by Sasha Leone
“It can’t last for much longer,” I try to explain. Still, I can’t imagine she’ll buy it. Ms. Lindsay doesn’t have kids and if she’s ever been pregnant before, it was long enough ago to not remember the symptoms. “The doctors say that it almost never lasts beyond 3 months, and I’m almost at that point. Just give me another week, please?”
I don’t like groveling, but I don’t have much of a choice. If I did have a choice, though, I’d tell this bitch to eat shit. The way she’s looking at me—like I’m already a forgotten ghost—just makes my blood boil. If I wasn’t so desperate, I still might try to give her a piece of my mind, but the fire inside of me is being squashed by her cold, uncaring gaze. I’m completely at her mercy, and I know my only hope is to convince her that I’m good enough to keep around.
“We can’t risk another week of your disgusting habit,” Ms. Lindsay sneers, showing some emotion for the first time. Is she actually angry at me? For being pregnant? “We’ve already started booking interviews for your replacement. It’s too late to change. You’re fate has been decided. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.”
I don’t want to go. Well, I do, but not like this. I can’t leave the money behind; it’ll be the end of me.
Ms. Lindsay steps aside and points me towards the door. I look around for anything that might get me out of this worst-case scenario, but no one’s coming to my rescue. I’m almost glad. If Carlos knew what was going on, I’m sure he’d be cursing out Ms. Lindsay and quitting his job in protest. I can’t let him do that. He needs this paycheck almost as badly as I do.
With that in mind, I make a quiet exit. I’ll call Carlos later, I decide, after his shift ends, and break the news to him when he doesn’t have the opportunity to fuck over his own life like I’ve been fucking over mine.
I feel Ms. Lindsay’s glare on my stomach as I start my march of shame. Betty and Agatha have been keeping their distance, but even they offer me half-sympathetic glances as I leave.
Maybe it wasn’t Betty and Agatha who finally fucked me, I think. I give Ms. Lindsay’s cold eyes one last look-over, there’s a bitterness in them that makes me think that the older woman might just be angry that I can actually have a child.
I sigh. There’s no fight in me right now. If Ms. Lindsay could be having this kid instead of me, I’d be all for it, but she doesn’t seem like the type who’d let herself get as wild as I did, if even just for a night. Hell, I wasn’t that type, until I let myself feel free for those few hours. Now I’m going to have to pay for it for the rest of my life, both figuratively and literally.
At least the weather’s picked up.
I trudge home under a setting sun, surrounded by freshly bloomed flowers and cherry blossoms. This part of town is so clean-cut it almost makes me sick. I wonder if the people who live here know what everyone else in the city is going through?
Birds chirp and squirrels play in the branches. I feel the heavy weight of a cruel irony press down on my forehead. The cold winds of the winter would better match my current mood, but of course, I can’t ever have two things go my way at once.
The subway ride back to my apartment is long and tedious. The train car I’m in loses power half-way through, and I’m stuck in a tunnel with no reception and nothing to think about but my uncertain future for almost an hour. People with actual jobs and spouses complain loudly about just wanting to get home from their jobs and back to their spouses. It takes all of my strength not to break down and cry because I have neither anymore.
At least you still have the dream of becoming a nurse, I tell myself, before even that hope is corrupted. I won’t have that dream much longer if I can’t find another job soon. Can I even risk going hunting for work while I’m still having morning sickness? If I’m lucky enough to get a job to throw up at, I’m sure I won’t have it for long once I do.
There’s very little I want to do less than burn through my savings. I currently have the most money I’ve ever had in my bank account at one time, yet I feel just as hopeless as ever.
When the train starts again, I barely notice. I’m so lost in my thoughts that I trudge back to my apartment like a zombie. Even the tears that I’d been fighting back seem to evaporate. If I didn’t know any better, I might think I was completely empty. But I’m carrying the weight of two lives now—and it’s somehow only making me weaker.
