“Does your offer still stand?” I whisper.
His brows draw together as he attempts to understand my erratic thoughts.
I lick my lips, trying to find the words. My hands fist at my sides.
“I want to do it. It’s the only way I’ll ever be free. I want to kill Garrett.”
Link stares at me as my words finally make sense. He closes his eyes and shakes his head almost as if it pains him.
“Rocky,” he rasps, his eyes still shut tightly as if he can’t bear to look at me. “You just had the class. It probably brought up some buried feelings—”
“Are you saying no?”
He looks at me now, scrutinizing every feature on my face. His eyes are the only part of his body that’s moving. He’s completely immobile. I don’t think he’s even breathing.
“Are you saying no?” I repeat, my voice cracking.
“I think you need to think about this.”
I laugh bitterly. “I can’t believe this. You were the one that came to me. You offered. Now you stand here acting like I’m being unreasonable.”
He rubs at his forehead forcefully. “It’s a life,” he states, his voice gentle and calm. It makes me irrationally angry. “I don’t think it will hurt to think about it with a clear head.”
“Why would you do that?” I murmur. “Why would you offer to help me and then turn me down when I accept?”
“I didn’t know what I was offering before. I didn’t know the weight of taking a life. I didn’t comprehend how hard it would be to live with.”
I shake my head in frustration. This is the only way I’ll ever find freedom. I feel like I’m coming to terms with it. He can’t make me feel like this. He can’t take it away. “But what? You know now?”
He doesn’t answer and my stomach churns.
Oh, my God.
“Do you know now, Link?” I swallow tightly. How should I feel right now? What is an appropriate reaction? Should I be scared? Sickened? Because all I can muster is envy.
“Tell me,” I breathe.
He nods, one short jerk of his head. “I murdered one of the men that killed Livie.”
Eleven
Link
I said it. I never thought I’d actually say it aloud. But I told her.
I can lie and pretend I did it to warn her. To save her from the burden killing a man brings. I could come up with a hundred different reasons. Excuses.
But I can’t lie to myself.
I wanted her to know. I wanted to share it with her.
And then I couldn’t get away from her fast enough. I drove her home and tore out of there as soon as she stepped inside her door.
Now I’m white-knuckling my steering wheel as I contemplate what I’m going to do about Morrison. This is my third trip to his house. But this time, I get out of the car under the cover of darkness.
I can’t keep putting off the inevitable.
I round the garage in search of a window and peer inside. The space is empty. It doesn’t tell me much other than nobody else is here. At least right now.
I continue around the back of the house, looking for any opening in the blinds. At the third window, I come to a dead stop. Morrison is sitting at a desk, staring at a computer screen. His cat sits perched on the edge of the desk. It looks right at me, tail twitching from side to side.
I step back, my head pounding in time with my heartbeat. He’s right there. The fucker that held Livie while his friend stabbed me repeatedly in the back.
My hand automatically finds the lump protruding from my pocket. My fingers glide over the reassuring grooves of the knife I have tucked there. It’s always there, just waiting.
Livie. Livie.
That familiar ache burns inside my chest, reminding me she’s gone. Reminding me I’m still here. Reminding me of my purpose.
I backtrack, rounding the house, and head for the front door. I want to look him in the eye. I want to ask him why. And I want him to know he’s going to die just as painfully as Olivia did.
His hand over her mouth.
I open the screen door.
His arm wrapped around her chest.
I pound my fist against the warped wood.
Pinning her to him.
I pull the knife from my pocket.
Her eyes wide with fear.
I flip the blade.
Her cries. Her pleas. Her whimpers of pain.
My fingers flex around the handle.
His laughter.
The door opens and I’m face to face with yet another man responsible for the brutal rape and murder of the love of my life.
His eyes flick over my face, enlarging with surprise. His stunned silence speaks loudly. His gaze meets mine, filling with tears. This action speaks loudest of all. His head falls forward, tucking his chin into his chest. His shoulders shake as he breaks down, sobbing. Without a word, he takes a step back, allowing me inside.
I don’t need to ask him if he remembers me. He’s made it painfully clear that he does. And I wonder how his memories differ from mine. He saw it all. He did it all. He was there to watch the life drain from my girlfriend’s beautiful eyes.
And, God, she was so full of life.
“How long did it take?” I ask. My voice startles me. Hoarse with emotion. Gruff with restrained anger. Laced with more pain than one man should bear.
Morrison stares back at me, the tears falling in fat drops. They slide down his cheeks and fold around his chin. His bottom lip quivers. His chest continues to tremble. But he doesn’t answer me.
“How long did it take her to die?”
His mouth opens. He tries to tell me, but all that comes out is another sob. With a calm I do not feel, I reach back blindly, and close the door. And then I grab his shirt in my fists, shoving him against the wall of his own home.
I bet he thought he was safe here.
“How. Long.”
He sucks in a breath and wipes at his eyes, never once trying to free himself of my grip. “It was quick,” he croaks.
I release him and we both stumble away from one another. The blow never gets any easier. Never.
