Beautiful Collision

by T. G. Ayer

  My mind is racing with plans on what would become my own little art studio. The spare room, despite being a single, offered ample space for easel, equipment and drawing implements. I drifted down an aisle where the shelves were filled with pencils, chalks, crayons and paints, the dry and earthy scent of which melds in the air around me.

  When I reach the counter my hands are overflowing with drawing and painting equipment. I offer a swift apology and dump them in front of the cashier before heading back for a boxed easel.

  Then as I stand at the counter after the cashier has rung my purchases through, I stare at all my purchases. I have way too many parcels to carry, especially considering the art history books weighed about a ton each.

  I give a soft sigh, and blow a lock of hair out of my face. "I'm going to have to come back for the rest of it," I say, disappointment turning my stomach.

  The blond guy at the counter, Arron according to his name badge, waves a hand. "Nah, don't worry about it. Noah can help you." Then, before I can open my mouth to say yes or no, he leans backward and yells into the room behind the counter for my mystery helper.

  When Noah appears, he gives me a weak smile. He has a streak of dust on his cheek, and a bright blue plaster around two fingers of his right hand. He grabs the heaviest of the bags and throws the easel under his arm, while I take the rest and follow him out of the shop. He's rather chubby and quiet and after a few failed attempts at conversation I fall to silence.

  When we arrive at the house I hurry up the stairs to open the door. I enter and tell him to leave everything inside the door. When he's done I give him a small smile and a soft thanks. His response is an awkward twist of his lips and then he's hurrying down the stairs. I lock up and check the drawer for my gun.

  Still there.

  ***

  I head to my bedroom and throw on my new pajama shorts and tee, perfect for the heat of the apartment. I hadn't been lucky enough that the apartment boasted air-conditioning, a bit too much to ask. I throw myself on the sofa, needing to relax a little while channel surfing. I'm deliberately avoiding the news. And plan to do so for a good long while. I don't need reminding that the world is filled with killers and a wider variety of bastards.

  A while later, I'm still lounging and watching Tom racing around and destroying the house in an effort to catch a grinning Jerry, when the doorbell rings. I stiffen, breathing in and out slowly as my heart races. I move as if in slow motion, as I turn the volume down on the TV set.

  I'm frozen in place. Ringing doorbells give me the chills, especially now when I can never know who is knocking. Not until I check which by then is too late to run. But I steel myself, and head to the door. If they've found me it's pretty unlikely they'd be knocking and patiently waiting for me to answer. Or so I tell myself.

  At the door, I push my bags aside with my foot, then peer through the peephole to see a distorted Kate waiting with a plate in her arms. I'm a little nervous and I hesitate. Sure, my new neighbor is the friendly type, but I don't need friends. At last I open the door and stand there watching her.

  "Good morning to you," she teases taking in my pajama bottoms and tank. I smile a little, because I'm thrilled to be able to have a lazy day for once. Kate raises the plate in her hands, holding it close to my face. "I come bearing food," she says and I step aside to let her in. How can I refuse her when she's brought food. And scones? They were among my favorites. Something Mom had always made.

  Kate places the large platter of scones on the counter. On the side of the plate is a pot of strawberry jam and a big bowl of cream. My mouth waters and my stomach grumbles in agreement. I'm smiling as I shut the door and say, "But I just had eggs and toast."

  "And what time was that?" she asks pointedly, filling the kettle and flicking the switch as I lean against the kitchen counter and watch her make herself at home. I feel a strong twinge of unease which I try to tamp down.

  Not everyone is out to get you, Gray.

  I try to convince myself of that fact but I'm not very good at it. Either she will hurt me or she will end up getting hurt, because of me. My hand goes to my leather cuff and I check to make sure it's in place. My stomach hardens and suddenly I don't want scones. I want her gone, as far away from me as she can get.

  "Hello. Earth to Gray?" Kate is waving a butter knife in front of my nose. "When did you last eat?"

  "A couple hours ago I think?" I reply realizing I have no idea.

  I'm trying to think up an excuse to ask her to leave when she giggles. "Well, that's perfect. It must be time for a snack somewhere in the world."

