Christmas Obsession

by Darcy Rose

  I can hear her stepping out of the living room and listen to see whether she’ll head upstairs or toward the kitchen. When I hear the creak of her stepping onto the staircase, I call out, “Merry Christmas, Mom!”

  “Don’t yell,” she snaps back at me before heading to her bedroom.

  I shrug. Shouldn’t have expected anything better. That’s the thing, Faith, if you keep your expectations dead-low, she’ll never disappoint you.

  Thoughtfully, I finish eating my cereal. My mind is elsewhere, thinking about the classes I’ll be taking next semester and looking forward to getting to spend most of the day away from my mother again. Winter break is a godsend to most students, but I wish I had some homework to keep my mind occupied or at least a job.

  After I’ve finished eating and placed my bowl in the sink, the doorbell rings. Puzzled, I head toward the front door, unsure who could be visiting us at nine a.m. on Christmas Day. Unless my mom had invited someone over…ugh. I steel myself before opening the door, half-expecting one of my mom’s creepy gentleman callers to be on the other side. But when I swing the door open, the guest standing on our front porch is someone I already know.

  “David?” I ask in a confused tone. He’s smiling widely, if a little nervously, and holding a box wrapped in bright green wrapping paper.

  David and I have known each other since the seventh grade and have always been competitive. He was the salutatorian of our graduating class, with a GPA only a point below mine. We had some things in common: bookish, impetuous, motivated. But he was a natural extrovert and Prom King while I ate my lunches in the library. Still, he hadn’t left me alone like I’d expected him to—especially after becoming captain of the football team.

  He only lived a few blocks away, and we’d study together at least once a week. We were good influences on each other back then; having someone to compete against made me care more about my grades. It wasn’t like Mom cared. I’d always had the sense that David had a slight crush on me, but I never reciprocated or flirted with him beyond light teasing about grades.

  But we hadn’t seen each other in almost two years. He’d gone to college out of state, on a football scholarship, and didn’t often come home for breaks. Yet here he is, dark brown hair tucked away in a red knit hat, cheeks pink from the cold.

  “Hi, Faith,” he says nervously, flashing me a winning smile. He’d had braces for most of high school but now had the blinding grin of an actor or model.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask cautiously. David is nice but has always been…intense. I saw how he treated some of his girlfriends in high school; he could become very pushy, and I know he cheated at least once. It was partly why I didn’t ever consider him romantically. I stood with the door only partially open, barely wide enough to poke my face through.

  “It’s Christmas, and I wanted to come celebrate with you. Just for a few minutes,” he says, flashing that wide grin again. He’s stepping from foot to foot, breath puffing slightly into the air. “Can I come in?”

  The last thing—the very last thing—I want is for him to come inside and see my hungover mom. She’d probably try to hit on him anyway. This Christmas was already disappointing; I didn’t want it to become full-on depressing.

  “Uh—” I lean back to grab my gray wool coat from the coat rack. “Hang on, um, my mom is still asleep. I’ll come outside.”

  I shut the door again before David can respond and slip on a pair of slippers I keep by the door. Buttoning up my coat and pushing my hair back off of my head, I open the door again and step out to see David. My feet crunch in the snow as we face each other, and David holds out the wrapped box. He’s smiling with all the excitement and innocence of a Golden Retriever, and his brown eyes are barely blinking.

  “Merry Christmas, Faith,” he says, giving the box a little shake. It isn’t large, probably six inches long and three inches deep. It looks like a box for a necklace, or a bracelet, or something. Over David’s shoulder, I can see the window into Vincent’s living room. Am I imagining it, or do I see his curtain open then suddenly close?

  “What is this?” I gingerly take the present in my hands. It’s very light, and there’s a small white sticker with “TO FAITH :)” written on it in blue ink.

  “A present,” he quips, voice dripping with sarcasm. He jams his hands back into the pockets of his leather jacket, emblazoned with his college’s mascot on the chest. “Open it!”

  “David, we’ve barely talked since graduation—” I say, trying to give the present back to him. “Whatever this is, it’s really too much.”

