Marked

by Charisse Spiers

  I grip the handle in my right hand and release the magazine, verifying that it's still fully loaded. I shove the magazine back inside the handle, slamming it into place, and aim the barrel at the floor as I rack back the slide with my left hand, loading a bullet into the chamber.

  I walk to the right side of my bed and lift the top mattress, laying my pistol on top of the bottom one, the handle hanging off for quick grab if I need it, before laying the top mattress back in its position. I remove all my clothes but my underwear and crawl into bed, losing myself under the covers. I don't even have to work at it before my eyelids close and my eyes roll back in my head, putting me into a state of unconsciousness.

  I'm sitting at my desk reading through the papers before me when a knock sounds at my door. It opens. I look up to Chevy walking through the door. "What is it?"

  "I have some news you may be interested in."

  I drop the stack of paper on my desk and lean back in my leather chair, preparing to listen. "I'm listening."

  "It's about that woman you asked me to find. You may want to bump up your trip."

  "To when?"

  "Tonight."

  "I have something to do tonight."

  "You don't really have a choice if you want to see her."

  "And why is that?"

  "She's in critical condition at the hospital. She was involved in an armed robbery at a grocery store in New York. She took a bullet to the head. She's still alive, but it isn't looking good, and I think they’re debating on whether or not to do surgery because of where the bullet is lodged. That's all of the information I could get not being family, and it took some manipulating to get that. They have her in an induced coma until they decide on the plan of care. She has no next of kin."

  Fuck.

  I run my hand through my short, spiky hair; new growth from the last time I shaved it off. I have a particular desired look when I work here and when I have to take care of the genetic mishaps of the world. I try not to mix the two. Never will I carry out a hit without as much differentiation in my physical appearance as I can get.

  I was planning to pay Lux a special visit tonight, but it'll have to be put on hold. This takes precedent...unfortunately. I can't confirm that woman is worth it, but regardless of the way I feel we still share the same coding of DNA, and I have things that need to be said. I wish I could generate more sorrow than I feel right now, but that's what happens when you live a selfish and shitty life. No one cares whether you live or die when all you are is a self-centered person thinking of only yourself, while your own blood suffers and sacrifices.

  I gather up the loose papers scattered on my desk and shove them into my briefcase before standing. "I'll take care of it. I appreciate the heads up."

  "Just doing what you pay me to do, boss."

  I laugh as I walk around the desk and stop beside him. "You still watching the new mark? His end is coming."

  "I'm on it. He doesn't even know I exist. He won't be running off anyway. I'll make sure of it."

  I nod.

  "If this goes over smoothly you can stop referring to me as your boss, because we will be partners. Like I’ve said before it's all about trust in this business, Chevy. I'm sure with a man of your success that word is cringe-worthy. No one gets to the top to then become another employee. See you in a few days. Keep everything in line, will you?"

  "You know it."

  I head toward the door and halt as I grab the door handle. "Hey, Chevy..."

  "What's up?"

  "Do me a favor. Keep an eye on Miss Larsen for me. I can't put my finger on it yet, but this one seems to be different. I expect her to be in mint condition when I return. I'm leaving her safety in your hands. If anything happens, call me. I don't care what time of day it is."

  He places his hands in his pants pockets as he looks at me, nodding his understanding.

  A short daydream starts to occur. I remember the way she looked each time she came last night. That erotic vision is forever branded in my mind. I smile incidentally. "Oh yeah. Thanks for letting me use your studio. You have a pretty good setup. My dick is probably more appreciative than I am. I don't know what fucking happened to you over there and I may never know, but you're a damn fine wingman if you ask me. If you need anything at all, do not hesitate to ask. Consider it already done."

  Without another word I leave, ready to get this over with. The sooner I get this out the sooner I can come home. There are things here that are finally piquing my interest after a stale ten years. I have a feeling the pot is only going to sweeten before it's over. For once I actually like my hand.

