by A. Zavarelli
“You know,” Kaya’s voice breaks through the silence, and I blink up at her. I don’t know why she’s still standing here. “I think we might have a problem on our hands, Ronan. And I’m really not sure who to talk to about it.”
She’s making a whole production with her lips. Pushing them out like she’s pouting. I tilt my head and try to work out what it is she wants from me.
“What sort of problem?” I ask.
“Sasha’s been popping an awful lot of pills lately,” she says. “I think maybe she’s turning into a junkie or something.”
My response is hasty and uncontrollable. Before I can cop onto myself, I’ve got a hold of her by the arms, glaring down into her terrified face.
“Do ye like working here at Slainte?” I ask her.
“Y-y-yes,” she stutters.
“And do ye like waking up every morning?”
She nods her head spastically, but no words come out this time. It’s just as well, because I don’t know what I’m doing. Only that I can’t control myself where Sasha is concerned. Which is why I stay far away from her.
“Do not ever so much as mention Sasha’s name again,” I tell Kaya. “In any form, or conversation of the sort. Do ye get me?”
She nods again, but I’m not through with her yet.
“Her mother is dying. And she thinks that ye’re her mate. If you even so much as whisper something about her to one of the other girls, or any of the lads for that matter…”
“Alright, Ronan.” She tries to pat me on the chest to placate me. I shove her away and she nearly falls off her high heels.
“I get it,” she says quickly. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to be catty.”
“Aye, you were,” is my reply.
She presses her lips together and crosses her arms. “I won’t say another word on the subject.”
“I don’t want to see ye back here again,” I tell her. “Let me be.”
She does as I ask and toddles off towards the dressing room.
I already know about Sasha and the pills. I found them in her purse last week when I noticed she’d been acting a wee bit off during her performance. And every night since then, I’ve followed her back to her house and checked the bottle.
It’s a problem. One I haven’t worked out how to handle. Like everything else when it comes to Sasha. But I will not stand for anyone speaking about her that way. She isn’t an addict. She’s wrecked over her mammy’s illness and it’s clearly making her a bit mad.
I don’t understand it myself, but Crow was the same when his mammy passed. I’ve seen it before with the lads too, any time one of our mates meets his maker. It’s the natural progression of things, I believe. But I’ve indulged Sasha’s recklessness as long as I’m willing to. This issue with the pills is going to stop. It’s going to stop tonight.
I collapse back into the leather seat and check my watch. Five minutes pass while I wait, and I spend them chasing up one glass of Jameson with another. When the music starts up and the stage lights come on, I lean back in my chair and give my sole attention to the dancer onstage.
Her long silky dark hair nearly touches the curves of her ass when she arches her back and tips her head back. She has a body that was made for the stage. That’s what Niall said when he hired her. I wanted to punch his teeth in, even if it is true.
Her skin glows under the lights and captures the attention of every male in the room. My own body responds when I remember what it felt like to touch. The few small parts of it that I did touch. When I lost control. When I allowed myself to be reckless with her.
It’s something not even time can wash away. My mind knows every inch of her body, including the parts my hands have never felt. Round hips and a small waist. Soft, full breasts. Everything about her is sensual and feminine, and every animal in the room has his eyes on her. I have an urge to gouge them all out when I catch them looking at her.
I never wanted her here. In this environment. But without claiming her as my own, I had no say in the matter. And I will never claim her as my own. Which leaves me with one solution. I’ve no choice but to bear it. To watch the lads leer at her and make comments.
She hasn’t any idea that none of them will ever have her. The ones who feel up to trying leave here with a few broken bones if they’re lucky. She doesn’t know that either. Crow and I have an agreement. She isn’t mine. But I still don’t want them touching her.
As she performs, her face scans the crowd as it usually does. I often wonder if she’s looking for someone. I often wonder if that someone could be me. Sometimes, I prefer to sit out of the shadows, where I know I can be seen. Her blue eyes always meet mine for a second. In that moment, I try to sort out what she’s thinking. They are so pure and gentle. Filled with a goodness that I’ll never know. Everything about her is like that.
Her lips are soft and pink and only speak kind words. She doesn’t talk like the other girls. She doesn’t gossip or speak just for the sake of talking. And she’s always nice to me. She never laughs at me, like some of them do.
I often dream of her. Small fragile hands exploring my body. Hands that could never hurt. Hands that- when they touched me- made me feel things I didn’t understand.
I like to follow her. To watch her when she doesn’t know it. She only ever sees me when I want her to. She hasn’t a clue that I’m with her every night. Watching, obsessing, craving her in a way that I’m not accustomed to. She brings to life my baser functions. An urge to be inside of her so strong, sometimes I worry I will succumb to it again.
That would be wrong.
Because I can’t give her what she needs. I don’t even know what she needs. I only know that touching her again would be like dousing the fire with gasoline in hopes of calming it. I know once I have another taste, there would be no choice in the matter. I fear that I would continue to draw from her goodness until there was nothing left. Until she could only ever hate me.
