by Kate Kessler
The memory of that day used to bring her to tears—to a rage. Now…it was more like poking her finger in a bruise. It hurt, but it didn’t last. It still pissed her off, but it didn’t consume her. It did make her all the more determined to keep Shannon away from Cody, though. She deserved so much better than someone who thought Wex was worth his time. Problem was, Shannon thought thug life was cool and glamorous. Thought she was going to be some king’s queen.
She finished her smoothie, then got ready for her appointment. She arrived with a few minutes to spare, which was a pisser because they never called her in on time. Last visit she’d waited almost thirty minutes just to see Donna for half that.
Walking into the parole office was going back to high school. Killian felt that same kind of hyper self-awareness as soon as she walked through the door. The metal detector judged her, the clerk at the counter treated her like an idiot, and the fellow ex-con sitting in the waiting area looked like bullying ran in his family, but the real anxiety came from the test Donna was about to give her. That’s what these visits felt like—an exam for a class she’d never attended. One wrong answer would land her back inside.
The waiting area was just a few chairs and some tables with magazines. She sat as far away from Bully-Man as she could and flipped through something about women’s fitness. She made sure she could see him over the top of the page, though. That rage was filling him up, and she didn’t trust that he wouldn’t explode. She knew a bomb when she heard it ticking.
She was two paragraphs into an article about building glutes when the counter hit zero.
“You a spic?” he snarled.
Killian sighed. She got asked that a lot because her skin and features were just a little too dark and a little too “something else” to be completely white. Her father was Irish and her mother was of half-Iranian, half-Lebanese descent. She knew better than to tell him that, though. He looked like the type who might accuse her of being a terrorist just so he could justify violence. Fucking guys. If it wasn’t their dicks they wanted to get wet, it was their fists.
She moved on to paragraph three.
“I’m talkin’ to you.”
This wasn’t going to end well. She didn’t want trouble, especially not here. Wasn’t there someone around who could Taser his ass?
When he rose out of his chair, Killian put the magazine aside and leaned back, her gaze on him as he approached. She looked relaxed but wasn’t. Ready to defend herself if necessary, she held his stare. She’d survived countless attacks in prison, both personal and political, and she’d survive if he took a swing. Looking away would be the smart thing to do. The safe thing to do, but her ego just would not allow it.
“Killian Delaney,” announced the clerk.
Bully-Man froze, his expression turning to surprise as she stood. “That you?”
Of course he recognized her name. Everyone with criminal affiliations in Connecticut, New York, and New Jersey knew who she was. She was frigging famous—and all because her lack of balls had left a man damaged rather than dead, like she wanted. She’d probably be less notorious if she’d killed him. Everyone thought she’d left Rank alive to make a statement.
Only she and Dash knew the truth.
“Yeah,” she said, tossing the magazine onto the chair. “I am.”
He just stood there, staring at her. “You messed up Rank Cirello?”
“I did.” She half held her breath, waiting. She flexed her fingers. If this kind of stuff was going to happen on the regular, she needed to get her ass into a fighting gym.
“I’d like to shake your hand.”
Killian looked down at the huge mitt extended toward her. She only hesitated for a moment before taking it.
“What you did was a goddamn thing of beauty. Almost destroyed his business.”
Almost.
“Thanks. You might want to look into anger management classes,” she said, then moved around him. He watched her go—she could feel it. She had that effect on people. Once they knew who she was, they didn’t trust her with their backs. Or they were waiting for the chance to stick a knife in hers. As despised as he was, Rank still had a lot of friends. One of them had gotten her with that fucking plastic spoon. One was bound to come for her again. To be honest, she was surprised Rank had left her alone this long.
She’d thought about running away—going someplace where the criminal element didn’t know who she was—but she couldn’t leave Megan and Shannon again. They were all the family she had left. And running had never been her style.
Donna Grant spent a good part of her days in a little gray box of an office with a cluttered desk, two chairs—one of which was starting to fray—a battered filing cabinet, and a bookcase in it. The books were all about the justice system, and most of them were out-of-date. There were photos of two teenagers on the desk—one boy and one girl. They were good-looking kids, but obviously the boy had yet to grow out of his awkward phase. Was it smart of Donna to let her “clients” see her kids? Killian couldn’t remember their names. Maybe she’d never known them to begin with. Donna knew more about her personal life than Killian did of hers.
“Hello, Killian,” Donna said with a smile. She was a short little woman with blond hair and blue eyes. If you looked at just her smile, she seemed sweet. It wasn’t until you looked into her eyes that you realized thinking of her as anything other than a barracuda was a mistake. A sweet barracuda, but just as dangerous. One word from her and she could have Killian sent back to finish the rest of her sentence. Some people got used to life inside and took every opportunity to go back in. Killian wasn’t one of them.
“Hey, Donna.” She sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the desk from the older woman. A cigarette would be bliss at that moment. Something to focus on. Dash had talked her into quitting years ago. He said it would affect her performance in the ring. She would have given up sex if she’d thought it hurt her ability to fight.
“How are you doing?”
“All right.” She tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair. “You?”
“Can’t complain—no one would listen anyway.” Donna smiled again. “How’s the job?”