  My eyes pop open in panic. It's that feeling that you're late even though you have no idea what time it is. I throw the comforter off of me and jump out of bed. "Shit. What time is it?"

  The room being dark is scaring the hell out of me. I've never been late for work. I cannot be late for work. I feel around for my phone on the nightstand, but it isn't there. The bar. Callum.

  Turning, I run out of my bedroom and locate my clutch on the bar. I quickly grab it and remove my phone, unlocking it to see what time it is. 7:30. Fuck! I have thirty minutes to be at work and ready to serve. Tonight it's an engagement party so it's going to be a late one. I'm never going to make it in time. I've never been late to work a day since I started working. It just doesn't happen. My income is a key element in me being able to live on my own. It's not something I take lightly.

  I run to my bedroom and put my almost dead phone on the charger to give it some battery while I attempt in getting ready at the speed of lightning. I don't want to call my boss unless there is no way I'm going to make it. Atlanta traffic...

  I'm just going to have to hurry. There is always a way to beat the odds. The odds are I'm most likely going to be late. I run in my closet at full speed, sliding slightly across the hardwood floor as I attempt to stop on the right side; the side that my black slacks and white button-downs hang on. I don't even look before grabbing one of each. Most of my work clothes are all the same. It's pretty uniform, even with no logo: white and black. It’s required to serve for my boss. He wants everyone to look the same.

  I quickly lay the pressed shirt down on the bed long enough for me to remove the slacks from the hanger and pull them on my body, wasting not a second of time. I don't have it to waste. I pull them up my legs, hopping slightly to work them over my ass, but don't button or zip them, and then follow behind with my shirt. I button it from top to bottom and shove my shirttail in the waist of my pants to tuck it in, before finishing by fastening my pants, and slightly pulling my shirt back out enough to loosen the tuck.

  "Shoes, shoes, where are my fucking shoes?" I look around the room, running like a crazy person to and from my closet and then into the bathroom, before grabbing a pair of black work socks from my drawer, and then peek under the bed in hopes my shoes are there. Somehow they got shoved under the edge, hidden behind the bed skirt. I hop on one foot as I put each sock on, before shoving my feet inside. I pull at the heels with my index fingers until my foot is wedged completely inside of each shoe.

  I cannot believe I'm about to go to work without showering, especially after a night filled with sex. Smell check always works, so I grab the collar of my shirt and stick my nose inside the opening, checking for the one thing that will drive a girl's paranoia to extreme levels: body odor. The mixture that invades my nostrils is cologne, perfume, and deodorant. Cologne is not the ideal fragrance when serving young, single men. The idea is to appear flirtatious and very much available, even if you're not. Boss' rules not mine, but it's always been my favorite rule. He obviously knows what he’s talking about, because his clientele proves it. Well, it was up until this point. Again, change due to a damn sexy alpha-male that is dynamite in the bed. I was just fine until I found him lying in that tattoo shop.

  I walk to my mirror and brush through my hair, preparing to braid it in a hurry. I wonder what he's doing right this second....

  Oh my hell I need to be punch
ed in the face. I glance over at my phone and quickly divert my eyes back to the mirror. "Don't even fucking think about it. You will not be a twat waffle. Own your pussy. If he liked it he will come back for more."

  I stare at my reflection in the mirror. "Great, now I'm talking to you like you're a different person. I've really lost my shit now."

  I section off my hair and start to braid it down the back of my head loosely, tying it off with an elastic hair wrap. My makeup is smeared from my drunken overnight stay and then the all day sleep-a-thon I decided to have instead of being a productive member of society. "Ugh, I don't have time for this shit. Looks like it's mascara and light shadow tonight. I guess it's a good thing I'm not looking for a piece of ass."

  I grab a makeup towelette and wipe underneath my eyes, ridding my skin of the black smudges that currently reside there, before digging through my makeup and replacing it quickly with a light shimmer eye shadow and another coat of mascara, doubling what's already there. My eyeliner is sitting on top, so I grab it and darken the line around my eyes as fast as I can.

