by Marata Eros
Ronnie puts the barrel of the gun against my mouth as his hand kneads my unwilling flesh. He flicks my lips open with the cold tip.
I open my mouth.
“Shoot me,” I say around the barrel.
It comes out intelligible, but Ronnie's eyes narrow and his face tells me he knows what I said.
“You fucking crazy bitch!” He flinches back from me in shock, wheezing like a teapot out of his clearly broken nose.
I jerk my face back. “I'm fucking terminal, you dipshit! I've got months to live anyway.”
“Kill me now or kill me later—I'm still dying.”
My words ring in the car. Ronnie has the honor of being the second person I've told.
We stare at each other.
I watch the wheels of his sadistic mind turn.
Ronnie smirks. “Then it's a mercy fuck and kill in one deal. Get your sweet ass out of the car.”
I get out of the car, and so does Ronnie, training the gun on me.
People on the sidewalk move out of the way like the Dead Sea parting. One idiot takes video with his phone.
Can he call 911?
No.
“Fuck off,” Ronnie says to the amateur cinematographer, swinging the gun his way.
The guy takes off in a jerky trot.
We walk up the steps to my mom's clinic. Ronnie tells me how to open the doors, where to walk, how far.
“Where's her room?” he asks.
“No.”
He points the gun at my kneecap. “I can still fuck you with a shattered knee.”
There's no physical therapy for that.
“I'll just keep taking chunks out of ya until there's only little bits of Faren left.”
His eyes gleam manically. “And still, there'll be enough for me to play with. With Tannin as the perfect audience of one. Now speak, little puppy.”
I tell him.
There's no helping my mom. He'll do what he says.
I know he will.
We make our way toward my mom.
Orderlies pass us. Some see the gun, most don't. They're not looking for it.
We get to my mom's door and he jerks his head toward it. Everything burns.
My eyes wishing for tears to relieve the pain.
My guts.
My head.
I push the door open. There she is, almost as white as the sheet she lies against.
I gasp and enter.
“I'm sorry, Mama,” I whisper.
“She looks like shit,” Ronnie says from behind me.
I hang my head as he pushes me in farther.
I look up and meet Doctor Forrester's troubled gaze.
“Hey, Doc,” Ronnie says.
“What is the meaning of this, Faren?” Doctor Forrester asks, looking between me and Ronnie.
She can't see the gun.
“I...”
How do you explain the inexplicable?
She gives me a small smile but frowns at Ronnie. I can tell he's given her pause. He's crude and doesn't seem to make sense being with me.
If she only knew.
Then there's the blood and our obvious injuries. That would be enough to throw the dumbest person off base.
She looks confused, but she keeps trying to delve silently into what this is about.
“I've been trying to reach you,” Forrester says.
“Your mother has... well…” She steps aside to fully reveal my mom.
Tannin Mitchell blinks at me.
My mom's awake.
*
There is a moment of crystal realization.
My mom's eyes move to Ronnie behind me, then to mine.
She always was my own personal mind reader. That’s still there, in her expression, in the body that holds her prisoner in deep atrophy.
Her eyes widen, telling me something.
I guess she's seen the gun.
I know the message. I get it loud and clear.
Fight.
Ronnie doesn't expect that Faren the little mouse, who took every beating he ever delivered, would fight back.
I don't either.
It's purely reactive, instinctual; I'm ruthlessly glad.
I know he can't pull the trigger as fast as I can bat the gun away at this distance.
There is more than just me to fight for.
I slap the barrel away. It flings his arm out to the side, and I step into Ronnie's body, ramming my elbow into his already bashed nose.
His reach is longer, so I don't give him anything to latch onto.
I don't think about anything but my mom.
A frantic buzzing pierces my consciousness, but I ignore it.
Emergency buzzer.
Ronnie staggers back, trying to turn the pistol on me again and I jab him in the throat with my knuckles. He drops the gun to grab his neck.
I know anatomy, and I use my knowledge as a weapon.
I stab my heel onto the top of his foot. He falls to the ground, hands slapping behind to brace his fall. Instead, he's too unbalanced and lands on his back.
The gun spins on the slick hospital tiles when I kick it away. I move forward with a vicious disregard for life.
I rear back and stab my heel into his throat until it meets the vertebrae of his C spine region.
I put my body weight into it. I feel the resistance of the flesh, tendon, and muscle as I spear it.
“Faren!”
Someone calls my name.
I hear it as though I'm underwater.
“Faren!”
The frantic voice doesn't deter my grisly goal.
I grind my heel, finally to the bone, and hear the gurgling of a life ending. My knowledge of anatomy is saving me. And killing Ronnie.
Strong arms jerk me from what I'm doing. I hear a sucking pop as my stiletto leaves Ronnie's trachea.
Mick swings me into his arms, squeezing me so tightly I can't breathe.
Or maybe it's the view over his shoulder that steals the air from my lungs.
Tears stream out of my mom's eyes.
Yeah, that could be it.
*
I watch the mop swish back and forth as I hold my mom's hand.
The bleach burns my nostrils.