Killian shrugged. And so it began. “Fine, I guess. Doesn’t take a lot of effort. I just stand at the door of a bar all night or pour drinks.” Mostly she dealt with drunk drama—everyone seemed to think she had a psychology degree—and assholes who didn’t tip.
The smaller woman folded her hands on the top of the desk. She had a French manicure and gel tips but was in need of a touch-up. “How do you feel about the possibility of having to get physical with someone?”
That had been Donna’s one concern about the job. She knew being around booze and money wasn’t an issue for Killian; it was just the temptation of violence. The prison shrink had spent a lot of time trying to help her find a way to control her anger. She appreciated the woman’s tenacity. Some of it had even stuck. She no longer let her rage control her, but she sure as hell let it do most of the driving.
Killian stopped tapping and met her gaze. “I’m not going to beat up a handsy drunk, Donna. I don’t plan on beating up anyone.” Liar.
“That’s good to hear. Still, you may have to get physical at some point, yes?”
“I suppose.” Of course she hadn’t told Donna that she already had. It was nothing more serious than escorting a woman from the club—and getting slapped for her trouble. “I’m just supposed to deal with the female patrons and that’s it.”
“Lucky you—drunk girls.” A small smile as pen scratched on paper. “How’s the apartment?”
“No one can watch me take a piss and I have a television.” Another shrug. “What more could I want?” Except maybe water that stayed hot for longer than ten minutes and no mice in the walls? Oh, and neighbors who didn’t think their bedroom sport of extreme fucking needed to be broadcast to the entire building.
“Are you eating properly? Taking care of yourself?”
“Better tha
n I was able to inside.”
“I was going to say you look good. Your complexion is healthy, and you’ve obviously put on some more muscle. You should audition to be an Amazon in the Wonder Woman movies.” This was said with a bigger smile.
Killian’s lips lifted on one side. “Want me to flex for you, Miss Grant?”
Donna flushed a little. “Stop that. I was trying to pay you a compliment.” She cleared her throat. “Any drugs?”
“You know that was never my thing.” Except for pot, of course.
“Just making sure.” Donna leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking. “Have you given any thought to your future?”
“I’ve been looking at the college brochures you gave me. I haven’t decided on anything yet. I’m still getting used to being out, you know?”
Donna nodded, but of course she had no idea what it felt like to be suddenly free after years of living in a cage. “Are things going well with your family?”
The questions continued. Killian wasn’t accustomed to talking so much. At least with Shannon all she had to do was listen—or tune out. Silence was underrated. Eventually, the grilling was over, and she was free to go.
“See you next week,” she said as she got up out of the chair. Seven whole days until she had to go through the loop again, and then she’d do it again, and again, and again—for nine more months.
“Yes, and Killian? For what it’s worth, I believe you deserve this second chance. I hope you eventually believe that as well.”
Killian stared at her. She didn’t know how to respond, so she just nodded once and walked out the door. A second chance? Maybe she was just being melodramatic, but she couldn’t remember ever being given the first one.
His voice haunted her dreams sometimes.
“Just relax.”
“It’s okay. It’s our secret.”
“You love me, right? This is how people show their love to each other.”
“If you tell your mother, she’ll leave us both.”
And then, after so much, finding her own voice. “Touch me again and I’ll kill you.”
Killian woke up just before noon on Thursday, sweating, her heart in her throat. She hadn’t had a dream about her stepfather in a long, long time. She should have known he wasn’t done with her.
Or maybe she wasn’t done with him. Didn’t much matter. He’d died three years ago of pancreatic cancer. When predators died, people liked to say things like, “He can’t hurt anyone anymore.” It was a load of shit. He could hurt her plenty whenever he wanted. All she had to do was close her eyes.
Kicking off the twist of blankets, she got out of bed, straightening and making it before she went to the bathroom. The urge to shower crawled over her skin, but she refused to give in. No amount of scrubbing could erase the past. Instead she pulled on her running clothes and pulled her hair back into a sloppy ponytail. The red mark on her cheek had faded to almost nothing.
She’d worked until close the night before at the club. It had been Ladies’ Night and oddly busy. Tips had been decent—mostly from guys trying to pick her up—and only one woman had to be shown to the door. The chick tried to hit her, but her nails were so long she couldn’t make a fist without hurting herself. Bitch could slap, though. Killian wasn’t allowed to hit back, of course, not really, but she messed that weave up real good.
After her run, Killian returned home to do a few rounds with the secondhand Wavemaster she’d picked up at Goodwill. It felt good to hit and punch something solid, but if she really wanted a workout she needed an opponent who could hit back. Maybe she’d look into some classes eventually.
Flushed and sweating, she finally indulged in a shower and cooked an omelet for breakfast. It was almost three by the time she was dressed and ready to leave the apartment. She stopped at a grocery store and picked up a bouquet of flowers before continuing on to the cemetery. Parking under a splayed oak, she gathered the plastic-wrapped flowers and set off down the gravel path. Her heavy sweater and thick leggings staved off the damp chill.