  He pushes the present away, shaking his head without breaking eye contact. David is a good six inches taller than me, and I feel like I can’t really say no.

  “I insist, Faith. Plus, I’ve been keeping up with you online. It’s not like we’re strangers.”

  I don’t like the cajoling tone of his voice, but I figure I may as well see what’s inside. I undo the ribbon tied around the box, a nice touch, I must admit, and slip my finger gently under the seam of the wrapping paper. David is breathing a little too hard, and I see the plumes of vapor going down.

  Under the wrapping paper is a small cardboard box. I lift the top off of it, and lying inside is a delicate silver necklace and two plane tickets. My jaw drops when I look closer; it’s a first-class trip to the Bahamas this May.

  “What the…?” I say softly. David doesn’t hear me, and he leans forward excitedly.

  “My buddies and I are going to the Bahamas for spring break. A bunch of the guys are bringing their girlfriends, and I’m perpetually single, so I figured I’d take a chance on the girl who always captured my heart. You!”

  It almost sounds as if he scripted this or read it off a hallmark card. Like he’s giving me a sales pitch. It’s not sweet or romantic; it’s…slimy.

  Something turns in my stomach. I don’t want to go on a long trip with someone I barely know and a bunch of strangers. We haven’t so much as Snapchatted in years. What if he’s just trying to harvest my organs? This is incredibly suspicious.

  “David, no,” I say, looking at him with a pleading expression. “I’m really uncomfortable with this.”

  “Why? Don’t you think I’ll keep you safe?” He crosses his arms over his chest, and I step back, rotating, so my back is to my front door.

  “It’s not that, David, but this is way too extravagant, and I barely know you anymore.”

  “Come on, Faith, if you think you don’t know me well, then this is the perfect opportunity to get to know each other.” He steps closer to me while he speaks, glowering slightly. He’s barely blinking, and the effect is eerie.

  “David, please, take this back.”

  “No.” He takes another step toward me, towering over me at this point, arms crossed. I’m pinned against my front door. My heart is pounding in my chest; David is bigger and stronger than me, and my front door is unlocked. I have no idea what he might do.

  “You’re scaring me. Stop it!”

  With my pulse ringing in my ears, I think I hear a door slam, but I can’t be sure. He’s got me pinned in the small alcove of my door, where I’m trapped on two sides by brick columns. David puts his arm on either column, leaning forward until his breath visibly pants into my face. He’s almost spitting now, mouth curling into an ugly frown.

  “Christ, Faith, I’ve wanted you since I was twelve! I’ve spent years being nice to you. Trying to get in your pants, and you can’t swing me one favor?”

  “I’ll do you a favor, buddy,” a voice says behind David.

  He jumps and turns around, only to be greeted by a left hook to the face. I yelp as David reels to the side, jumping back before laying eyes on the assailant.

  It’s Vincent, in nothing but jeans and a white T-shirt, with a wild look in his eyes. A look that makes me think he might just kill David.

  6

  Vincent

  It was pure luck that I caught the college boy heading up Faith’s driveway. I had been si
tting at my living room window, admiring the snowfall, nursing my first cup of coffee of the day. Getting ready to head out for my next assignment. Then I saw him.

  He couldn’t have looked more like a John Hughes movie character if he tried. Slicked-back hair, expensive jeans, school-colors letterman jacket, for Christ’s sake. When I saw Faith step onto the porch, I left the window and made a beeline to the front door, opening it just enough to listen in on their conversation.

  I simply wanted to listen, not intervene, but the moment I heard Faith say she was scared, I saw red. I wasn’t human in that moment, merely a tower of rage and jealousy. My mind turns to its animal instincts as the blood courses white-hot in my veins. I push the front door open and slam it behind me without a thought, almost grunting as I sprint from my door to hers.

  I cut across my front lawn, hopping over the low fence that separates our driveways. The boy—that asshole—is yelling at her. Yelling that he deserves her. That she owes him. That my obsession, my woman, my Faith owes him something just because he whacked off thinking about her in high school.