  I look myself over. "That will have to do, but something is missing. Jason is going to kill me. I look like camouflaged shit."

  Lip-gloss...

  "First you brush your teeth. That is one form of hygiene worth being late for."

  I feel like I'm never going to get there. This is completely unlike me. I don't even have a good excuse. I can see it now - walking in, staring my boss in the eyes, and reciting some lame ass line that a college student living off her parents and only working to make the time pass would use: Oh, sorry I'm late boss. I was out all night getting drunk and getting laid, draining all of my energy, so I felt the need to sleep all day when I should have been preparing for the several grand you're getting paid for this event to go seamlessly and without mistakes. I hope you understand...

  "I don't fucking think so, Lux." I rush to the bathroom and brush my teeth, not a thought running through my mind. I have to go. I pick up the bottle of perfume as I return my toothbrush to the holder and spritz it on my chest, hoping it'll mask the masculine goodness that is lingering on my skin. I cannot smell that all night. I need to focus.

  Replacing the bottle on my bathroom sink, I run into my room and grab my phone off the charger, as well as my large purse hanging from the hook on my closet door. Finally done. Now I just need to get through traffic. That's going to be a bitch. Killing all the lights to my room, I shut my bedroom door and stop at the bar to clean out my clutch and return the items to my wallet and purse, before locking up and taking off down the stairs as fast as my legs will go.

  As I open the lobby door and walk to the parking lot my heart sinks. No fucking way. "Hey! What the fuck are you doing to my car? That's private property."

  I take off running toward the tow truck that is hooking up to my car, my baby. "Hey asshole," I yell again. "Don't touch my damn car!"

  The guy hooking my car up isn't even that old. He's probably my age. Fucker. I shove him in the back, causing him to stumble slightly. "Put my car down or I'm going to call the cops. If you scratch it you're paying for it to be fixed."

  An older guy grabs something from the tow truck and starts walking toward me with a clipboard in his hand. "Ma'am, you need to calm down. We're just doing our job. This vehicle has been ordered for pickup by the owner."

  "What the hell are you talking about? I am the owner. Put my fucking Porsche down. I'm late for work." I wave the keys from my fingertips in front of his face. "See. Obviously you have some wrong information somewhere. You have the wrong vehicle."

  He looks down at the clipboard as if he's reading the typed information in front of him. "The vin numbers match, sweetheart. The registered owner I'm showing according to the title is Callum Callahan. He put in an order to have us pick up his property. You may want to contact him. It sounds like a domestic dispute to me. That will have to be dealt with in civil court. My hands are tied, sweetheart, unless you can produce a title with your name on it."

  "Mother fucker," I mumble. "I'm going to kill him."

  I look at my beautiful, silver car that is being strapped down on the tow truck by guy one. If I were a crier I would cry in this very second. The universe is against me right now. What can I do about it at this point legally? Not a damn thing. I knew I should have gotten the title put in my name. Without another word I turn and walk off as I dig through my purse for my phone. I look through the recent call log until I scroll far enough that I find the name I'm looking for. I touch it and place it to my ear.

  It rings.

  The line picks up. "Angel. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

  "You sorry son of a bitch, Callum. I told you not to fuck with my car. It was a gift in case you have forgotten. Who the hell takes back a gift? You're a bastard and I despise you. How the hell am I supposed to get to work now? I sold my car at your request. Now I have nothing."

  "Now, angel, calm down. It's still yours, and you can have it back, as soon as you come to your senses about this relationship. I miss you, Angel. I want you back. I will stop at nothing to get it."