The forensic crew has come and gone and Mick stands vigil beside me.
He has almost as many people in the room as the police.
My evening has been such a nightmare of corruption that the police concede to the presence of a publicist, two bodyguards, a lawyer, and a personal physician.
Doctor Forrester corroborates everything that happened. Duffin and Largent admit Tagger went off the deep end. Mick barks into his cell. I listen to him orchestrate everything.
My mom can't talk, but her face says plenty. I answer the questions I see there.
Telling my mom how long she has been sleeping is the hardest.
More tears fall.
I can't tell her about my diagnosis.
“Yes, Faren will need a full diagnostic,” Mick says into his phone.
My face swings to Mick. “I'm fine.”
Fear coils like a snake in my belly. He doesn't need to find out like this.
Mick cups the back of my head. “Let me take care of you, baby.”
I melt at baby. My mouth quivers, and his thumb runs over my lip, his eyes meeting mine.
He says into his cell, “I want it now, whatever the cost.”
Mick's eyes flick at two men who bleed out of the shadowed corners of the room. One moves to position himself to sight the door. The other settles into the corner that is closest to my mom.
The bodyguards in the room aren't for me.
They're for my mom.
Now it's a rainforest of tears.
I grip mom's hand and she gives the lightest squeeze back.
“I can't leave her,” I choke out through a shuddering series of gulps.
Doctor Forrester puts a hand on my shoulder. “She needs to rest, Faren. Waking like she did—I've never seen that in a
patient who has been in a coma this long.”
She gives me steady eye contact. “The small movements Tannin made, we didn't think they were purposeful.”
Apparently, they'd been a precursor of sorts to her waking.
She lifts her shoulders. “After this... horrible event, Tannin needs stability and calm.”
“And you do too.” Her eyes hold sympathy.
Forrester squeezes my hands. “Take care of Faren, and let me take care of Tannin.”
Mom looks at me from eyes so much like my own.
It's such a gift to see them.
My vision shimmers with tears well.
I let Mick's personal physician take me for a checkup.
It's the hardest thing I've ever done.
I leave hope behind, grabbing onto the faith that it'll still be there when I return.
~ 12 ~
“Don't move, Ms. Mitchell.”
His voice reverberates inside the sausage tube. That's my nickname for it.
The banging begins, and I grit my teeth. Mick wants to make sure I don’t have any soft tissue damage from my altercation with Ronnie.
I don't have any broken bones, but bruises pepper my fair skin and my ribcage is sore when I breathe.
Mick's eyes were dark when he saw many of the marks were Ronnie's fingerprints. A reminder of how terrible it could have been.
Any of us could have died.
I close my eyes as the rhythm of the cat scan beats against me.
A clear memory of my stiletto being bagged fills my mind, the heel thick with Ronnie's shredded throat.
I open my eyes to the sudden silence. The machine whirs, and my body jerks as I slide out of the tight capsule.
Dr. Ludwig helps me off the platform, and I stand and sway, suddenly dizzy.
“Hey now.” He steadies me. “You okay?”
No. Fainting, vertigo and loss of consciousness follow me everywhere I go.
I laugh at my own thoughts.
His brows pull together like conjoined caterpillars.
I belatedly realize how weird my reaction is.
I lace my hands, his palm circles my bare elbow. “Yeah, I'm fine... just a big day.”
He clears his throat. “Yes, it would be a trauma for anyone. But in your case... fending off an attacker in collusion with your mother's miraculous recovery...”
Miraculous.
That word floats around in my head while Ludwig makes all the right noises. He guides me to the room where my blood will be drawn.
“Do I need all this?” I ask.
“Ms. Mitchell, Mr. McKenna insists.”
“I just bet he does.” My eyes narrow. “And you're his personal physician?”
He gives a sage nod. “He is my sole patient. Though I am called upon to treat... others from time to time.”
Our gazes meet.
I think we understand each other.
Ludwig smiles and I notice his teeth are crooked and bleached a bright white. “Then you understand the tenor of our Mr. McKenna.”
Mick gets what he wants. Gotcha.
I nod.
“Good girl.” He sweeps his palm toward the door where the physician's assistant sits at nine o'clock at night. No one mutters discontent when Mick says they'll draw my blood—they just do it.
I turn away when my blood fills the tube. I've seen enough blood for a lifetime.
I walk out of the cloistered suite of offices. A low lamp burns in the vacant reception area, casting circular shadows like dropped coins. Mick waits behind a semi-partitioned area, potted plants around head height veil us from the front entrance.
Outside the doors are about fifty reporters, newspeople, and every nosey ass within a fifty-mile radius.
Mick, seated in the reception room, stands when he sees me.
His cufflinks are MIA, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
My eyes follow the dots of blood speckling his shirt. They grows larger as he draws nearer.
The blood.
I'm suddenly pressed against his chest, trying to ignore the blatant evidence of our night while he strokes my hair.
“You're okay,” he whispers.
I lean back, seeing the shadow of fire against his chin. His beard is so much more red than his hair.
“I'm fine.”
I lower my head, inhaling deeply. “Actually, I don't know how the hell I feel.”