  I stare at the plate of scones watching the steam rising. Then I sigh. "That's a snack I would not say no to," I say as I grab the plate and head to the table.

  "How do you take it?" Kate asks, a teaspoon poised over the sugar bowl.

  "Two sugars and a little milk."

  Kate follows bringing two cups of tea and we dig in. I'm eating like I haven't had a scone in decades when Kate asks, "So, tell me. Where are you from? I'm dying to know."

  I haven't thought about a good enough story so for a moment I'm stumped. Then the word comes tumbling out. "Anchorage."

  "Ooh. Interesting. I don't know anyone from Alaska."

  "Well, I'm not only from Alaska." There went my big mouth. When she gives me a strange frown I respond quickly. "Oh. I mean my father was in sales and we moved around a lot. I don't think I stayed in one place long enough to get to know anywhere very well."

  Kate's nods sadly as she breaks open a scone and lathers it with the jam and cream. "Did you make these?" I ask as I relish the taste of oven-warm homemade scones exactly like my Mom used to make. I'd expected store bought borderline tasteless scones, but these were real. And fabulously good.

  Kate nods, her ponytail jiggling. "I love baking," she says simply as she pushes her glasses back up her nose and I love that she's not ashamed to say she bakes. I've met one too many kids in my life who turn their nose up to cooking and baking. While my parents were alive, they'd proved to me that both men and women were very capable in the kitchen.

  My dad was not a salesman.

  He was an English professor who spent hours with his nose in a book. My mom was a kindergarten teacher which seemed to fuel her need to mother her own children when she got home. Dinners were noisy affairs with everyone getting involved in the process. Anthony had always resisted though, pulling his face while he peeled potatoes, grumbling his way through chopping onions.

  His idea of fun was playing on-line games with his friends. His lack of interest in family had caused many a disappointed glance between Mom and Dad, not to mention many a fight with me. Anthony had always thought of me as the favorite, probably because I was a bookworm like Dad and he couldn't see the sense in wasting his time reading boring words on a page.

  Sadly, Dad was not the little-league parent, not that he hadn't tried. I remembered one time when Mom had turned to Dad and said, "One day that boy will be the death of me." I suppress a sigh. A truer word she'd never spoken.

  Anthony had been at the wheel when he'd killed both Mom and Dad.

  "Hey, where did you get to?" asked Kate waving a hand in front of my face.

  I smile and say, "Sorry, the scones make me think of my mom." My face is sad, and though I blink I can't hide the glint of tears in my eyes.

  "Ring her then. I always do that. As soon as I think of my mom I pick up the phone so I can hear her voice. And video calls are even better." Kate has a soft smile at her lips as she picks jam-smeared scone pieces and pops them into her mouth. There are crumbs on her cheek and I think this must be what it would have been like to have a sister. Or even a best friend.

  I shrug. "That's not possible. My mom and dad were killed in a car accident when I was fourteen." I'm a little shocked when I realise I've told her the absolute truth.

  Kate's face darkens and she looks at me, her smile now gone. "I'm so sorry, Gray. I know kind of what that feels like. My dad died a few years ago as well.
So I know the feeling." She gave me a kind smile and we polished off the scones in comfortable silence as I wonder if maybe being friends with Kate was okay.

  At last, she pushed away from the table. "Right, Missy. I'd best get going. Assignments." She rolls her eyes and makes a face as she heads for the door.

  The apartment feels deserted for a long while after she's gone and I realize how much I've missed having company. I spend some time lying on the couch and watching TV. And wondering if my new friend is getting through her assignment.

  At last I feel rested and I head to the door. I open the hall drawer, and the gun gleams at me and I remember the first time I'd pulled a trigger.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Gray

  Six Months Ago

  I was sitting on a sofa, facing a floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the ocean. My hands shook and I gripped them together to stop the sudden movements. A muscle-bound man stood at the door, I couldn't remember his name because the guards seemed to change all the time. He had a gun strapped to his side, another at his hip and I should have felt secure but I didn't. And the man opposite me could tell.