  “…you can’t swing me one favor?” he yells, and I take the last few strides to get behind him. The guy’s around my height and looming over Faith in her doorway. I don’t know who the fuck he thinks he is crowding her and raising his voice, but he’s about to be in a world of hurt.

  “I’ll do you a favor, buddy.” The words come out in a hoarse growl, scratching my throat. He jumps at the sound of my voice, and I waste no time in winding up my left fist.

  There’s a satisfying thwack as skin meets skin.

  The moment moves in slow motion—fist meets face, his face registers shock, surprise, then pain. He reels backward, clutching his nose. I draw my arm back to my side and see my lovely Faith, mouth open in a tight O. Her hair is in braided pigtails, and her face is fresh and dewy. But even the sight of my love could not pull me out of this fitful rage I’m in.

  “The hell, bro?” the college boy says, kneeling half-over on the porch.

  I’m breathing hard and can feel my chest rising up and down.

  “I’m not your bro,” I snarl as I take a step closer. The boy tries to step back but stumbles on his feet. I grab the collar of his jacket and pull him toward me. He loses his balance stepping off of the small porch and stumbles even closer to me. With the fabric of his cliche jacket wrapped around my hand, I bring my face level to his.

  “Hey, c’mon, this is just a misunderstanding,” he pleads, his face burning red. He’s scared shitless. I can smell it on him. This isn’t my first time shaking somebody down.

  “I don’t think so. She told you to back off. You didn’t listen. What is it that I’m misunderstanding?” I keep my tone even, but the rage bubbles beneath.

  The boy gulps, realizing what deep shit he’s in. This guy better be glad we’re out in the open because if we were alone, he’d already be dead.

  “You’re going to leave,” I say in a low voice, hoping Faith will not hear, “and you are not going to come back. If you do, I’ll deal with you, and not so gently next time. She wants you to leave her alone. Are you going to listen? Or do I need to teach you another lesson?”

  “I’ll go. I’ll go.” His voice is laced with panic, almost like he knows what I am thinking. Because in my mind, I’m already killing him. I’m going to make him suffer for touching her.

  His eyes are wide, and he tries to raise his hands to surrender. Our faces are close enough that I can feel his breath, but I stare into his eyes, unblinking, for a long moment before letting go of his collar and turning away. The boy stumbles again, trying to regain his balance.

  Once he’s back on his feet, I cross my arms over my chest and stare him down. Faith is still standing silently on the porch, one hand clapped over her mouth in shock. The boy adjusts his jacket, trying to save face in front of his high school crush.

  It’s funny, in a way. He thinks he’s so smooth and grown-up, but I turned him back into a sniveling schoolboy in seconds. I resist the urge to puff out my chest as I turn to watch him walk down the snowy driveway.

  It’s not until he is back behind the wheel of his car that I realize how cold the skin feels on my arms. My blood has begun to cool, and I no longer wear a warm coat of rage.

  I turn back to Faith. Her hand is no longer clapped over her mouth, but she looks at me with a mystified expression. I can read her eyes like a book: she’s scared, thankful, nervous, and happy all at the same time.

  God, she has no idea how to mask her feelings. It makes my heart ache, the way every emotion plays clearly across her face. I watch worry overtake all the other feelings. Oh, no. She doesn’t see me as a protector; she sees me as a beast. I have to show her that there’s nothing to be scared of when it comes to us.

  “Um… thank you,” she whispers. I notice she’s in slippers and pajama pants and want nothing more than to take her inside, warm her up by the fire, electrify every inch of her skin…

  “Don’t mention it,” I say in a blasé tone, trying not to betray how wild I still feel on the inside. “You deserve to be treated with respect.”

  Faith smiles shyly at that, looking down at her feet. My brain is screaming at me to go to her, to take her in my arms, pinch her dimpled chin between a thumb and forefinger and turn her up to face me. Look deeply into her eyes and reassure her everything will be okay, to kiss away her fears, but no. That would be too much. I jumped into her lawn to protect her from a sociopathic teenager, not to take her as my own.

