cold blood. But what good would it do? I doubt he would let me go. Even if he did, he could shoot me as I ran.

  Besides, he knows where I live. What’s the point of fighting when he can just find me later? I don’t have anywhere else to go, no friends to stay with, no family. Sure, pretty much all of my possessions could be packed into a backpack, but the idea of living on the street doesn’t exactly thrill me.

  Here I am, walking home, and my only options are to keep living in an apartment a cold-blooded killer could point out on a map or live on the streets. This has to be some kind of nightmare.

  No, it’s not a nightmare. When his grip tightens before we step off the sidewalk like he’s making double sure I’m not going to make a run for it, it only solidifies the reality I’ve found myself in.

  “You are going to hurt me, at least be honest.” What’s the point of playing word games, pretending this is all going to turn out happily? If I’m going to die, I think I deserve a little honesty.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Come on. I’m not a child. I know how things go. And I know you could’ve killed me out there in the alley, but you didn’t, so I’m guessing you want to hurt me before you kill me?”

  I glance his way, looking up since he’s so much taller than me, and I see his jaw tighten. A firm jaw, sharp, covered in just a little bit of dark scruff like he didn’t shave this morning. “I don’t have to force myself on women to get laid if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

  He sounds so matter-of-fact about it, but then again, so do I. This is no time to get all emotional or start shaking again. “Then why are you walking me home?”

  “This isn’t a question and answer session, Madison.”

  “Then what is it?” I pause for a second, then ask, “What’s your name, at least?”

  “Why do you need to know my name?”

  “I guess I have a habit of wanting to know the name of the man who’s going to
kill me.”

  He snorts, giving me the first glimpse of a sense of humor. Murderers can have a sense of humor, I guess. “Remember what we talked about. There’s no reason you have to die, so long as you play by the rules. When you think about it that way, this is really all up to you.”

  I have to stop short of thanking him for giving me the power to control whether I live or die. Something tells me this guy isn’t a big fan of sarcasm.

  Besides, he’s lying. He has to be. This is all a ploy to get me to a second location, where he can do whatever he wants to me before ending my life.

  I might be young, but I’ve watched a lot of TV over the years. Sometimes, it was all I had to distract me from the misery I lived in.

  “I would still like to know your name. Just your first name. I mean, we’re talking, and you know my name, and it doesn’t seem fair.” Sure, I’m babbling, but it’s better than walking in silence. The silence is so heavy, thick, threatening to choke me. At least talking feels semi-normal.

  He makes me wait a while, until I’m sure he’s decided there won’t be any more talking. “Archer.” He didn’t want to tell me, it’s obvious, and the word comes out slowly. Like he already regrets saying it.

  “That’s a nice name.”

  “Thanks,” he snorts. “Unlike this neighborhood.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s the best I was able to do.” He doesn’t correct my using past tense, which only confirms my suspicions. I’m dying tonight. I almost wish he would get it over with, that he would end this little game he’s playing with me. Is he getting off on it? Is this exciting for him, holding my life in his hands, knowing he’ll be the one to decide when I draw my final breath? Some people are like that—killers who toy with their victims for the thrill of control.

  “I’m only walking you home, Madison.”

  It’s beyond surreal how protective he sounds. Like a father, almost. Granted, I’ve never had a father who cared about me, but it’s how I would always imagine a loving father would speak. Like he knows better than me, like he only wants what’s best for me even if I don’t understand his motives.

  Incredible, the thoughts that will go through a person’s brain in their final minutes.

  There was so much more I wanted to do. So much more I wanted to see. I was going to save up and take a trip to watch real, live ballet. I was going to buy a brand-new pair of pointe shoes. I was going to find a decent job, maybe something that would let me move to a better neighborhood, a job that would pay enough so I could stop bouncing from the grocery store to the diner where I waitressed to the gym almost every day. I would have more hours free to do what I wanted to do, which, of course, meant dancing.

  None of it had been exactly clear in my head, just vague images, ideas. I didn’t even have time for those ideas to solidify into something real, into goals I could work toward.

  We’re about to cross another street when a rusty old car with muffler problems comes flying up out of nowhere. Archer spits out a curse, pulling me closer, out of the car’s path. I don’t know if I want to be this close to him, but at the same time, I can’t deny the scent of leather mixed with what smells like whiskey coming from his breath and a spicy, musky cologne.

  Most definitely not what I need to be thinking about right now. I don’t need to think about his broad chest, either, or the muscles under his jacket. But here I am.

  “Assholes shouldn’t be allowed to drive.” Archer shakes his head, muttering some more profanity under his breath before pulling me along with him. I practically have to jog to keep up with his long, purposeful strides.

  I guess he doesn’t want to waste any more time before he blows my brains out.

  “You don’t have to do this,” I whisper as we approach my building. Half the windows are boarded up thanks to vandals breaking into the apartments on the first floor. Mine’s on the third, with heavy bars outside the windows to prevent that sort of thing from happening.

  “People never get tired of saying that, do they?” It sounds like he’s talking more to himself than he is to me, and I have to wonder how many people he’s killed. Something tells me I’d better not ask. I might not want to hear the answer.

