Enemy Of My Enemy (Price Of Power Book 1)

by Laura Stephens

  “You do that.” I show him my back and walk away. Maybe he’ll find a new girl to curb his appetite while I’m gone.

  With the room spinning so fast, I have no choice but to rely on the people in the crowd to even stay on my feet. I launch to the door, throwing myself into the bathroom. Wait – where the crap are the damn stalls? Where am I? How did I end up in an alley and what the hell is that smell? Dear God, what is that smell!? The stale rotten trash odor makes me queasy and burns my eyes. This is definitely not where I meant to go. I turn back to the door and tug ferociously at the handle. “Why won’t you open?!” Who is the genius that made a door that can only open from the inside? I give it one last try before admitting defeat.

  I’m never drinking again. Ever. Walking around to the front of the building should be so simple, but with every step I fear that I’ll lose my balance and fall face first onto the concrete. I just need to get inside, puke, and then find Emmy.

  “Holy shit!” I grab at my chest as Stanley is suddenly standing in front of me. “Creepy much?” I mutter while trying to catch my breath.

  “I waited at the bar, but you never came back. Ditching someone isn’t a very nice thing to do.” Stanley slowly moves toward me as he speaks. With each step of his advance I move in the opposite direction.

  I want to tell him off, to berate him, but I bite my lip and keep the words to myself. My eyes stay focused on his hands. My inner Violet screams at me that I need to get out of here, that this isn’t someone I should tussle with. I’ll never admit this to Emmy, but there is such a thing as fucking with the wrong person. And he very well may be one of them.

  Before I realize what’s happening, he closes the distance between us. He leans in and cocks his head to the side. The act seems so innocent, so normal. But his expression changes from curious to devious in a heartbeat. His arm flings upward and his fingers curl tightly around my throat.

  Inch by inch he lifts me up until my feet can no longer touch the ground. I slam my fist into his forearm, but he doesn’t even twitch. Black spots begin to dot my vision and I have no doubt that my face is a dark shade of purple. In my desperation, I reach out and press my thumbs into his eyes. I want to scream, but there’s no air left in my lungs. A fresh wave of nausea hits me as his hand begins to burn, searing into my neck, the scent of burning flesh fills the air.

  Having hands that are as hot as the flames of hell should be something that terrifies me, but the concept of my impending death is the only thing on my mind. The longer I go without breathing, the harder it is to focus on even that. If I find a way out of this, I’m sure that the freaky hands burning through my skin will haunt me for many nights to come.

  He shifts his grip just enough that I’m able to get a short inhale of breath before he squeezes again. That’s what does it … that single breath. The odor of the alleyway dumpsters mixed with roasting skin is what saves my life. He takes the first heave like a man as the puke hits him in the chest. The second heave, though … he squeals like a little girl as it strikes him right in the face.

  He releases me and I crash onto the cement and immediately go into a coughing fit. I force myself onto my hands and knees. They say when faced with a life or death scenario, you react with fight or flight. I always assumed that I would be a fighter … now, unfortunately, I know different. One way or another I’m getting away from this psychopath even if I must crawl out of this alley on my hands and knees.

  “VIOLET!” he roars.

  Why is he still mad at me? All I did was ditch him. And, I guess, I did puke on him. But that’s all in the past. What is wrong with this guy? He needs to accept that not all women will want him and just get over it. As quick as I can, which isn’t quick at all, I push up to my feet and try to put more distance between us. His movements are so quick, silent even, that I don’t hear him sneaking up behind me. Then his hands grip the sides of my head and he flings me face first into the brick wall beside me. I’m blinded in a sea of red as blood gushes from the gaping wound on my forehead. I wipe it with my palms but it’s a battle I’m quickly losing as more blood simply takes its place. I rise back to my feet, hold my hands in front of me, and hope that I don’t trip over anything. I need to get out of this damn alley if I’m going to have any chance of surviving this. I pray that I’m wandering in the right direction and not pinning myself in a corner.