  “Let me see your cell phone.” I step closer, extending my hand out to her. I don’t give her the room to say no. She meets my eyes again and pulls the phone from her coat pocket, unlocking it quickly before handing it to me. There isn’t fear in her eyes anymore, which makes me feel a little better.

  I quickly tap over to her contacts, enter my name, and type in my number. I tap the little green ‘save’ button and hand it back to her. She’s still breathing with shuttered breaths, trying to process what’s going on. But I also notice a deep pink flush creeping up her neck and know that she is open to my advances.

  “You call me if you need anything, Faith. And I do mean anything,” I say, staring into her eyes deeply for a moment.

  “Will do, Vincent. Thank you again.” She sounds so timid, but I still melt, hearing my name on her lips. It’s smoother and sweeter than honey. “Merry Christmas, too.”

  “Merry Christmas,” I say with a nod, abruptly turning on my heel in the snow. I measure my paces as I walk down her driveway, giving her one last wave before I turn to head down the sidewalk that leads to my yard—no sense in jumping fences again. Don’t want to scare her away.

  Faith waves back, and I feel such a pull to her. As if there is an invisible rope between us, one that has always been there, just waiting for us to finally tie ourselves together.

  She turns around and opens the door to her house, shooting me a shy smile over her shoulder before going back inside. The door closes behind her, and I watch the plastic wreath swing back and forth for a moment before heading back to my home.

  Once inside, I check my watch. Dammit. If I was going to do this hit right, I needed to leave right now. The target lives in the next town over, and I will have to hop on the interstate to get there. I can’t afford to bet on low traffic, even on Christmas Day. Luckily, I keep all of my equipment in my car already—hidden in the hollow backseat as to never arouse suspicion.

  I take a deep breath, leaning against the staircase railing, trying to get my head screwed back on straight for the job. If this doesn’t go through, Tony will never forgive me. The guy I am supposed to snipe today, Dave Sobaski, had cheated Tony out of a lot of money in a shady business deal. He isn’t affiliated with any other mob or gang, just an enterprising scam artist that fell in with the wrong men. Single, lives alone, it will be an easy hit.

  Without moving, I think about the job—and Faith. I really don’t want to leave her, but I have my phone and can watch the cameras in her room. All
I needed now was to bundle up.

  In a rush, I pull on my leather jacket and wrap a scarf around my neck. It will help to hide my face as I stake out the guy.

  My mind is on Faith as I drive downtown, listening to oldies music on the radio. Carole King sings about standing by your man as I think about what it would be like to taste my teenage neighbor. I’m so lost in thought that I almost drive past the building I’m supposed to go to.

  Shit, I’m never this distracted.

  I park on the top floor of a parking garage, close to a ladder leading onto the roof, and across from Dave’s studio apartment. Deciding that I won’t need to use my camo jacket to stay concealed on a roof, I lean into the backseat and pack all of my equipment into an unassuming duffel bag. After locking my car and wrapping my scarf over my mouth and nose, I start up the ladder leading to a simple trap door onto the roof. There’s a thick layer of snow, and the wind whips fiercely around my face. I tuck the ends of my scarf into the jacket to keep them from blowing about.

  Luckily, there’s a small radiator right along the wall that gives me a view of Dave’s apartment. He’ll be in unit 406, fourth floor, second window from the left. I settle myself on the radiator and unzip my bag, thankful for the sound of wind and traffic to cover up the clatter of a gun and tripod being put together. This process is muscle memory for me now; after all, this is what I’ve been doing for the last twelve years of my life.

  Once my sniper and scope are set up with a dead shot into Dave’s window, I relax into my seat and let my mind wander. As I often do, I remember how I found work as an assassin in the first place.

  It’s a tragic story, really. But I suppose I’m living the happy ending.

  When I was sixteen, my parents died in a car crash. They were heading home after grabbing some takeout for the family. Tony’s nephew, Frederico, was cruising around town with a couple hookers and a head full of blow. He ran a red light, crashed head-on into my parents, killing them on impact. He and his hookers survived with less than a scratch.