“I’m sorry,” he weeps. “I’m so sorry. I hate myself every day for what we did. For what I did. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
He presses his back into the wall and slides to the floor. His head drops once again, his disheveled hair falling into his eyes and covering his face.
“If you’re so sorry, then why haven’t you turned yourself in? Why aren’t you rotting in a prison cell? Why are your friends still walking around free?”
“I couldn’t. I’ve thought about it so many times, if for no other reason than to set myself free. To repent. Every time I imagined my parents’ faces, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
“Maybe you should have pictured your parents’ faces before you raped and murdered my girlfriend,” I hiss.
“It’s no excuse,” he says, his voice a ruff whisper, “but I wasn’t myself back then. I was fucked up. High on meth. I didn’t care about anything or anyone.” He lifts his head, his gaze landing on mine. I don’t hold it. I can’t.
I squeeze the knife in my hand.
“I’m clean now. I’m not that same person.”
I shake my head. I don’t want excuses. I don’t want to hear how hard this has been on him or how much he’s changed. I don’t give a shit if he does or doesn’t destroy himself with chemicals.
I just don’t care. It doesn’t bring her back. What’s done is done. And now he has to pay for it.
“I wish I could tell you it was because of her that I got better.”
My head pops up and I glare at him. I’m going to kill him.
I’m going to kill him.
I’m going to—
“But it was another girl. So similar to Olivia.”
“Don’t you say her name,” I snarl. My other hand curls into a tight fist. The one clasping the knife begins to throb.
Morrison keeps going as i
f he doesn’t hear me. As if I’m not even here anymore. “We didn’t plan it. We saw you and O—your girlfriend walking out of the movie theater. Carter, he was talking about it like it was a joke. About wanting a piece of her. He said we should go around the block and cut you off. Just mess with you. It wasn’t supposed to go as far as it did. We were drunk. I was high. I…I had never done anything like that before.”
I swallow, forcing the bile back down my throat. All this time I thought we just happened upon these men. He says there wasn’t a plan, but they intentionally cut us off. They were waiting for us.
Why? Why didn’t I insist on going straight back to campus?
Why?
A groan erupts inside of my chest. It hurts. Fuck, it hurts so much.
Why?
I always thought there was some reason for their attack. I knew deep down there’s never a reason for such senseless brutality. But I just kept allowing myself to believe that one day, one of these men would shed some light as to why something like this happens. Why they chose us. Why they had to kill her.
Why her?
This is all I get. Drunk. High. Joking around. Didn’t mean it. They wanted a piece of my girlfriend like they were entitled to it.
But they didn’t take a piece. They took it all.
I can’t find the punch line in this joke.
My eyes burn as my vision blurs with moisture.
It’s so senseless. Why did her life mean so little?
She was everything to me. My reason for everything I did. She was my every thought. My every action. It was all wrapped around her. I busted my ass in high school, getting good grades and I went on to college to make sure I could get a good job to provide for us. I worked after school, flipping burgers for years so I could buy a car just so I could take her places. I kept working so I had money for dates and anniversary presents. And then, when she followed me to college, I took a second job so I could buy her an engagement ring and someday make her my wife.
Every single thing I did, every single day since I met her, had been for her. From the cologne I selected, to the shirts I wore, to the color of my car, to the major I chose, and everything in between—it was all with her in mind.
Because I loved her with all my heart. And that’s what happens when you love someone. Your happiness becomes dependent on their happiness.
And these men carelessly took it all away.
“I think about you both every day,” Morrison says.
I can’t bring myself to look at him. I stare at the floor. My mind spinning. My heart hurting. But my hands—my hands are steady.
“I started using more, trying to push the memories away. Trying to outrun all the guilt. And then…” He trails off and I wait. I don’t know why I wait. Maybe I want to hear it. Maybe I need to. Maybe I’m still holding out hope that in the end, he’ll offer me some kind of reason, though I know one doesn’t exist. Still, I wait for him to finish.
I wait.
I wait.
I cry. And I wait.
“One day, I saw a girl that resembled her,” he murmurs. “It was the eyes. So big. So blue.”
I fall to my knees as a howl of agony bursts through my lips. She had the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. And they were so blue, he’s right. So bright. Framed in the longest lashes.
Sometimes after we kissed, she’d find one of her dark lashes on my cheeks. She’d pull it off, holding it on the tip of her finger between us, and even though we both knew it was her lash, she’d insist we both make the wish. Because all our wishes involved each other.
“I followed this girl. I don’t know if it was because she looked like Olivia.”
I look at him. I hate how her name sounds coming off of his tongue. He says it as if he knew her. Cared for her. He has no right. He. Has. NO. RIGHT.
“I nearly did it again. I grabbed this girl, and I was going to rape her. She begged me to let her go and all I could see was Olivia’s face. Pale. Lifeless.”
My stomach churns. I gag. My blood boils with rage as I push myself up. The knife is ready in my hand. I’m ready.
“I ran. I ran and I put myself into rehab that same day. I knew I had to get help. I knew if I didn’t, I’d hurt another girl.” He presses his head into the wall, looking up at me. “There’s something wrong with me, Linken.”
