Shatter

by Lola Taylor

  Becca smiled back and nodded. “Thank you.”

  She didn’t tarry. She all but ran outside and got into her car.

  Her whole body shook. The key clanked against the steering mount as she missed the keyhole over and over.

  I never wanted you!

  Memories of her mother screaming at her, beating her, assaulted her. The last of her control slipped away, and she crumpled over. Her face pressed against the steering wheel. Sobs shook her whole body.

  Pathetic, a sarcastic voice said in her head. You really are useless, aren’t you?

  A tremble started in her hands, crawling through her body and into her toes.

  The pain suddenly stopped. All of it. Not an ounce of mourning remained.

  When she sat up, she felt much calmer. More in control, as if nothing could hurt her.

  Flipping the mirror down, she wiped away the smeared mascara on her cheeks and got out her makeup bag.

  Thirty seconds later, she had fresh makeup, complete with a new coat of red lipstick.

  She looked over her face in the mirror and smacked her lips. “Didn’t I tell you, little girl?” she said, her voice deeper than it was a moment before. “No one is ever going to hurt you again. I promise.”

  Starting the car, she glanced at the clock on the dash. It was almost eight p.m.

  Driving off, she hummed a tune as she merged into traffic.

  Soon, it would all be over. The moment she felt she’d waited her entire life for.

  Just a little bit longer, and then you’ll finally be mine…Amy.

  AMY DIDN’T KNOW how long she stared at the gun. It seemed to weigh more and more as time passed; the minutes became longer and longer.

  The weight of her decision settled around her shoulders like a leaden cloak.

  She was going to kill someone.

  For some stupid reason, it had never dawned on her when she bought the gun that she could use it to kill. Simply having it made her feel safer. Yes, she obviously knew what guns were used for. Some part of her didn’t want to acknowledge the real reason she’d bought the weapon. She was sick of death. Absolutely sick. But as her therapist had said, it was just another part of life. Natural. Normal.

  So why was she so scared? Would she stall when it came time to pull the trigger?

  Could she pull it?

  Unable to hold it any longer, she put the gun away. There were still two hours left before she had to face her fate. She should have been getting ready, should have been preparing herself, but she was restless. Pacing with nervous energy and the urge to paint, she’d finally caved and picked up a brush.

  Painting always allowed her to think and calm down. And if she had any hope of not falling apart completely in front of Nathan, she needed to calm down and get her shit together. A blank canvas and an arsenal of colors were her best weapons against becoming a nervous wreck.

  The paintbrush swept across the canvas in grand strokes. The bristles and somber colors poured all of her sadness, worry, frustration, and fear into the painting.

  Scott still hadn’t called. Not that she’d expected him to. He wasn’t exactly in a position to chat at his leisure.

  Tears stung her eyes.

  Why was it when she found something good it always got taken away? Could she not have a damned moment of peace?

  The strokes became angrier, scarring the dark forest landscape she’d painted with streaks of red. It hadn’t even occurred to her she had dipped her brush into the red. The trees were beaten by a bloodied rain, making the atmosphere of the landscape heavier somehow.

  Death. Pain. Sorrow. That’s all she’d felt and known these past two years. And it looked as if it might be all she would ever know.

  Tears poured down her cheeks, plopping into her paint vials and splattering against her jeans. She sat there, breathing hard, as her eyes roved over the canvas.

  A raw calmness settled over her, as if her emotions had literally leaked out via her tears. She didn’t feel empty, exactly. Just…lighter.

  Swallowing, she dabbed her brush into the white and yellow paints and dabbed a small patch of sunlight onto the bruised cloud cover. Diluting the paint in her water container, she drew delicate beams to cascade down from the heavens, highlighting the beautiful greens of the forest below.

  Satisfied, she sat back and stared.

  A smile broke out on her face.

  At first, she thought she may call the painting Fear. But now, she had a better name for it.

  “Hope,” she whispered.