  I hear the sound of a golf ball being tapped with a club. I know that sound well. I've had to tag along a few times. He loves golf. It was boring to me. My fury is only getting stronger by the second. "Put that fucking club down before I come to New York and knock you in the head with it. This isn't a joke, Callum. You are a married man. I'm sorry, but I just don't swing that way. I may not be looking for anything serious in my own life, but I'm not a home-wrecking whore. I believe in commitment for those that choose that life. You are the one that chose that life when you married her. Own up to your decisions and be responsible. You ruined this relationship, not me. I will never trust you again. You destroyed that. When we were together you were the only person I was sleeping with. Give me back my fucking car. Do you really want me to give Kyla a call? She's the only thing you have going now. I wouldn't mess up both if I were you."

  "It wouldn't really matter if you did. I've got my attorney handling that matter as we speak. The second I confirmed her condition upon my return to New York, I told her there was someone else and then I left. I've already moved out. Come back to me, Angel, and you can have anything you want. I'll buy you a new fucking car, a better one. You can quit that low-end job if you want and move in with me as soon as the divorce is finalized. Don’t throw the last six months away over someone that you mean nothing to. No one can take care of you like I can.”

  I want to scream. I just may. I do. It was no longer containable. I take a deep breath before trying to speak again. This is like dealing with a toddler. He's a grown ass man. "As tempting as that sounds, no thanks, and stop calling me that. I'm not your angel. Ties between us have been severed. This relationship is unfixable. Learn from your mistakes and move on to someone else if you don't want to be with her, because it won't be me in her place. I don’t want you anymore. Just let me go, Callum. Give me back my car," I say with a calm tone in my voice, trying to reason with an unreasonable man.

  Silence.

  I stand here, waiting for him to answer. "That's not an option for me. You’re only saying those things because you’re upset, as you should be. I fucked up. I’ll own up to that, but I’m not going out without a fight. If you want the car, then you know what the stipulations are. When I told you I loved you it wasn't because my cock was buried deep in your pussy. I meant it. I haven't reciprocated that phrase to Kyla since before I met you. I'm a man of my word. I'll be waiting for your call."

  The line goes dead.

  I look down at the screen, now staring at my home screen. "Your money isn't going to get you out of this one, Callum. I'm better than that. I won't be a mistress in the past, present, or future."

  I glance at the time. There is no making it on time now. I guess it's time to call my boss, because I'm going to have to hail a cab. I pull up my contacts until I find Jason's number. My stomach is a ball of nerves. He's the number one catering company in this city for any even
t, any need. People book him months in advance even for simple parties. He has one of best wine collections I've ever seen for his pastry specialty events. All food he makes and prepares himself prior to each event, no matter what it entails. He doesn't contract out for anything. His prices are fucking insane and people gladly pay it, because he's built up a spotless reputation. For that reason he doesn't put up with bullshit from employees. I'm lucky to have this job and he compensates me well.

  I touch his contact and raise my phone to my ear, waiting for someone to pick up. It rings a few times before the call connects. There is a lot of background noise. "Where the hell are you? This party is packed and you're my best server."

  "Hey, Jason. I'm really sorry to do this, like really, really sorry, but I'm going to be late."

  "How late?"

  "As soon as I can get a cab I'll be on the way. I seem to be having car trouble."

  "Car trouble? You drive a fucking Porsche, Lux, a brand new one. What's going on?"

  "Long story. I'll explain later. I'm carless at the moment. Please don't fire me."

  He laughs.

  "What's so funny?"

  "You haven't been a minute late since I hired you. I hardly think one time is cause to fire you. You've earned my trust. You're my head server. If you say you're having legit car issues, then I believe you. Just get here as soon as you can. You know I don't like dealing with my other servers when I'm busy. I don't have time for the petty issues that you can fix on the spot. That's why I pay you more than them."

  A wave of relief washes over me. "Thanks, Jason. I'll be there as soon as I can."

  "No worries. I got to go. See you in a bit."

  "Okay, bye."

  I lock my phone and toss it into my purse, which is hanging from the crook of my bent arm. When I look up there is a black SUV with tinted, blacked out windows pulling in front of me. I immediately stick my hand into my purse, feeling around discretely until I'm griping the handle of my pistol. The passenger side window starts to descend as the SUV stops a mere three feet in front of me.