My resolve is almost completely gone when I finally kick open my dark, dingy apartment door and flick on the lights. If I’d had any fight left in me, I might have screamed at the scene I’m greeted by.
“Hello, Nia Jones.”
The hissing voice is strangely familiar, as is the greasy face on the man sitting on my living room couch. My front door is closed behind me by a hulking mass. My floorboards creak as two mean-looking giants step forward from their place on either side of the door. Their broad, burly shoulders brush by mine, but it’s not them that make me start to shiver. It’s the cold, reptilian eyes of the slim, slimy man sitting on my couch.
The skin on his face is taut and shiny. His greasy black hair is slicked back, revealing the entirety of his sadistic, thin-lipped smirk. His pointy nose is nearly twitching with cold-blooded excitement.
“... Who are you?” I manage to ask. My voice sounds frail and broken. I’m surprised I even got the words out, my throat is so suddenly dry.
That only makes the greaseball smile all the more. He tilts his head to the side and his dark green irises dart back and forth over the whites of his eyes. “You don’t recognize me?”
I shake my head. The truth is, the stranger looks oddly familiar, but I can’t quite seem to put my finger on why. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. All I need to know is that he’s broken into my apartment with two muscle-bound goons, and it’s not because he’s throwing me a surprise party.
“... What are you doing here?” I ask. My voice is still raspy, but to my surprise, my tone is stronger than expected. It’s funny, I’m so worn out that I can barely even register the danger I’m in. On a better night, I might have enough energy to be terrified, but right now, I just feel dead. If this guy came to kill me, he’s too late.
The greaseball looks disappointed that I don’t seem to know who he is. He pouts and looks to his two goons before remembering something. Slowly, he digs into his front pocket and pulls something out.
I lose my breath when I see what it is.
Ronan’s silver bracelet.
I suddenly remember where I’ve seen this greaseball before. He’s the absolute asshole who got into a shootout with Ronan that night the two of us walked home together.
I look over at his two new goons; I wonder if they know what happened to their predecessors?
“Where’d you get this?” the greaseball asks, twirling the shimmering bracelet between his slimy fingers.
I hesitate. My fading heart has come back to life with a vengeance. The beating organ threatens to burn up inside my chest; I no longer feel like I’m already dead—now, I’m just alive enough to be afraid of what might come next.
The greaseball doesn’t like my silence. He pushes himself up off my couch and limps towards me. I watch in horror as he approaches. The far side of his face is covered in a gnarly burn mark—I don’t remember that from our first encounter, though it was dark out. I take a step back, but before I can take another, the greaseball’s giant goons have made their way behind me. I freeze on my feet, trapped. Slowly, I start to shake, suddenly wishing I felt lifeless again.
The greaseball swings the bracelet in front of my face. My racing heart aches and my gut clenches at all the memories and emotions that the piece of jewelry dredges up. I thought I’d finally gotten rid of it, but now it’s back with a vengeance. “I’m only going to ask you one more time,” he says, the sadistic playfulness draining from his voice.
I can feel the two giant goons behind me step forward. I’m completely trapped. I struggle to respond, not just because I’m afraid, but because I’m not sure how to
describe who gave it to me. A friend? An enemy? A ghost? A flame? The spark that lit up the most exciting night of my life? A bad memory that I’ve been trying to forget?
“... A... A man gave it to me,” is all I manage.
The greaseball doesn’t seem satisfied with my answer. “My name’s Semyon,” he says reaching out his long, thin hand to me. I don’t take it. That only makes him chuckle. He reaches down and forcefully takes my hand, giving it a big exaggerated shake. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed the chaos that’s engulfed this city over the past few months, but I’m proud to say that me and my crew have spilled the most blood out of anyone.” His hand squeezes around mine and I try to pull away, but he doesn’t let me. His skin is cold and clammy. “Not impressed? I’m just telling you so that you know one more body means nothing to me. Even if that body is as pretty as yours.” His reptilian eyes scan my body and his blue-ish tongue flicks across his thin lips.