  Her foot had fallen asleep. The tingling sensation had escaped her notice, she’d been so enraptured with her work. After nearly falling onto her painting, she grasped the wall for support and waited for blood flow to return to her foot. Once the numbness subdued, she got in the shower and lingered under the hot water, inhaling deep breaths of steam. She wanted to stay longer but knew she shouldn’t. She had somewhere to be soon. Reluctantly, she killed the water, toweled off, and got dressed. Feeling far better than she had earlier, she made herself a ham-and-cheese sandwich. Having your emotions thrown into a blender worked up an appetite.

  Unfortunately, the damned sandwich wouldn’t go past the lump in her throat.

  It was nearly eight fifteen p.m. now.

  Forty-five more minutes. The marina wasn’t far, but she’d still need to leave within the next half hour if she hoped to be there by nine. What felt like forever earlier now felt as though she didn’t have nearly enough time to prepare.

  Nerves made her tummy tingle, threatening to pitch what little sandwich she ate back up her throat.

  On the verge of giving up after she dry-heaved, she got up from the couch to toss the remainder of the sandwich, when her phone went off.

  She nearly dropped the plate in her hurry to grab it.

  Scott. Please, be Scott.

  The sting of disappointment made her wince when she saw Becca’s number on the screen. Jeez, was that bitchy? Being sad your best friend was calling? Sure, they’d had a fight recently, but Amy hadn’t exactly been a peach to deal with after Michael’s murder.

  She briefly considered letting it go to voice mail. What if Becca needed something? What if it was important?

  “Hello?” she answered.

  “Guess what?” Becca sang. Amy heard heels clicking, and a car honked. Wherever she was, she was walking outside.

  Amy smiled softly. “What?”

  “This girl just got a promotion!”

  “No shit?” Amy exclaimed. “Becca, that’s awesome! You’ve worked really hard for it.” With everything else going on, it had completely slipped Amy’s mind her friend had been vying for a promotion at work recently.

  “You bet your ass I have. And I’m ready to celebrate. Hope you’re decent, bitch, because I’m coming for you.”

  “What? You’re on your way over here?”

  “Actually, I’m kind of already here.”

  “What?”

  “Jeez, don’t blow out my eardrum!”

  “Sorry,” Amy breathed. “It’s just, now isn’t a good time.”

  “Really? Do you have important sex to get caught up on with Scott?”

  Amy pressed her lips together. “He’s not here,” she said quietly.

  “Perfect! Then what’s the problem?”

  Amy didn’t know how to respond.

  Becca sighed, exasperated. “Come on, Ames! Just one obligatory celebratory drink, and I’ll let you off the hook. It’s damn good wine, if I do say so myself. Better be, anyway. I paid two hundred dollars for this shit.”

  “Two hundred dollars, for a bottle of wine? Are you nuts?”

  “No, just excited! And eager to par-tay! Now, let me in.”

  Amy bit her lip and at last sighed. “Fine. I’ll be down in a sec.”

  Becca squealed, and the call ended.

  Amy groaned, rubbing her temples to ease the throb that had begun there. Why, oh, why did Becca pick the most inopportune times to party?

  It’s o
kay. You’ve got half an hour before you have to leave. Just have a drink and say you have something else going on soon that you can’t put off.

  A drink did sound good, actually. She just had to go easy on it. Inebriation and guns didn’t mix well.

  After she let Becca in, Amy listened to her rattle off her new pay, duties, hours, and all the other perks that went along with her new position. “I was worried about ‘Brown-Nosing Jake’ getting it after last quarter, but I guess old Bob decided I was the best candidate for Tier II after all.” She beamed as she pulled the wine and cheese wheel out of a paper bag.

  “That’s great, Becca,” Amy said with as much enthusiasm as she could. She forced a smile as she pulled two wineglasses from the cabinet and set them out. “I’m really happy for you. I know how much you wanted this promotion.”

  “Hell yeah, I did! No more gopher work from Mr. Stick-Up-His-Ass. You got a corkscrew?”

  “Um, yeah. Just a sec.” She turned around and rummaged through her utensil drawer. How had she accumulated this much junk? Honestly, how many spatulas did a girl need?

  “Ah, here we are.” She fished the corkscrew from the back of the drawer. She handed it off to Becca, who deftly skewered the cork and yanked it free with a pop. She poured them both a glass.