I startle at the sound of my name. Morrison doesn’t miss it. He uses the wall for support as he gets to his feet. I watch him carefully. Just waiting to strike.
“I saved every article. No matter how much I wished to forget, I never let myself.” He turns, walking down the hallway and I permit him to go, following closely behind.
He stops at the bookshelf and pulls a box down. He sets it on the coffee table, taking a seat on the couch. I watch in silence as he knocks the lid off. The box is full of newspaper clippings, all regarding Liv, that night, and me.
I look away. I don’t need to be reminded. It’s always fresh in my mind. Several heartbeats go by. I hear him shuffle through the box. The crinkle and shifting of paper perks my ears.
“This is us. Before. Before we became monsters.”
I move my head slowly. My gaze drops to his hand where he holds a faded picture between his fingers. I lean in, taking the edge as if I expect it to burn me. All four men are there. Arms around one another’s shoulders. Smiling. Happy. My gaze flicks from one face to the next. I see Morrison, Woods, Anthony, and then I pause on the last man. This must be Carter Bates. The one man I never really saw. The man that stabbed me—over and over—in the back, like a coward.
The picture shakes and it takes me a moment to realize my hand is trembling. I shove the photo into my pocket.
“I’ve tried to kill myself twice,” Morrison states matter-of-factly. “First with an overdose. The second with a razor blade.” He pulls up the cuff of his sleeve, showing me the scar on his wrist. I nearly laugh. I don’t think he wants to compare scars.
“Third time’s a charm,” I say.
His eyes lock onto mine and I hold steady, letting him see just how much I mean those words. He nods.
“Every day is a struggle. I think about death… I think about how easy it would be to just stop living. I’ve fought it for so long.”
“Stop fighting it,” I spit. “You don’t deserve to breathe. Livie’s six feet under the ground because of you. She isn’t living. She isn’t breathing. You shouldn’t be either.”
“An eye for an eye,” he replies in understanding.
I shake my head. “No. A life for a life.” I won’t put this on God. Our relationship is rocky at the moment. This is me. My choice. My rules.
The tears come quicker now, spilling from his eyes endlessly. “There’s a gun in my nightstand,” he utters. “After failing twice, I made sure the next attempt would stick.” He sniffles, rubbing at his face with both hands. “They don’t just give you a gun. You have to wait. By the time I got it, I lost my nerve.”
I can’t believe he admitted to owning a gun. I can’t believe I was so careless as to walk into this house when he owns a gun. No matter how much planning I’ve done over the years, my emotions make me reckless. Stupid.
“You came here to kill me,” Morrison says. His voice shakes, but not with uncertainty. The knife in my hand is a clear statement. A solid indication of my intentions.
“I don’t think I can do it,” he continues. “I don’t think I can take my own life. Will you help me?”
I laugh as fresh tears invade my sight. He’s asking me for help. He’s asking me to kill him. I pivot on my heels and walk down the opposite hall briskly, searching for his bedroom.
The room’s a mess. This is what giving up looks like. The bed is unmade. Clothes are strewn across the floor. Dirty dishes on the dresser, the windowsill, the nightstand. My attention focuses there and I move toward it. I tug the top drawer open and pick up the revolver lying inside.
It’s cold. Heavy. I press the release button and roll the cylinder out to verify it’s loaded.
And then I turn it as I press the ejector rod, emptying it onto the bed. I pick one bullet up and place it into the gun. I turn the cylinder, ensuring the first few rounds in the chamber are empty.
In the small living room, Morrison hasn’t moved. He’s seated on the couch in the same position I left him in. I set the gun on the table in front of him. Right next to the box of article clippings.
“I don’t owe you any favors,” I explain. “But you owe me a life.”
I close the knife in my hand and tuck it into my pocket before I turn my back on him. I hear the scrape of the gun as he slides it across the wooden surface. As I near the door, I hear the first empty click.
I open the door as the second click echoes off the walls.
I pull it closed behind me and head for my car.
A shot rings out into the silent night just as my hand closes around the handle. I flinch. A dog barks in the distance.
Two down.
Twelve
Rocky
I change into a pair of pajama shorts and a t-shirt, throw my hair up in a messy bun, and then I pace back and forth in front of a fresh canvas, paintbrush in hand. I tap the brush against my thigh.
I don’t think most people would agree, or even understand, but there is so much beauty in a blank canvas. It’s so pure and untouched. It has so much untapped potential, just sitting there, waiting. It can be anything. Anything I want to make it.
Inspiration hasn’t exactly been my friend for a while now. I haven’t painted anything of worth in years. Every time I try, all the ugliness I feel inside erupts in swirls of dark paint, broken brushes, and ripped canvases.
Tonight, however, I feel that excited, tingling urge of new vision.
I use Link as my muse as I dip into red ocher. The deep, vibrant color is the best way I can represent the passion he stirs inside of me. The aching, the yearning, the desire.
I twirl the brush, twisting the stroke before easing up, and allowing it to fade at the edge. It doesn’t look like much yet, but it feels right. I grab a new brush, dragging it across a deep calypso blue. I merge it with the tail end of the red, fanning it from blue to purple.
Talking Dirty Page 4