  “Where are you going, Violet?” he asks mockingly. “You know you can’t run from me.”

  I lift my head up as I listen to his words and try to detect which direction his voice came from. I start the other way after doing a quick spin. “Doesn’t mean I’m not going to try,” I mutter back.

  My foot rolls off something, causing me to lose my balance. In my defense, fleeing in heels isn’t as easy as one would think. Add in the alcoholic haze and bloody vision and its damn near impossible. I try to catch myself, I really do. I fling my arms out in front of me thinking that they’ll take the brunt of my impact. But it doesn’t work as I plan. My elbows collapse as soon as my palms strike the ground. I’m quick enough to tilt my head back in hopes of protecting my skull. To a point, it works. Despite all my effort, my chin catches my fall and now throbs something fierce.

  “Son of a! Ow.” I groan, rolling over and spitting out a mouthful of blood.

  I open my eyes and see a red blur of a man hovering over me. “I’m starting to think you can kill yourself without my help. Unfortunately for you, I need you alive.”

  No matter how many times I wipe the blood from my eyes, more takes its place. Part of me is glad that I don’t have to see the face of the man about to kill me. “Well,” I say. “I’m starting to think you talk too much.” With the last ounce of energy I have left, I kick. Oh, the glorious tried and true kick to the balls. He takes several steps back, heaving for each breath as he rests against the wall. I chuckle as he whimpers and gently cups himself like an idiot.

  I can still hear his groans as I start running; not caring what I could hit. But a sharp ripping sensation flows along my scalp as he yanks on my hair, flinging me to the ground. My back is starting to feel every minute of having been down on that damn concrete.

  As his hand clenches onto my neck yet again, searing pain floods my body while his other hand covers my mouth. His calloused fingers dig into my cheeks, successfully muffling my screams before I can make a single noise.

  I’m not going to be a victim. I’m not going to die here. Not like this. Not now.

  Twisting my knee, I try to bring my foot close enough to my hips so that I can reach those damn shoes. I pull one free, close my eyes, and start swinging away. I keep stabbing the heel into him. I ignore the crunching noise. I ignore the wetness splattering onto my arm and face. I refuse to stop until I hear the thud of his body falling down. I toss the shoe, wipe my eyes, and run.

  2

  Emmy finds me crying in the bathroom. She doesn’t wait, doesn’t ask what happened, she just hauls me up, drags me to her car, and drives me to the hospital. We’re there until the sun rises the following morning. I tell them the truth as to what happened to me in the alley. Emmy stares at me with wide eyes; the doctors simply cock their heads when I tell them about my burn. My sister can see it, but they can’t. At first I think it’s all an act, but as more time passes by, I realize that they really don’t see what’s left of my neck after what that bastard’s done.

  They call the police for the assault. While one cop questions me, others are at the scene gathering evidence. The officer looks at me the same way the doctors have been … like I’m insane. They tell me there was no evidence or blood left in the alleyway, no signs that any struggle took place. To my dismay, they tell me that this Stanley was long gone by the time they got there.

  The hospital brings in one of their therapists, thinking that I am, once again, insane. Emmy throws a fit at the same time I do. To say we cause a scene would be putting it nicely. Somehow, during all the yelling and cursing, we run out of there before they can put me on a psych h
old. The police follow Emmy’s car for a while, but don’t made contact with us again.

  Maybe I am insane. Maybe they’re right, and I do belong in a room with padded walls. I would believe it more if Emmy wasn’t able to see the same oozing burns as I do.

  For obvious reasons, I call in sick to work for several days. Emmy watches over me and keeps me distracted while we’re awake. Between binge watching old timey shows and eating everything in sight, it allows a sense of normalcy. She doesn’t bring up the burns or the man who gave them to me. I think we’re both just trying to put it from our minds and failing epically.