I don’t know how to avoid that. I don’t know anything other than that it’s always been her, from the moment I saw her three years ago. She’s the thing that I’ve yearned for more than anything else. And for that reason, she’s the thing I can never have. I cannot control my urges. My instincts.
Because when I think about her with those other men, it makes me angry. So bloody angry. She gave herself to them. And she shouldn’t have. Logically, I know I don’t own her. But I want her just the same, and yet I’m too paralyzed to act on it. But all I ever have to do is think about her with someone else, and it makes me want to take her for my own. Give her no choice in the matter.
I don’t ever want to be that way with her. She could only ever see me as the animal she saw tonight.
In the darkness, as her performance goes on, my frustration only grows. It isn’t often that I feel angry over the things in my past. The things that made me what I am. But watching Sasha in the shadows, knowing that someday another man will have her, it triggers my rage like nothing else can.
I want to be what she needs. What she wants. But I’m not.
Someone else will. Someone who I may very well end up killing too.
Chapter Four
Sasha
When I get home from work, Amy is waiting for me like always. But she isn’t flipping through a magazine. She isn’t doing anything at all. She’s sitting at the table, hands folded together and her gaze fixed on the doorway when I come in.
I set down my bags and my eyes dart around the room, seeking out five things. Just five little things to keep me grounded. Anything to keep me from teetering off the edge of despair. But it doesn’t seem to work anymore.
Everything in this apartment reminds me of my Ma. Her oven mitts, her apron, even her happy fern which is now sulking in the corner of the windowsill. She’ll never see or touch these things again. Every night I go through this. Wondering if this is going to be the night Amy tells me it happened. That she slipped away, and I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye. I don’t have time to
prepare myself either way before Amy fills me in.
“She took a turn today,” she says softly. “There are some signs of infection. Most likely pneumonia.”
I collapse into one of the kitchen chairs, but I can’t find the words to respond. I’ve already been warned of the likelihood of something like this happening. I know what an infection in her state can do. What it will do. But it still feels like the rug has been ripped out from beneath me. Like I haven’t had time to prepare.
It doesn’t matter how informed you are, or how long you know it’s coming. I’ll never be ready for her to go. Even if it is the best thing for her. Even if she’s in pain and it’s selfish of me to want to keep her here.
“So what happens now?” I ask.
“We’ll continue to monitor her,” Amy explains in a gentle tone. “She doesn’t want any antibiotics, so we’ve increased her dosage so she can rest. But it means she’ll be out of it. You should call Emily and tell her to come now.”
I nod and a tear escapes my eye, falling down my cheek and splashing against the table. The table where we all used to eat as a family. I have the sudden urge to break it. To see it piled up like matchsticks. Instead, I settle for scratching my nail against the wood, marring it.
Amy stands up to leave, but gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze before she goes.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
The front door closes, and the only sound in the apartment is the machine from the other room. But I can’t go in there. Not tonight. I can’t see her so close, but so far away.
So I walk to the closet and rifle through the jackets until I find what I’m looking for. The black suit jacket hidden in the back is yanked off the hanger and brought to my face. His scent has long since faded, but I like to pretend it’s there. This pathetic little ritual of mine is one of the only comforts I have left in this life. It’s amazing how when your world is so dark and unsettled how you can find comfort in the smallest of things. This material comforts me. But it has nothing to do with the jacket itself and everything to do with the memory it invokes.
My dark prince. The reaper. The man who spilled blood for me without pause. For that reason alone he’ll always be on a pedestal that no other can reach. He’ll always be the memory I revisit in my darkest of times.
I sneak out the front door and walk down the hall of our building, opening the door to the stairwell. Every step I take towards the top burns my legs after a full night of dancing, but I forge on. When I reach the rooftop door, my arms are so weak I can barely open it. But I do.
And with each step that echoes off the cracked cement, I feel better. The air that fills my lungs is cool and crisp. Clean and unsullied. That’s why I love it up here. The fact that I can see the entire city doesn’t hurt either. I like to count the streets leading out of it. Imagining myself on one of those roads, going somewhere. Anywhere but here.
I find my usual spot up against the brick wall and sit down, curling my knees into my chest and wrapping Ronan’s coat tighter around me. My head falls back against the cool brick and I glance up at the stars, trying to piece together constellations in the night sky. But just like my life, they are nothing but a jumbled up map of dots that don’t connect, and they only leave more unexplained questions.
I don’t know how long I sit there for. After a while, my body grows numb from the cold. My shoulders and eyes are both heavy with exhaustion, and I know I should go back inside. But I can’t find the energy to move. To care about anything. So I let my eyelids drift shut for just a moment to rest and sleep swiftly carries me to another place and time.
***
“Apologize,” Blaine orders. “And I’ll forgive you.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him robotically.
This is one of his favorite games. Humiliation is just one of the many weapons in his arsenal of torture. And there is never forgiveness to be had, no matter how small the slight, or in most cases- how imaginary.