  "My child. You have nothing to fear here. Anthony can't touch you."

  I moved my head slowly, as if in a trance, and studied Alexei Melnikov. He was old, his face wrinkled, skin sagging at the jowls and below his chin. Despite his age he moved easily, gracefully and I often found myself watching him, wondering about his past and what he would have been like at my age. An eighteen year old Alexei would have been interesting. Now, he lifted his chin, his brown eyes meeting my grey ones with a cheerful smile.

  "But you don't really know that do you?" My words are a whisper as I trace a finger in circles on the smooth white leather of the sofa. He shook his head and frowned as if I'd lost him. My eyes narrowed, my finger stopped moving. "You can't guarantee that he won't come for me again can you?"

  "No, I suppose there is no guarantee for anything but Anthony knows he cannot disrespect Nikolai so he wouldn't dare come to take you away." He leaned over, placing his elbows on his thighs, staring at me earnestly, as if his mere expression would make me feel better.

  "That's what you say, but you don't know my brother." The words were out and my voice was shaky and I knew in that moment this man could see how vulnerable I was. And yet, all I saw in his eyes was kindness and understanding.

  "Very well, then. Perhaps you need to learn to protect yourself, yes?" he said as he got to his feet. He wore a shirt, something off-white but he'd left off the tie. Everyone here knew that to Alexei, a tie was the same as having a rope around his neck. The man never wore one, even when he came to see Nikolai.

  I looked up at him, interested by his proposition but still a little unsure as to what he was suggesting.

  "Come, come." He beckoned impatiently as if the idea was so exciting that he wanted to get on with it immediately. When he turned and headed for the stairs, I boosted myself off the sofa and hurried after him, limping a little on my leg. It was slowly healing and soon I'd be walking as if nothing had ever happened to my ankle. But there were always memories to remind me.

  When Alexei reached the door he crooked a finger at the guard, who nodded, his face implacable. Nikolai had made it clear the guards were there for my protection and nothing else, so despite their constant presence I didn't feel imprisoned or anything. The only person that made me feel that way was Anthony.

  My brother, who was supposed to protect me but instead was the one to harm me. I couldn't pretend anymore. Not to myself anyway. Ever since our parents died, Anthony had been in charge, my supposed guardian. At first, while the money had lasted, we were okay, but then the money was gone and the old Anthony with it. He'd become meaner and angrier, always on edge. I'd suspected he was on some kind of drug because his moods were real strange.

  He'd lost weight but he still drank and partied as normal. I couldn't keep up with Anthony's crowd, too many faces were replaced by new ones. Like Beefcake and the guy who'd given me the pills.

  As I followed Alexei, I wondered where Anthony was and what he was doing. Was he making some sort of plan to get me away from Nikolai? Or was he still furious that I wasn't 'on my back' making money for him? A shiver ran through me at the memory of his face, at his words.

  How could he?

  My stomach tightened and my eyes filled with tears as I recalled that horrible, awful night. Thankfully my attention moved from my memories to Alexei as he began to descend the stairs to the basement. In Nikolai's house, the basement is three times larger than the house itself. That much I knew from Alexei and the maids, Ilya and Katya, who came in to clean my room.

  Other than that knowledge, I'd never actually been down here until today.

  At the bottom of the stairs were three passages, and Alexei ignored both left and right and just walked straight ahead. The route was silent, the passage filled with closed doors every few feet. And though I wondered what lay behind them, I curbed my curiosity.

  Alexei stopped up ahead as the passage came to an abrupt end. We faced two dark wooden doors, on each side of the wall. The old man went to the right hand set of doors, punched in a code on a small panel and I watched through lowered eyelids and tried to memorize it just in case.

  The door whispered open and he pushed it wider to let me through. The guard followed us inside but he remained at the door, bulky arms crossed, face still a mask. I watched him as I passed and then my attention was drawn away and I looked around in shock. We were in a gun range. How had I not known this place existed beneath the house? It must be well soundproofed as I'd never heard anything close to a gunshot in the entire six months I'd been living in Nikolai's' mansion.