His skeevy gaze is enough to cause a wave of terrified adrenaline to burst through my body. Even with the sudden surge of strength, though, I’m barely able to escape Semyon’s grip when I rip my hand away from his.
“A fighter,” he smirks, half-biting his lip. “I should have known.” A subtle head nod to both his goons is enough to have them each grab one of my arms. I struggle with all my might, but it’s no use. Even with all the adrenaline coursing through my veins, I have no hope. It doesn’t take long before I’m forced to go limp.
“What was this mysterious man’s name?” Semyon asks, turning his back to me and studying the bracelet once more.
I’m completely at his mercy, but for some reason, I don’t want to say Ronan’s name, and it’s not because I still hate him so much. A defiant fire grows in me as I realize that I want to protect the man who’s abandoned me. Why!?
I’d sigh if I wasn’t so busy sneering. The truth is, Ronan’s been occupying a place in my heart ever since that cold night. I miss him more than I rue him, and I hate myself for it. What kind of self-respecting woman still cares for a man who abandoned her so flippantly?
Maybe it wasn’t his choice...
I’ve been fighting a civil war of my own over that man. There are craters in my mind from trying to forget him, but it’s been impossible. What would giving Ronan’s name to these goons mean to him? What would it mean to me?
Semyon turns around and puckers his lips. Slowly, I feel the very forceful hands of the two goons holding me start to twist my arms backwards. I cry out in shocked pain.
Semyon raises his eyebrows and the two goons stop twisting my arms. “I just want a name,” he assures me.
This time, I sigh. I can’t fight this any longer. There’s a little life counting on me to protect it. “... Ronan,” I whisper.
A wide, tight-lipped, evil grin slowly emerges across Semyon’s face. “Good girl,” he hisses, softly patting me on the cheek. I flinch at the coldness of his fingers. “I knew it was you.”
His two goons let go of my arms and I fall to the floor in a huff.
“See how easy that was?” Semyon teases.
I hardly hear him. My vision is going blurry as I try to catch my breath on the floor. What the hell are these guys going to do to me?
I get my answer soon enough.
With my eyes still glued to the ground, I hear my floorboards creak under the weight of the three men. Their footsteps are heading back towards my front door. Semyon follows them, making sure to step over-top of me on his way out.
“We’ll be keeping a close eye on you, Nia,” I hear Semyon say, as my door opens and the goons step out into the hall. “Oh, and if I can offer you a bit of advice. Never give your banking information to a shady pawn shop clerk. Especially not a Russian one. And especially not after your boyfriend has killed the leader of the biggest Bratva on this side of the Atlantic Ocean.”
My door slams shut and silence fills the heavy air in my apartment. It takes me a second to process what just happened, but when it all hits me, I’m completely overwhelmed.
I break down in tears.
I cry and I cry in a huddled ball by my front door for what seems like an eternity until I can’t seem to cry anymore.
Completely drained, I barely have enough energy to sit upright. I lean against the inside of my door and stare up at my paint-chipped ceiling. I feel faint, like I’m drifting in and out of consciousness.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
I don’t have long to contemplate that question before I’m rattled awake by a knock at my door.
21
Ronan
The wind is warmer here than I remember.
Maybe it’s just because it’s summertime in the city, or maybe it’s because of what I’ve come for, but I suddenly don’t miss my little tropical hideaway spot so much anymore.
After all, how could it possibly compare to home?
I don’t have much time to appreciate the scenery, though. I’ve rushed back to the city that shunned me for one reason and one reason only, and every second I wait puts her in greater danger.
A familiar voice crackles over my earpiece. “Let me know when you’re done,” Finn says.
I walk into the dingy apartment building and bound up the stairwell to the third floor. The rickety door I’m here for is at the far end of the hallway; I check to make sure that my Glock is loaded and ready as I stand outside of it.
“I’ll let you know,” I answer, re-holstering my Glock—it’s just a safety precaution. I’ve learned my lesson about making a racket when I don’t need to.
