Passion Rising

by JA Huss

  Don’t get too comfortable, bitch.

  Who the fuck was that?

  It’s me.

  Oh, fuck. It’s the devil. What the hell is he doing here now?

  Whattayou want? I ask.

  Nothing. Just to remind you that this ain’t your real fuckin’ life.

  What? What do you mean?

  All this shit? All this “comfort” and “generosity” and “nobility” and... “Love...” This ain’t you.

  Why? Why not? Why the hell not? Why isn’t it me?

  Because... That shit is for other people. People who can handle it.

  What do you mean, “who can handle it?”

  Mo’ money, mo’ problems, sweet cheeks. Mo’ responsibility, mo’ challenges. Mo’ happiness, way, way, way mo’ disappointment. And sadness. And pain. You think you can take it? You think you’ve got what it takes to handle the shit the world throws at you? Really? Like, really, really?

  Yeah. I do. I think there’s plenty of evidence of that.

  The devil cackles.

  Oh, shit! That’s a good one! Ha! You think you’ve suffered and now you get to rest? Shit, chick. You have no idea what actual suffering looks like. No idea at all. Sorry, “Angel in Disguise.” He says it mockingly. Then adds, Hashtag RealTalk.

  Fuck this.

  Why are you doing this? Where is the angel?

  Angel can’t help you tonight, pumpkin. Ain’t no shelter for you here.

  What. The fuck. Are you talking about?

  And that’s when I hear what sounds like a gunshot.

  TYLER

  I display as little surprise at seeing him as I possibly can. Which actually isn’t that hard because hell, nothing fucking surprises me anymore. So I don’t even bother to ask how he survived the fire, or how he found us, or how he got my number to text me, or any of that crap. Because, honestly? Shit don’t matter.

  No, no, no. Instead of peppering him with dumb questions that won’t mean anything five minutes from now, I simply choose to say, “So funny. I was just thinking about you.”

  “Yeah? What were you thinking?”

  Man. He’s fucked up. Bad. It’s hard to tell just how bruised and battered his face is now, as compared to how it was, because it’s currently wrapped in a shitload of gauze. He’s limping as he approaches me, gun out, and it’s obvious it hurts him to walk. On the plus side for him, he’s wearing this, like, burgundy velour tracksuit, so at least he doesn’t have to worry about matching his belt to his shoes.

  “Oh, y’know,” I start, wiping the water droplets off my face, “just about what a crappy time we had at your resort. You should give your cabaña boys towels instead of guns. Just a thought.”

  I’m working very hard to stay calm even as my eyes dart around behind him to see if I can spy Maddie. If he’s done something to her, then it doesn’t really much matter what happens to me and I’m just gonna charge this asshole now. If she’s OK, then I have to be more tactical about how I handle things to make sure that she stays that way. Either way, things right now are far from ideal. Fuck.

  “The wine at the hotel. That was you?” I ask.

  He shrugs. Well, at least now I don’t feel so silly at being paranoid about not drinking it.

  “Get out of the fuckin’ pool,” he says, gesturing with his pistol.

  It’s weird. It’s weird for him to command me out of the water. As opposed to just shooting me in the fucking head, I mean. I should be used to the notion that dude is terrible at killing people by now – or at least at killing me – but I can’t help but wonder what it is he hopes to gain. I can only assume that it’s, I dunno, ego. Or something. Maybe dude thinks that because I’m naked in a pool I’m vulnerable? Maybe he thinks that he’ll shame me or some shit? Or hell, maybe he just wants to shoot me in the dick. That’d be so fucking lame. Which is so fucking Logan. So I can’t put it past him.

  “Yeah, OK,” I say, and push up on the edge of the wall.

  I lift myself out of the pool slowly. Carefully. Keeping my eye on the gun the whole time. I’m not so arrogant to believe that I have anything even close to resembling an advantage right now, but, as with the very first time we met, Logan’s first instinct here is not to kill me. It’s to threaten me. To intimidate. And even though the odds definitely ain’t in my favor, it might just be enough.