His dark irises are completely overshadowed by the blackness of his pupils, and that’s how I know he’s on the verge of another rage. He always gets agitated, restless, and his eyes go black. I can see these events coming now. Others look at him and think he’s just in a bad mood. But I know different. I know that bad mood will build and build inside of him until there’s nothing but pure rage, and that eventually, it’s going to explode on me.
I glance up at him, waiting for the next poisonous arrow he will fling my way. I’m so tired. Physically and emotionally exhausted. I’m living my life from one breath to the next. My body and mind have shut down, but there’s no escaping this hell.
I invited chaos into my life the moment I agreed to his relentless requests for a date. He was obsessed with me the moment he saw me. Back then, I was young enough to be flattered by it. I keep thinking that maybe if I hadn’t accepted, things could be different. That he would have moved on. But somehow, I know that isn’t true.
What Blaine wants, Blaine gets. By any means necessary.
I don’t know what he sees in me. But it’s something he needs to have. It doesn’t mean he loves me. It doesn’t even mean he’s exclusive to me. Blaine fucks whoever he wants wherever he wants… but still he demands that he owns every part of me. It’s never enough though. There will never be enough of me to satisfy him.
I used to be one of those people who couldn’t understand how women could get themselves into a relationship like this. Or how they would stay. But it isn’t that simple. It’s never been simple with Blaine.
Fighting with him is like fighting with a child. Only, one who is prone to violent outbursts. He keeps me in check by holding Emily and my mother over my head. I know what he’ll do to them. There isn’t a scrap of doubt in my mind about that. I’m trapped in his clutches, and I may as well have signed my own death warrant. There is no escaping him. There is no escaping the mafia.
These are the hard facts. The only facts I know. There isn’t a court order in existence that can shield me from him.
“Get down on your knees and beg me,” he orders. “Tell me how sorry you are.”
My brain keeps playing the same thought on repeat. I want it to be over. I just need it to be over. I want to hesitate. To cause him anger. To push him until he hurts me to the point of no return. That would be the easiest thing to do. This is the solution I keep coming back to. No matter how many times I recalculate this problem, there’s only one solution. Only one way to solve it. And that’s to take myself out of the equation entirely.
But my brain and my body aren’t on the same page. I’m doing as he asks, even though my mind is still fighting it. I’m falling to my knees before him. It isn’t about submission or even fear. These things don’t resonate with me anymore. There is no pride or morals or even strength at this point. He’s siphoned all of those things right out of me. Right now, the only thing I have left is my self-preservation. It’s a natural response. A biological need to protect oneself. Bowing to his whims is the only way I can ensure he doesn’t carry through on his threats towards my family.
Still, I question it. If I’m dead, he wouldn’t need to hurt them. Because then it won’t matter. It’s the only thing keeping me here. You can’t outrun the mafia. You can’t hide from a man like Blaine. But Emily’s safe in California now. It’s just my Ma. And she’ll be safer if I sever the one tie that could hurt her. And that’s me.
I look up at him. This man I once thought somewhat handsome. And charming. There’s nothing when I look at him now. Nothing but emptiness and a black pit of insanity in the shape of a man. I’ve never wanted to hurt someone. My Ma raised me to be good. Do good. I’ve never wished anything bad upon anyone. But I wish it on him. That he would step outside and get hit by a bus. Or when he goes out with his crew he will be the one who doesn’t come back.
It’s awful feeling this way. Wishing those things on another person. This is what I’ve become. This is all that’s left of me since he set his sights on me two y
ears ago.
“Tell me how sorry you are,” Blaine repeats.
“I’m sorry that I looked at him.”
“Do ye like looking at that freak?” he asks. “Because he’s always fucking staring at you.”
I don’t respond. Because I do like looking at him. The man with the troubled brown eyes. He has a way of captivating me like no one else can. The one who is quiet and mysterious. The only one who I think notices that something might be wrong with Blaine. All the rest of them, they don’t see it. They don’t want to see it. He acts so funny. The clown who hides his evil behind the laughter. They all think that I’m his by choice.
“I asked you a fucking question!” Blaine spits in my face and then grabs me by the hair, ripping strands of it out as he shoves my face onto the floor and rubs it into the filthy carpet. I don’t fight him. I can’t even muster up tears anymore. There’s just… nothing.
I’m only grateful that the club has shut down for the evening and everyone is gone. I don’t want anyone to see. That’s the worst part of it. Thinking how humiliated I would be if someone caught him doing this to me. But then they would know. Would they help me? Would they even care?
He would. I know he would. That man with the brown eyes. Or maybe that’s only what I want to believe. Because it’s easier to believe that someone would care than to face reality.
“Answer me,” Blaine growls. “Do you have a thing for the retard?”
I just want it to be over.
He’s staring down at me expectantly, waiting for me to lie to him. To tell him there’s no other but him.
“He’s nice to me,” I whisper.
“Nice to you?” he bellows. “He’s never said a fucking word to you. How the fuck can he be nice to you?”