Despite the weather, it was still something of a nice day—the kind of nice that only happened in fall. The grass, still wet with rain, looked impossibly thick and green. Tree trunks looked like black velvet peering through leaves of crimson, rust, and gold, and the path was like a dark ribbon curling through it all. Even the tombstones had a strange kind of prettiness to them as the wind waltzed leaves across their faces.
Stones crunched beneath her boots, sharp and gratingly loud in the stillness. It was so quiet her breath roared in her ears. She hated this place, and only ever came when she had to. But she’d missed nine years of anniversaries and had a lot to make up for. She’d put it off long enough.
There was a small crew in the farther section, digging a new grave. She probably wouldn’t have noticed them if not for the large backhoe sitting silently. The overturned soil was rich and dark. Who was it who first came up with the idea to bury the dead? What was the point? Out of sight, out of mind? It seemed so cruel, to plant them in one spot and keep them there in containers where they turned to goo and then to dust, leaving nothing but a worn headstone to mark their existence. Eventually, no one would remember who they were. Who they had been.
Jason had wanted to be cremated, but his mother refused. She bought a powder-blue casket with a satin lining that Jay would have hated and dressed him in a suit instead of his patch. Dash brought the vest with him, though, and placed it in the coffin at the end. It had also been Dash whom she leaned on at the graveside service. Dash who took her home afterward and stayed with her until she fell asleep. Dash who checked in on her every day after that but never made her feel like he thought she was weak. He let her know it was as much for himself as it was for her. He was her best friend, and the only thing that got her through those first few dark months.
Which was why she told him not to visit her in jail after a while. He was a reminder of everything she’d lost, of all her regrets. Seeing him made her so happy that she’d want to cry every time he left. She couldn’t let the other inmates, or the guards, see that he had that kind of effect on her. Someone would use it. Rank would send someone after him instead of focusing all his impotent rage on her. After losing Jason she couldn’t lose Dash, too. Her feelings for him became confusing, and that led to resentment. It was easier to push him away than let him stay close. She didn’t regret cutting him loose; it was the best for both of them.
Jason’s grave was nothing special, but she would know her way there with her eyes shut. The dark gray stone was flat across the top, a little wider than it was tall. Someone had left one of the Crows’ signet rings at the base. A wilted bouquet of roses lay on the grass, bound by a frayed and dirty ribbon. Crouching down, Killian set those flowers aside to throw away when she left, and set the new bouquet in the same spot.
Jason Michael. They’d started dating when she was fourteen and he was seventeen. She’d lied to Megan about their age difference—like that extra year mattered. There had been a couple of “breaks” in there. Once when he’d gone into juvy again, then when she thought he was cheating on her, then another when he did a short stint in prison. Still, he was the only guy she’d ever willingly had sex with. The only guy she’d ever loved. At thirty-one she realized just how sad that was.
“I know you’re not here,” she said. “This is the last fucking place you’d hang out if you had a choice.” Even though she believed what she said, she didn’t move. This was why humans buried their dead, so they always had a place to feel close to the one they’d lost. “I just wanted to say hi.”
She crouched there for what felt like forever, staring silently at the stone, her hand on the rough top. What had she expected to feel after all these years? A connection? There wasn’t one. It didn’t hurt like it used to. She didn’t miss him like she used to. When she thought back about their relationship she realized they really hadn’t spent that much time together. They’d been all youthful angst. Lots of fighting and making up. Gra
nd declarations of love and devotion. In actuality they’d both been selfish and sometimes more than a little stupid.
Still, she’d loved him and he’d loved her. He hadn’t deserved to go out the way he did, and she hadn’t deserved to see it happen. Jason had been there during the most pivotal part of her life, and they’d always be bound because of it. But somewhere along the line it had become less about avenging him and more about standing up for herself.
Killian crouched there for a bit, letting memories come. She didn’t move until her knees began to protest and her nose began to run. Sniffing, she pushed herself to her feet, grabbing up the old flowers.
“See ya, Jay,” she said, then turned and began the walk back to her car. She tossed the old flowers into a garbage can at the entrance and wiped her hand against the side of her jeans before unlocking the Impala and sliding in behind the wheel. There, it was done. Not even one tear spilled. Last time she’d been there she’d sobbed like a drama queen. But that had been a long time ago, and prison taught her that tears were absolutely useless.
Killian put the key in the ignition. Not one tear. And she couldn’t make herself feel bad about it. Time didn’t heal all wounds, but it made them hurt less.
She needed a couple more black button-downs for work and another pair of pants, so she drove to West Farms and searched a few of the lower-price-point stores. Finally she found what she needed at H&M. Jesus, the mall was busy. Didn’t these people have jobs? They couldn’t all work crazy hours like she did.
She grabbed a coffee and quickly returned to her car. She’d spent more time at the mall than she’d thought and had to book it in time to get Shannon at school.
Not even two minutes past the appointed pickup time, she pulled into a parking spot in the high school lot. Shannon wasn’t outside, so Killian amused herself by Googling “Dash Clark” and “Black Crow Builds.” He really had gone legit. Not just legit; he had built something to be proud of. There were newspaper articles, glossy spreads from trade publications and enthusiast magazines. He was even mentioned in an article about Jay Leno and his car collection.