  Beside us, the left hand wall was bare. The shooting lanes were on the right; long alleys with rows of targets lined up on the wall in the distance. Alexei walked straight ahead, to a row of closets set against the far wall. He threw the doors open to reveal racks of guns. He chose a small revolver and a few boxes of bullets and brought them to me, grinning at my shocked expression. Then he took the gun to the nearest stall and set it down onto a low table.

  All this time he didn't speak. He picked up the revolver and handed it me, barrel facing him. I closed my fingers around the handle of the gun and a shiver rippled up my spine.

  "I don't think this is such a good idea," I whispered as I stared at the weapon.

  "Why?" he asked. I moved my gaze from the weapon to his face but all I saw was Anthony's eyes, filled with rage and I felt my finger tighten on the trigger. Then Alexei nodded. "Ah, I see. You don't trust yourself."

  I shook my head, glad I didn't have to say the words.

  "Afraid you might enjoy pulling the trigger if you're faced with your brother?" he asked, his face kind and free from judgment.

  I nodded as a chill took possession of my body.

  He patted my shoulder. "You mustn't worry about such things, my dear. Your priority is to learn to protect yourself. Perhaps you will enjoy pulling the trigger and under the circumstances that reaction is perfectly understandable but I don't think that you will feel that way in the end."

  I frowned and stared at him. "What makes you so sure?"

  "Because, I know you well. You have a kind and forgiving heart. More reason for you to learn to use a weapon. If you need to defend yourself, you will most likely need to shoot to kill."

  I shivered at his words, at the hardness in his eyes. How easy it was for him to say that I must shoot to kill. It was Anthony we were talking about. The only other member of my family still left alive. And then I wanted to laugh because in my dreams I shoot to kill, I pull the trigger over and over again until I'm sure he is dead.

  In my dreams I kill my brother and I don't feel one iota of regret as I stare at his motionless body, blood seeping from gaping wounds in his chest. Just a dream, but who's to say I won't do the very same thing when faced with my brother in real life?

  I shivered again at the thought but my fingers tightened on the grip a
nd I suddenly felt stronger. It must have shown, either in my face or my stance, because Alexei said, "That's my girl. You must be strong to defeat your enemies. "

  I said nothing, just turned and faced the target, a square piece of paper with a black bullseye printed on it.

  "Now, first we must have the stance. Excuse me," he said as he placed his hands lightly on my hips and turned me so my left hipbone faced forward. He pushed my left leg forward too until I was standing almost sideways. It was a wonder I was still able to balance. Then Alexei said, "Good. Good. This way to stand is better, it makes you a small target."

  I glanced at him and he laughed again.

  "Of course, if a sniper is shooting at you, then small target, big target, it makes no matter. You will be dead anyway."

  There was nothing else to do but laugh. Alexei was right. I had to deal with what I was facing and right now I faced my fear of Anthony and I learned to shoot a gun to help protect me.

  I raised an eyebrow at my friend. "I'm not so sure that Anthony is a sharpshooter. He never had very good aim."

  For a moment his expression changed and a shadow passed over his eyes. Then he chuckled and his eyes were clear and I thought maybe I'd imagined it. "I still don't think you need to worry too much about your Anthony. He won't come for you," he said emphatically, as if he knew for sure that my brother would leave me alone.

  But I shook my head. "But what if he does? I need to be prepared."

  Alexei scowled and I knew it was at my stubbornness. But, then he nodded and said, "Yes and we are training you. So pay attention."

  I smiled and faced the target while barely keeping my balance. I just knew if I pulled the trigger I'd fall flat on my ass but I listened to the old man as he instructed me.

  "This is the rear sight," he said, pointing to a raised portion on the end of the barrel closest to me. "Raise the weapon and use the rear sight as a guide. Through it you must make it line up with the notch on the end of the barrel there." His finger touched the little raised fin on the end of the barrel. "Your target, this notch and the line on the sight must all be lined up so you know you are aiming in the right direction. Line it up and calm yourself. Remember when the gun goes off don't flinch. Keep your eyes open and don't lift the gun up. Keep it trained on the target at all times."