  “That’s enough for me,” Amy said once it reached halfway.

  Becca raised a brow but stopped pouring. “What’s wrong? I thought you liked red wine.”

  “I do.” She adored it, actually. “It’s just, I have somewhere I have to be later, and I don’t want to get too buzzed for it.”

  “Oh?” Becca popped the cork back in after she poured her own glass. “And where is the famous Amy heading off to this evening? Do you have a second boyfriend I don’t know about?”

  Amy laughed. “Hardly. I have, um, to swing by the art museum to talk to the curator about another gala.”

  “Another one?” Becca’s eyes grew big. “That’s great, Ames!” She raised her glass. “Cheers to our awesomeness.”

  Amy smiled. “Cheers.”

  They clinked glasses and took a sip. “Hmmm.” Amy took another gulp, this one much more generous than the first. “This is good.”

  “It’s a sweet red. I know you don’t like the dry stuff.” Becca wrinkled her nose. “Neither do I.”

  Amy had an insatiable sweet tooth, evidence of which clung to her body in soft curves. She drank some more. They settled back into a familiar routine, laughing and drinking. For twenty precious minutes, life almost seemed normal. Amy glanced at her glass. Damn, was it almost empty already? She’d been so wrapped up in having a moment of fun with Becca that she hadn’t been paying attention. She blinked, and her vertigo skewed. “Whoa.” She gripped the counter for support. “What’s the proof in this?”

  Becca shrugged. “Not sure. Same as any other wine. All I know is that it’s old as hell. You know what they say—the older the wine, the better.”

  “Hmmm.” Amy tipped back her head and finished off her glass. “Wow.” She shook her head and blinked a few times. Was her vision blurry? “That was good.”

  Acute drowsiness took over, weighing her eyelids down. She always felt relaxed after drinking a glass of wine; she usually enjoyed a glass while taking her Friday-night bubble baths, a relaxation treat. Yeah, sleepiness usually followed in such a relaxed state, but this seemed to hit awfully fast.

  Becca watched her silently from across the counter, a slight smile on her lips. Her dark eyes glittered.

  Amy knew something was wrong when she went to take a step and collapsed onto the floor. The glass shattered, flinging broken shards across the kitchen floor. She tried to get up but couldn’t move. It was as if her limbs were made of cement.

  “What’s…happening?” she stuttered as she stared at the ceiling. Even her tongue felt heavy, making it difficult to enunciate.

  Footsteps echoed in her head as a pair of black heels approached from the corner of her eye. Her eyes dragged upward, seeing Becca’s silhouette standing over her.

  Becca smiled. At least, Amy thought she did. Her vision grew blurrier, and white sparkles started to fill the edges.

  A buzzing filled her head, making it hard to hear.

  “It’s all right, Amy.” Becca sounded far away. “It’ll all be okay soon.”

  IT TOOK HIM a full five minutes to calm down. Damn, he was going to be exhausted before the punches even started to fly.

  A cold sweat coated his body. Icy droplets trickled from the ditches of worry lines on his forehead into the hollows of his eyes, making them sting. Every muscle ached, as if he’d just run a marathon. Hell, even breathing was a chore.

  He closed his eyes and ran his hands over his face. If you’re done freaking out now, can we continue with tonight’s scheduled ass kicking?

  Tension tightened his jaw. That son of a bitch Ghost was going down.

  Scott smiled darkly.

  And he will never see it coming.

  Harsh banging rattled the door, making Scott jump. “Five minutes, pretty boy,” barked Trevor.

  Scott’s heart tripped over a few beats before it resumed its frantic thrumming. Okay. He had to stay calm. He’d get through this. The feds probably already had a lock on him. All he needed now was time.

  And to not get killed.

  “No problem,” he muttered.

  Changing clothes was a lot harder with numb fingers, but he managed. He’d just laced his other shoe up when the door opened without preamble, and in strolled Ghost.

  “Ah, good.” Ghost looked him over as if appraising a prized stallion. “You’re ready.”

  Scott glared back at him. “You gonna give me any gear?”