  “But it’s true.”

  “I’m aware of that. I’m not a fan of repeating myself, so don’t make me do it again.” When we reached the front door—heavy, metal, rusted—he jerks his chin toward it. “Go ahead. Unlock it.”

  “Are you coming up with me?”

  His brows draw together over the bridge of his nose. “Why can’t you get it through your head? What’s the crime in wanting to make sure a girl doesn’t get herself killed walking home alone in a neighborhood like this?”

  I blink, staring at him. For the first time since we left the alley, it feels like he’s telling the truth. Like maybe I should believe him. But I’m afraid to believe. I don’t want to get my hopes up.

  He looks around while I unlock the door, and I hear him muttering in what sounds like anger. When I look up at him again, hoping against hope that this really is what he says it is, he looks disgusted. “They should tear all of this down.”

  “Where would the rats live?” Dear Lord, am I making jokes right now?

  He looks me up and down, and I’m pretty sure he’s smirking, though it’s very dark out here with only half the streetlights working, and I can’t quite make out his expression by the time he takes one backward step, then another. “Go inside. Now.”

  Something tells me to do as he says, so I dart into the building and close the door behind me with a slam. I barely even notice the smell of urine and mouse droppings as I fly up two sets of stairs, practically stumbling when my feet don’t move as fast as I want them to.

  He doesn’t follow me. When I double-lock my apartment door, I press an ear to it just in case there’s noise out in the hallway. But there isn’t. It’s silent, except for the rush of blood in my ears.

  I don’t know how long it takes for me to slide down the door until my butt hits the floor. It could be minutes; it could be an hour for all I know. Now that I’m alone, really alone with nobody chasing me up the stairs or trying to break down the door, I can try to get my thoughts together.

  He must’ve meant it. He won’t come after me so long as I keep my mouth shut. Well, that’s fine by me. If it means the difference between life and death, I won’t breathe a word to anybody. I’ll forget I ever saw him.

  Though something tells me it’s not going to be as easy as that. By the time I change into a T-shirt and shorts and crawl into bed, I’ve stopped shaking, but that doesn’t mean my thoughts have calmed down any. I end up tossing and turning until the bedsprings scream in protest, every noise on the street below, making me jump. My nerves are shredded, my legs shaking when I finally give up and get out of bed.

  I don’t know why, but something compels me to look out the window on my way to the kitchen for a cup of tea to hopefully soothe my nerves. It overlooks the street in front of the building, and as usual, there’s nobody out there at this time of night but the occasional drunk staggering home from the bar.

  Only tonight, there’s something else out there. A big, shiny, black SUV parked right out front.

  My heartbeat quickens. That car is way out of place in this neighborhood. There’s only one person it could be.

  So he didn’t go away, after all. He’s going to sit out there like some psycho.

  I don’t know whether he’s watching me or watching out for me. Either way, there’s no chance I’m getting a wink of sleep tonight.

  4

  Archer

  One thing is for sure: this girl doesn’t deserve the life she lives.

  I don’t know what it is about her that makes me determined to follow her throughout the day, to watch her. She’s like a drug in my system, invading my organs, my blood, my brain. I can’t get her out of my head. I need to know her, to know everything about her.

  Which is why I’ve been watching. I can’t stop watching.

  F
irst, she was out the door before dawn. I made the decision in the middle of the night to move the car further down the street, where I could still see her but where she wouldn’t feel afraid to leave her apartment. Sometimes, I have a tendency to come on too strong. I know that; I can admit it if only to myself.

  Sure enough, when that rusty old door screeched open way before the sun rose, she crept out like a mouse and looked both ways before scurrying down the sidewalk with her shoulders hunched, her arms wrapped around herself. I couldn’t see her eyes, but I would’ve bet my bank account they moved back and forth constantly, sweeping the area. Watching for me, expecting somebody to jump out and blow her away.

  I settled for following at a distance, and a few blocks later, I watched her slip in through the back door of a grocery store, by the loading area. There were crates stacked back there. A few minutes later, she came back out wearing an apron with the store’s name embroidered on the front and lifted one of those crates, carrying it inside before coming back out for another one.

  When watching from the back of the store wasn’t good enough, I pulled the car around the front and parked across the street. She was stocking shelves quickly, efficiently, and nobody would ever have guessed she watched a murder take place not six hours earlier.

  I never did find out what she was doing last night, walking the streets alone. Leaving her boyfriend’s house? I would fucking hope not. No man worthy of being called a man would let his girl walk home alone like that.

  And if it was a boyfriend, I would like to meet him. Have a few words with him.

  Granted, I would be the one doing all the talking since having my gun in his mouth would make it hard for him to speak up for himself. Not that it mattered. I wouldn’t want to hear any excuse he offered.

  It’s almost nine o’clock when she emerges from the front of the store. Again, I see her looking both ways before she starts off on foot, and considering the direction she’s taking, it doesn’t look like she’s going home. “Where are you going now, Madison?” I whisper, starting the engine when she rounds the corner.