  Rising out of the water, move by careful move, I feel the night air on my skin. Against the pellets of moisture on my body, it causes my muscles to tense, and flex, and tighten. Which is fine by me because it makes me feel coiled. Ready for whatever is coming next.

  As I turn to face him fully, the chill stiffens my neck and I twist it side to side, causing it to crack. Then I take a breath and level off my gaze to look him in the eye. His face is so covered with gauze that the white stands in stark contrast with his brown eyes, making it hard for him to mask where his glance is directed. And there’s a flash of a second where I detect something in his glare that I’m choosing to interpret as awe when he eyeballs my cock. It might also just be envy, though. Tough to call.

  I suck at my teeth and say, “You’re a day early. New Year’s Eve is tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, well,” he says, “turns out I’m leaving earlier than I thought.”

  “Oh, yeah? Where you going? Someplace fun? I hope someplace with a good healthcare system, because it looks like whoever performed your nose job seriously overdid it, bro.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just looks at me like he’s trying real, real hard not to pull the trigger. Which, again, is stupid on his part, and keeps giving me hope. Which may be foolish, but as I’ve said before, I’m a real cock-sucking optimist.

  Also, and this is fucking nuts, I kind of feel bad for him. Just like I did the first time I kicked his and Ricky’s asses. I suppose it’s a weakness of mine, but seeing him all jacked-up-looking, wearing his dopey tracksuit and limping around like he is makes him seem so... I dunno. Like Fredo from The Godfather. Just an idiot who wants so much to be taken seriously. I mean, I’ll still kill him, but I’m gonna feel bad about it.

  “This is gonna be hard for you to believe,” he says, “but I’m not here because you were working for the DEA, or because you and your bitch destroyed what represents years, and years, and years of hard work.” Calling her a bitch is the closest he’s come to really pissing me off. If he calls her anything like that again, I may just be forced to rip out this motherfucker’s spleen. He goes on, “It’s personal. I know, I know. That’s cliché and maybe stupid. I should be on a plane right this very second, getting the fuck off the continent. I know. But I just can’t. I can’t go on living in a world that I know you and that cunt whore of yours are living in too.”

  Yep. That did it. That’s gonna cost him his lower intestine.

  “Because,” he continues, “Carlos was my fucking uncle, and you killed him. He raised me. And you fucking killed him. And for that, you’ve gotta pay a goddamn price.”

  I nod for a sec. Then, “So... were you adopted then? Because I’ve been trying to figure out—”

  “Shut up! Just shut your fucking mouth.”

  “Copy,” I tell him. And then I do shut up and look at him like, Well, go on.

  “Come with me. Now,” he says.

  He waves the gun to indicate that I should go ahead of him inside. Which I don’t like. Once you’re on the move to a second location, your odds of survival diminish substantially. And also, fuck this guy.

  “Why?” I ask. “If you’re gonna fucking do something, do it here.”

  “Oh, I’m gonna fucking do something all right. And you’re gonna watch it happen.”

  And all of a sudden, I don’t feel so cocksucking optimistic.

  “Fuck does that mean?”

  “You’ll see. Let’s go.”

  “Fuck you, dude.”

  And then the quiet of the desert night is splintered by the sound of a gunshot.

  MADDIE

  I jump, splashing water everywhere as
I do. What the fuck was that?

  “Tyler?” I shout as I place my hand on the bathroom doorknob and turn. I yank the door—

  And I yank the door—

  And I yank the door—

  Why the fuck can’t I open the fucking door?

  It pulls back a couple of inches but that’s it. I peer through the open crack and it looks like there’s... a rope. Or something. Tied around the door handle. When I strain to see, it seems like the other end is tied around the base of this huge, marble credenza thing that sits in the hallway outside. This whole goddamn house is like a Restoration Hardware showroom, but nicer.

  What the fuck is going on? Why is there a rope around—? What the fuck is going on?

  “Tyler!” I scream.