  Ghost smiled. He looked like that big-ass Aussie shark from Finding Nemo when it smiled at a cowering Dory and Marlin. “No gloves or a mouthpiece tonight. I want it raw and bloody in my coliseum.”

  “Yeah, I bet people are willing to pay a premium to watch two men literally beat the living hell out of each other,” Scott said dryly.

  “What can I say? It’s good business. I aim to give the people what they want.” He started out the door.

  Scott didn’t have to be told he was supposed to follow, though it took some effort to make his leaden feet move. “I guess some things never change. The wealthy are just as bloodthirsty as they’ve always been.”

  The dark halls brightened every few feet with pendant lights that hung from the shadowy ceiling. “Oh, don’t think it’s just the wealthy,” Ghost said over his shoulder. “Men and women both rich and poor like to see blood spilled. It’s the animal in us all. But it would appear bloodthirst only affects the wealthy, since they are generally the only ones who can afford tickets to my events.”

  Scott grunted. It’s always about the money.

  The low roar of the crowd, dulled by the metal doors they approached, thrummed in Scott’s blood. They chanted something he couldn’t quite make out.

  Ghost’s step didn’t falter as two tuxedo-clad men opened the doors and he strolled through. “You remember the Underground?” Ghost raised his voice to be heard.

  Now that he looked around, Scott started to recognize the place. It was the old, antique theater they built the auditorium over. It was called “the Underground” because it was literally built underground. The building was contracted by a young investor who’d hit it big on Wall Street. The Underground had catered to Los Angeles’s elite, since it doubled as a swanky restaurant. The investor had built it underground for acoustical purposes, as well as adding to the uniqueness and allure of the establishment.

  An elegant hallway with red-carpeted flooring and antique bronzed sconces led them to the main floor. The theater stage itself was at the center of the room, the base of which was outlined in old gas lamps. Glimmering wire ropes were stretched around its perimeter, creating a barrier. Stadium seating rose on all four sides of the stage, adorned with red velvet cushions. The place could easily hold up to five hundred people.

  Jeremy was alr
eady in the ring. His shoulders slumped forward, as if already admitting defeat.

  As if Ghost would ever allow it.

  Men in tuxedos guarded the doors and formed a perimeter around the ring. Scott wouldn’t put it past them to Taser him, or worse, should either he or Jeremy try to escape.

  An announcer decked in a sequined gold suit stood in the middle of the ring. With his oily hair and mustache, he looked more like a used-car salesman. Sounded like one, too. His overly cheerful voice echoed around the hall as Scott and Ghost approached. “And here he is, the king of the jungle himself—the Lion!”

  The crowd stood and roared; their clapping sounded like thunder. Scott looked around. Everyone was dressed in their finest. Tuxedos, expensive suits, ball gowns, cocktail dresses…not a single person wore casual attire. He’d wager all the glittering trinkets adorning the women’s necks, hair, and ears that there was enough money in expensive gemstones here to buy a small country.

  The VIPs, of course, were given the best seats, directly next to the arena. Scott recognized some of the faces.

  The mayor.

  A judge.

  The district attorney.

  The CEO of a famous conglomerate.

  They cheered for Scott as he passed them. He met their enthusiasm with a glare. Ghost’s influence, as well as the corruption in the city, went a lot further than he’d thought. It sickened him to see so many high-ranking officials participating in something like this, an illegality they supposedly passed the bills for themselves to outlaw.

  Hypocrites. Spoiled, rich pigs. Doesn’t anyone have any damn integrity anymore?

  The feds were going to have a field day with this. That is, if this crazy-ass plan worked. He felt like the star of a Jack Ryan flick, only this wasn’t fiction.

  This was pounding-heart, break-out-in-a-cold-sweat real.

  The sound of the crowd chanting his name faded away as he took one heavy step after another toward that fateful ring. Already, he could imagine its surface marred with their blood and broken bodies.

  Ghost climbed into the ring with Scott and took the mic from the announcer. He raised a hand, and the hall quieted down.

  “Thank you, esteemed patrons, for coming out this evening. Both of these men have impressive track records in the arena, and I know you’ll be in for a treat.”