  I see her jumping at each noise from the neighbor. I see her peering through the blackout curtains draped over the windows. I don’t know who this Stanley guy is or was, I had never seen him before, but there’s a sliver of me that is just as worried as she is that he might know where we live. That he might come back to finish what he started. It’s been 3 days and I can’t shake his voice from my mind. Even now with my hands balled into fists as the dentist fixes my broken front tooth, I hear it. That raspy voice questioning me about Emmy. Telling me that he needs me alive.

  Why? Why would he want me of all people? I’m no one special. Despite my run in with the police on occasion due to my sudden outbursts, I’m invisible and I like it that way. I have no family or friends outside of the girl I refer to as my sister. I might have a few enemies here and there, but they would have no reason to want to kill me for however I wronged them. Kill me? He didn’t want to kill me. He wanted to take me. Kidnap me. What would he have done if he had succeeded?

  And his hands – hands that were as hot as fire. Hands that could burn me on contact. Was that real? Are me and Emmy both losing our minds? We have to be. It’s not possible for something like that to actually happen. There were no gloves or powder or anything else I can think of that could have caused a chemical burn. No. It was his hand. His fingers. Palm. It was him. I know it was and that scares the living hell out of me.

  Each night, I remember the rawness of my throat as I screamed. The smell. The fear. I wake up drenched in sweat, heaving for air. Thankfully Emmy never once comes to check on me, so the screams must be only in my dreams.

  Emmy sits in the room with me, her left leg draped over her right, using her lap as a desk for her book that she’s absorbed in. I know she’s worried. Hell, I’m worried and I’m the stronger of the two of us. I keep telling myself that this is normal. That it would be more troubling to not be worrying after such an event. But it doesn’t make it any easier. Normal. I have to act normal for her sake.

  Once the dentist finishes fixing what Stanley caused, we leave. My car is hard to miss seeing as it is the crappiest one in any and all parking lots. I’ve had it for 7 years now and it was old when I bought it. The dark green neon is barely even green anymore, there’s so much rust that there are holes throughout the body. The tires have been bare for so long that I’m surprised a tire hasn’t blown out yet. It runs and I don’t have a car payment like Emmy does, so I could care less. I give the driver’s side door a swift kick before getting in. For years now, I have done this. It’s like a way of kicking the car’s ass into gear seeing as it won’t start otherwise.

  Emmy sighs. “One of these days, this car is going to kick you back.”

  “My car is as loyal as they come, thank you,” I reply before getting in.

  Emmy dances away at the music blaring on the radio while subtly nudging me to join in with her. I’m still sprinkled with bumps and bruises and while my neck has already started to scab over, it is still painful as hell. Emmy gives me yet another nudge as she blares off tune while singing the wrong words. With an endless smile, I join in with her. Screw the lingering fear and pain that Stanley left me with. Screw it.

  My eyes leave the road for maybe two seconds while I laugh with Emmy but that is all it takes. One moment we’re jamming and cruising along, the next my piece of shit car is flying through the air. The metal frame groans, the glass shatters, and trash flies all around us each time we strike the ground. I lose count of how many times the car somersaults before I lose consciousness.

  When I wake up the car is on its roof. My shoulder throbs due to my weight being supported by the seat belt. I press down on the red release button but, despite my best efforts, it refuses to budge. “Let me go you piece of crap,” I scream, kicking whatever part of this junker I can. I take a few deep breaths while slowly counting to ten. I need a plan B. I need to think.

  I shift as best I can and place my left palm onto the ceiling which is now below me and try to take some of the weight off the seatbelt by straightening my elbow as much as possible. “Please work, please work, please, please, please.” My thumb goes back to the ominous button and, luckily, it doesn’t meet the same resistance as before. “It worked …!” my words of excitement are cut off as I free fall downwards, and land heavily on the top of my head.