My switch-blade should do the trick for this job. I pull it out of my pocket and give the door in front of me a polite knock. I hear rustling come from the other side.
“... Who is it!?” a concerned voice demands.
I don’t answer. This door has no peephole. I’m going to keep knocking until someone opens up.
Floorboards creak and I get ready. The person inside is understandably hesitant to open up, but when I hear him place his ear against the other side of the door, I knock again.
“What the fuck do you want!?” snaps the jittery, pissed-off voice as he whips open his door.
I’m suddenly confronted by a familiar looking face.
It’s like looking into a funhouse mirror. God, I hope I don’t look that bad. A quick punch to the nose sends Biff Trigger stumbling backwards back into his apartment. Before he has a chance to swear, I’ve slipped around him and brought my switchblade up to his neck.
“No, wait—” he begs.
I slice him open before he can finish.
Slowly, I let his increasingly lifeless body drop to the ground, careful not to make too much noise.
It’s almost like an out-of-body experience as I watch the sorry son-of-a-bitch—my low-level doppelganger, Biff Trigger—bleed out on the floor below me.
This dude has been in an out of jail for attempted rape at least 3 times since I had to skip town. For some reason, no one can seem to get the charges to stick. So, I’ve decided to dole out some justice of my own. I’ll admit, I’m not being entirely altruistic. I’ve got a plan for this familiar-looking body, and it’s going to help me rid this city of every criminal who dares come after me.
“Done,” I say, after Biff’s taken his last breath.
“Do you need any help? You’re both pretty big guys,” Finn asks.
I scoff at the offer. “As long as there isn’t anyone shooting at me, I’ll be just fine.”
The garbage bags come out of my backpack quick and easy. Biff doesn’t get in them so effortlessly, though. We’re just about the same height and weight, but the lifelessness in his limbs makes him twice as heavy as he would be if he were still alive. Plus, Finn’s right; Biff and I are big guys—or, rather, Biff was a big guy. Now, he’s just a big pile of flesh and bones and blood and guts that I’m struggling to roll over.
Maybe I’m out of shape from my little hideaway vacation, but by the time I’ve finished packing Biff up, I’m nearly breathless.
God, I can’t wait to hit up the gym again.
But first, more important matters.
I take a quick break, then haul the wrapped-up body of my doppelganger down the dingy, dimly-lit stairwell of the shady apartment. When I kick open the back door on the ground floor, I’m greeted by a warm breeze and the sound of distant gunshots.
Shit still hasn’t calmed down in the city since I blew everything up with a single hand grenade, but I couldn’t wait a day longer to get back—not after Finn’s bad news hit my ears.
The Russians had found Nia. Even worse than that, Semyon and some goons had paid her a visit.
Finn had been late to show up outside of her apartment for a routine checkup, but he’d still been able to catch sight of the greaseballs as they left. He couldn’t risk confronting them on his own, but he’d immediately rushed up to Nia’s apartment and found her alive, if not completely terrified.
He’d comforted her and asked if she had any other place to stay. Nia had trusted the man in the police uniform and told him about her friend, a former co-worker. Finn had gotten her to call her friend, and then he’d driven her over to his place to spend the night. She’d been so shaken that she’d hardly had the mind to ask Finn any questions—like, how did he know she was in trouble?
Thank god for my crooked cop. I don’t know how I’d ever manage without him.
Finn’s waiting for me in an unmarked police cruiser in the back alley behind Biff’s apartment building. He helps me load the body into the trunk.
“Need to go over the plan one last time?” I ask.
Finn just laughs. “I’m smarter than I look, buddy. I’ve got it all up here.” He points at his temple and opens up his driver seat door. Before he can get inside, I put a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey. Thanks, man. For everything. I really mean it. Nia would be toast without you.”
Finn can barely hold back his smile. “We’re not done yet,” he reminds me, before patting my forearm and getting into his car.
Thatta boy, I think. He’s finally learning.