  I can work my hand through the open crack in the door, but to do that I have to pull on the rope, which makes it taut. And making it taut keeps the slipknot that’s tied in it too tight to unravel. I push the door closed a bit to see if I can create some slack, but there’s not enough to work the knot free.

  “Tyler!”

  I tried to tell you, the devil says, but some people don’t wanna listen. Good luck, girlie. You’re on your own. And he disappears.

  “TYLER!” I scream.

  My brain now starts a violent volley with itself between confusion and a terrified suspicion that I know exactly what is going on. The feeling of dread I’ve been having. The feeling of foreboding. It hasn’t been unfounded at all. It hasn’t been strong enough.

  I yank at the door harder, but I can’t get it pulled open beyond a sliver. I decide to see if I can squeeze through. Or, I don’t actually “decide” anything. There’s no space in my thoughts for decision making. I’m just reacting.

  Pressing on the other side of the door, I try to wedge it open enough that I can slide past. I do all the things you do that don’t make any sense but feel like they might help. I hold my breath, I stand on my tip-toes to make myself longer and leaner, I pull my shoulders back to see if I can draw my breasts in and flatten my body out. All stupid. And none work.

  And so I just start jerking on the handle. Jerking, and jerking, and jerking. Nothing. Nothing works. I am trapped. Something is going on outside of this room, something horrible—and I am trapped.

  And there is nothing worse in the whole world than feeling trapped.

  TYLER

  So you know the thing about getting shot? It hurts. It, no question, stings a little. But more than that, the shit is just fucking surprising. There really is a moment that transcends fear, or pain, or any of that shit, and it’s that moment of “Holy fuck! I just got shot!” In addition to being punched, blown up, stabbed, and one time having a Humvee run over my foot (Stupid. My fault), I have been shot, I think, twice. Once in the shoulder and once in the side. Both totally non-lethal wounds. So, it’s not like I’m an expert in being shot or anything, but I’m pretty sure that I’ll never get used to it. Probably be kinda fucked up if I did.

  The bullet that hits me now – the one from Logan’s gun – smashes right into my thigh. The thigh is a real tricky area of the body. There’s all kinds of shit in the thigh that, while not necessary to sustain life per se, when violated, can really expedite the ending of a life. My only hope, as my legs give out from under me and I fall to the concrete, is that Unlucky Logan managed to miss any of Unlucky Tyler’s major arteries or anything like that. If I’ve caught a break, it will be that it just hit muscle or whatever and didn’t fuck up my femoral artery. When I look down, the blood doesn’t appear to be spurting out like I’ve seen it do when that artery is hit, but fuck do I know? I ain’t no doctor.

  Logan comes over to me where I am now bent down growling and trying to put some pressure on the wound. “You wanna know what it means, pretty boy?” he whispers. “Here’s what it means. It means that you’re gonna come with me and sit there and watch while I finally, finally get to find out what Maddie’s sweet pussy tastes like. You’re probably gonna want to do something about it, but that hole in your leg is just the first one you’re gonna get. So, while Maddie gets to find out what it feels like to have my tongue inside her and my cock in her ass, she’ll also know that you’re dying in front of her the whole time. And then after you’re good and gone, I’ll finish up and send Maddie off to join you. Yeah, I’m gonna let you two burn in Hell together, because that’s the kind of generous soul I am. Now let’s. Fucking. Go.”

  He has the gun right at my temple and his mouth is right by my ear.

  And being close enough to me that I can get my hands on him is his first mistake.

  His second mistake is letting me know that, at least at present, Maddie’s OK. I don’t know where she is inside, and I don’t know if he has hurt her in some way, but based on what he just said, I know that she’s at least alive.

  And when you put those two mistakes together, you get what happens next.

  “Please,” I plead. “Please, please, please. Do whatever the fuck you want to me, but just please don’t hurt Maddie.” I can’t imagine he’s stupid enough to believe this horseshit, but then again... Yeah. I can.

  And when he reaches down to pull me up and drag me with him, I take him by the arm and yank him as hard as I can, smashing his bandaged and fucked-up face into the concrete. He screams. Loud. There’s no other houses around, so nobody can hear him scream, nobody can hear the gunshot, and nobody can hear everything that pops off next. Nobody to get in the way and get hurt, but nobody to call for help either.