I tilt my chin up.
“My mom wakes up the day a psycho manages to almost kill me in front of her. It's too much to take in.”
Muffled noise like bugs swarming infiltrate where we stand.
I peek out at all the people waiting for us.
Thorn strolls up.
“Oh my god, Thorn!” I say when I see his face. “Where'd you come from?”
He jerks a thumb behind him at the back entrance where the silhouette of Henry patiently waits. “Laying low, girl.”
A huge cut bisects his black brow. His upper eyelid is swollen like a blowfish, and he's so full of piss and vinegar it's coming off him in waves.
He glances at the locked doors that hold back Paparazzi Hell. “Let's scat. There's a bunch of news whores out there waiting to make our lives miserable.”
“What about the police?” I ask.
“They couldn’t do much with me. I have a record”—he puts a hand to his chest—“I don't deserve. But Duffin and Largent had to turn on Tagger. All kinds of shit is oozing out of that woodwork.”
Mick curls his arm around my shoulders. “Henry's waiting out back.”
Then I see them. It takes a moment to understand. I'm a little slow from everything that's happened.
A couple who looks a lot like Mick and me walks up. Seeing someone who looks that much like me is surreal.
Though it's rude, I check her out.
“What?” I cover my mouth.
“Decoys,” Thorn says, ambling toward the rear entrance.
“Yeah…” I say.
The girl's a little shorter than me, her hair a tad more blond, her eyes a pale green.
She smirks, and I know the resemblance is superficial. I can see how soft and young her eyes look.
But the reporters won't see that.
I shake my head. It's damn smart.
“Wow,” is all I can say.
The guy looks a little like Mick in build but let's face it, how many men are running around at six feet three with dark auburn hair and rich chocolate brown eyes?
This guy's got reddish brown hair at best and his eyes are hazel.
“Close enough,” Mick says, clapping the guy on the back.
“Thanks, Spence.”
The guy lifts his chin. “Anytime, Mr. McKenna.”
He and my double link hands as they move around the partition and walk toward the waiting throng
“Who are they?” I ask.
Mick caresses my newly injured face and kisses the tip of my nose. “Actors.”
“Really?” I laugh. The night couldn't get any more weird.
He tugs me toward the back door that Thorn impatiently holds open.
I can feel the heat of the bulbs as lights snap and pop at the imposters.
Mick puts a hand at the small of my back and guides me quietly through the narrow back entrance.
I see Henry waiting in the gloom of the only streetlight for an entire block.
I use my left hand for balance and slide in the limo.
Thorn hops in opposite me, and Mick follows. Thorn kicks out his legs, his hands loose and dangling on his thighs.
I say, “How can...”
Henry shuts the door and moves around to the front of the limo.
“Mick shelled out the big bucks so we could escape the bullshit,” Thorn says.
Mick inclines his head. “It was either that or have you microscopically inspected after such a fucked up night.”
Thorn chuckles. “I think there's a word to describe tonight, but I can't think of what it is.”
�
��Colossal fuck up,” I say.
They look at me, and
Mick bursts out laughing.
I bite my lip.
“How's my mom?”
Mick's eyes are compassionate.
“I'm in constant contact with Forrester. Tannin is sleeping.”
“Damn, hasn't she been sleeping for years?” Thorn asks in his typical subtle way.
Mick shakes his head. “From what Forrester says, it's typical for a patient to exhaust themselves quickly after their first awakening.”
Awakening.
I sigh, leaning into Mick's arm, and he presses me against his chest.
He is solid, real, and I close my eyes. It's a sort of simple bliss.
“You're coming home with me tonight,” Mick says.
I open my mouth, and he kisses it.
Thoroughly... in front of Thorn.
I sink into him as though he's the last solid thing on earth. My rock.
Mick lifts his mouth from mine. “She's safe, Faren. I have two guards with her. One inside the room and one outside. They'll keep her safe.”
I gnaw at my lip. I can't stand it if she's in a coma again. Her waking up once would be the worse tease in the world.
Mick nuzzles against my neck.
Hard stubble and warm breath send a riot of gooseflesh down my arms.
“It's normal slumber, not the kind she’s been in for years.”
“Good,” I say, relaxing against him.
“We'll go see her first thing tomorrow morning. But right now, you need to be fed and watered.”
I pull away with a laugh. “Like a plant?”
His eyes become molten. He grips my shoulders and brings my mouth to his, crashing his lips so hard against mine it's almost painful.
“My plant,” he whispers with possession so intense it should frighten me.
But I'm not scared of him. I'm scared of how I feel.
“Let my bro take care of you, Faren.”
Both of us forgot about Thorn.
His grin is a slash of white in the dim light.
We smile back.
I settle into the circle of Mick's arms, with Thorn the perfect watchdog. Brutal, loyal, and cunning.
I feel safe for the first time in my life and try not to think about how anticlimactic that is. Instead, I revel in the moment like I've trained myself to.
I don't tell them I think Ronnie killed Rose.
He's dead now. He can't hurt anyone anymore.
~ 13 ~