  It takes me a few minutes, but I eventually manage to un-pretzel myself. Emmy’s still hanging upside down, her blonde hair dangling all over the place. She has a nasty cut on her head based on all the blood staining her roots. Her heartbeat feels strong and her breathing’s steady. Considering my unparalleled medical expertise, she should be okay once she wakes up. I place my hands on her back as I hold her weight just like I did for myself a few minutes ago. As I struggle to reach that damn button, I hear the car groaning again.

  I swear if the floor caves in and crushes us to death I’m going to find a flame thrower and take my time burning this pathetic excuse of a car to a crisp. Before I can put any more details into my plot for revenge, however, the car starts rolling again and I’m thrown around like a rag doll. My throat quickly grows raw from the yells I release each time one of my body parts impacts with something solid.

  The car comes to an abrupt halt, balanced unsteadily on its left side. My head rests in Emmy’s lap, and my knees are squeezed against the driver’s side door. How is it even possible to balance like this? “Don’t think I won’t remember this, you little bastard,” I groan. The car responds and falls hard onto all four wheels, finally resting fully on the ground. The gear shift is now trying to wedge itself between my vertebrae. I let out a long, agonizing moan of pain. “Okay, fine. This makes us even now. I call a truce.”

  It takes a few tries, but I manage to wedge my way back into the driver’s seat, trying to make sense of what just happened. I don’t know why the car started rolling again unless we were on a hill or something. Are there even hills in Miami? I force the thought from my mind. Right now, all that matters is that the devil car is back on its wheels.

  “Violet, Violet, Violet. What’re we going to do with you, hmm?” a male voice says from outside.

  Is it a bystander that saw the accident? Someone that came to make sure we were alright? “If you’re here to be a hero, you’re doing a piss poor job at it you know,” I yell back. I stop my dramatic Emmy rescue and allow myself to gaze off into space. Did he just call me Violet? What are the odds that this random hero knows me?

  “Save you? I’m not here to save you. Quite the opposite actually.”

  His words aren’t what worries me. It’s the chuckle that follows them that gives me the chills. I keep trying to release Emmy’s seatbelt, but the damn possessed car refuses to let her go. When I realize that she’s safe where she’s at, seatbelt or not, I give up my attempt and prepare to defend myself in case it comes to that. “Oh really, well that sounds lovely. Hey, while you’re waiting for me to crawl out of here so you can kill me, perhaps you can remind me how you know me.” I need to find a weapon to use against this psycho. Note to future self: it’s better to be prepared when you don’t need to be, than not be prepared when you should be.

  “Actually, I don’t believe we’ve met. You know an acquaintance of mine though … Stanley. I was told he left you a mark to remember him by.”

  “Oh, Stanley! Of course I remember him!” I climb into the back seat in the hopes that I’ve thrown something sh
arp back there at some point. “How’s he doing anyway? Last time I saw him he, well, he didn’t look so good to be honest.” I toss junk over my shoulder looking for anything I can use. “So, are you the mastermind who launched my car off the road? If so, I’m not very happy with you right now.”

  Frustrated, I pound my fists against the back of the driver’s seat. Why don’t we keep a gun or pocket knife or something in this stupid car? My last hit causes a cracking noise followed by a thud. My eyes widen and my lips curve in a devious smile as the metal glistens in the sun from the broken headrest. It isn’t my weapon of choice, obviously, but I’m feeling pretty optimistic considering what happened to Stanley when all I had was a shoe.

  I climb out of the windshield onto the hood. If we’re going to play then it’s going to be on my terms. I take a wide stance, holding my headrest in one hand and shielding my eyes from the relentless sun with the other. It’s an empty field, acre after acre of lush green grass, not a single tree or hill in sight. Where the hell is this freak? I jump from the hood and onto the soft grass and continue looking for the man behind the creepy voice.

  Goosebumps erupt on my skin as a small puff of warm air hits my neck. Tightening my grip on the headrest, I wait for the best time to strike. “That scar looks beautiful on you, Violet. It would be so much better if we added more … don’t you think? You managed to flee Stanley by sheer luck, but you won’t be so fortunate with me.”