  Which could be a good thing or a bad thing, but right now... it just is.

  And all I can think is that it’s probably for the best because shit’s about to get real, real bloody out here.

  And I hope to fucking Christ that Maddie is OK.

  Please be OK, Maddie.

  Please be OK.

  MADDIE

  I hear a scream. A loud scream. A scream of pain.

  And I lose my shit.

  I’m kicking the door, and pulling at the handle, and looking around like maybe there’s another way out of here even though I know there isn’t. No window, no other exit. This is it. I have to get the fuck out of here. I have to.

  Opening the drawers to the vanity, I’m looking for something. Anything. I don’t know what. A chainsaw would be helpful, but I’m not seeing one. I kick the door one more time and my foot accidentally hits the handle. And it shakes.

  It kind of bounces. Like maybe it can be loosened. Or dislodged. Or knocked the hell off. And if it can, then the rope will fall with it. It’s not so much a long shot as it is something that is gonna fucking hurt.

  But... I know I can shoulder pain.

  So fuck it.

  I rear back and kick it again and this time I miss the handle with my heel and the soft, fleshy part of my foot makes full contact.

  “Motherfucker!”

  I’m limping around in circles, trying to shake it off. It’s the kind of jarring, stabbing pain that runs all the way up the leg and feels like it ends in your hair. But oh, well.

  I kick at it again, this time landing squarely on the knob with my heel. It is equally as painful, but just in a different way. The pain is also mitigated by the fact that the knob now seems to be jangling loose. It’s wobbly. I pull at it to see if I can tug it off.

  Not quite. Shit.

  I’m going to have to go all in one more time. I’m sure I’m in more pain than I can realize, but right now I’m just grateful that adrenaline works the way it does. I put one hand on the sink basin, one hand on the wall on the other side, glance over at myself in the mirror, and, addressing the devil, say aloud...

  “You’re wrong, asshole. I’m a bitch who can handle anything.”

  And then I turn, and with all my might, I level my foot at the knob and that motherfucker snaps right off the stem and goes ricocheting off the wall. I actually have to duck to keep from getting beaned in the head.

  I scream out, half in pain, half in victory, and push out the remaining stem that holds the front o
f the handle with the rope on it. The latch is still in position, but I can slide my finger in the hole where the stem was and draw it back far enough to yank the door open and free myself. I take off down the hall, unconcerned with what’s waiting for me outside, and with only one thought in my head...

  I hope to fucking Christ that Tyler is OK.

  Please be OK, Tyler.

  Please be OK.

  TYLER

  Even though Logan is wailing and moaning, he manages to keep his grip on the gun. I go to wrest it from him, but he manages to kick me off him, nailing me hard right in my still-healing rib.

  “Motherfucker!” I let out, as I fall backwards and see the blood pumping harder from the wound in my leg. He’s holding his face now, trying to turn and aim at me again. And all I can think is, You stupid fuck. This is why you don’t give someone a second chance. Oh, well.

  I lurch toward him and the searing pain in both my side and leg are making it hard for me to see clearly. Everything’s kinda fuzzy and hazy, but I can see shapes, and I charge straight for the douchebag-shaped asshole I can make out in front of me. Hammering towards him in my naked, scarred, and bloody state, I wonder what this would look like if someone did happen upon it. A guy with a mummy face in a burgundy velour tracksuit and a bleeding, naked dude mixing it up poolside in a ridiculous mansion in the desert. They’d probably think, Look, Gertrude! They’re making a movie! And despite everything, that makes me smile for the tiniest measure of time.

  I lunge into Logan to keep him from leveling his weapon at me, and of course...

  We both careen backwards into the fucking pool.

  The blood from my leg fans out in thin ribbons through the water. And now we’re grasping and poking and punching at each other, the weight of our struggle pulling us toward the bottom. We’re at the deep end. Deep enough that the surface is just above our heads.