Fact of the matter was, I knew a lot about Johnnie Walker "Shooter" Allen. I probably knew more about him than most of his family did. I knew what I knew because I had been neighbors with his father for three years. I was there in the mornings, watching as Ben would open his door to find the case of scotch there each month, a look of disdain and need in his eyes so great it hurt me somewhere deep down in my soul. I had been the one to get the super to open his door when there was a loud crash one night, only to find Ben passed out on his kitchen floor, his head busted open from hitting the edge of his kitchen cabinet while stumbling around in a drunken stupor. I had been the one to visit him in the hospital; I had been the one to talk him into getting help; I had been the one sitting with him after his meetings and listening to him tell me all about the ways he messed up his life. He told me his biggest regret was losing the love of his son.
From what Ben said, Johnnie moved to the East coast and became a killer for hire. He was, apparently, really good at his job because Ben said he had some expensive place and a fancy car. Despite his son's seedy lifestyle and his adolescent need to still 'stick it to' his father with the scotch, Ben still always wanted to get back in touch.
Apparently the only thing that could bring him back was his father's death. And then he had the gall to be a jerk to the one person who had been there for Ben like he should have been? It didn't matter how good looking he was on the outside. There was no amount of charming smiles that could make me overlook his ugly soul.
I sighed, forcing myself to stop worrying the wood floor as I looked up. My apartment had the same layout as Ben's. The living space formed an L around the small square kitchen with its generic white cabinets, fake brown, black, tan, and red swirl marble counter tops. I had two chairs butted up against the outside of the kitchen counter. I didn't need a dining room table; I never had company. My living room was unapologetically feminine. I had a floral throw rug, plush off-white tufted sofas, shabby-chic end and coffee tables, and the walls were painted a soft barely-there hint of lavender.
Glancing into my kitchen, I spotted the supply of cat food I had run out to get that morning. Great. I might not have had any intention of seeing Johnnie again, but I couldn't exactly let Millie go hungry because of my disdain for him.
With a growl, I grabbed the cardboard tray full of cat food and stalked back toward my door. Pulling it open, I flew back a foot on a surprised yelp. Because there right out front my door, was Johnnie.
"So the no panty thing," he started, his eyes warm, "is that an everyday occurrence?"
My eyes lowered as I bit the inside of my cheek. "What are you doing creeping outside my door?"
"I can see you're jealous of Millie's love for me," he teased, his smile charming enough to make a nun reconsider her vows, "but you can't blame her. I've always had a way with a pussy."
"Don't be coming to my door and talking nasty to me," I snapped, shoving the box into his chest, making his hands move up to grab it. "There's Millie's food. Please feel free to never speak to me again." I grabbed the edge of my door, meaning to slam it shut, but he slipped his body sideways into the doorway and forced his way into my apartment. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Aw, angel," he said, shaking his head as he looked around. "I get you now."
He got me? What the heck was that supposed to mean? "What?"
"You know, my grandmother is a big gardener," he said, tucking the flat of cat food under one arm and running his hand over the back of my sofa.
"That's wonderful. Now get out of my apartment."
"She's won awards 'round here for her roses," he went on his weird speech. His attention suddenly turned back toward me, pinning me into place. "She used to tell me that the prettiest roses have the biggest thorns. It's a defense mechanism. So," he said, coming closer toward me and running his finger across the side of my jaw, "I get you, Amelia Alvarado."
And with that, he was gone, the door clicking quietly behind him, leaving me feeling almost exposed, vulnerable. That made no sense, but it was how I felt. Because when he looked at me in the middle of his little speech and told me he got me, it felt like he did; it felt like he somehow got a peek at my soul. My hand moved up to scrub his touch off my jaw, somehow feeling like there was a lingering tingling from his finger there.
Okay, so he was right; I had thorns. That didn't mean that he understood me. I hadn't exactly been friendly to him. It wasn't intuition on his part, it was an impression. The fact that he guessed that I wasn't that hard and sharp underneath the surface meant nothing. Most women were soft somewhere inside, no matter what kind of armor they wore on the outside. And given his reputation, it went without saying that he spent a lot of time with women. He just picked up on that fact.
"What is wrong with me?" I asked my empty apartment, moving down the hall toward the bathroom, deciding I needed a cold shower. The heat was getting to me, muddling my brain or something.
I stripped out of my clothes and climbed under the cool spray, cringing away from it for a second before settling in. Fact of the matter was, I was grieving. I didn't have a lot of people in my life. I was standoffish. In this small town, I was an outsider. Granted, I had been around for years, but I never quite felt like I fit in. Maybe it was because I didn't know everyone's histories like every one else did. It didn't help that I didn't go out of my way to learn all those stories either. Maybe it was just another form of self-preservation. I was worried that if I tried, they wouldn't accept me; so I didn't even bother. I had a few people I kept professional interest in, but Ben had been the only person around that I had a sort-of friendship with. He was all I had 'round these parts and he was gone. I might have put on a brave face, but I was hurting.
The fact that I had a strange urge to slap his son and then throw myself into his arms, well, I guessed that was just my unusual way of grieving. It had nothing to do with actual interest or attraction. And chances were, after the funeral, I would never see Johnnie Walker Allen ever again.
Why that realization gave me a strange sinking feeling inside was completely beyond me.
I climbed out of the shower and slipped into a pale yellow, lightweight cotton sundress. I brewed water and poured it into a giant jug with a box of teabags. Opening my sliding glass door, I went to place it on the balcony to steep in the sunlight.
"Fancy seeing you here."
Holy heck.
I couldn't escape him.
"Are you going to offer me some of that when it's done?"
My head snapped over, my eyes wide. He could not be serious! My eyes landed on Ben's balcony to see Johnnie lounging back in Ben's Adirondack chair, his feet propped up on the railing, Millie laying contentedly on his chest.
"No."
"Aw come on. Now that isn't very neighborly, is it?" he asked, pushing a button he knew would depress in a small town: hospitality.
Unluckily for him, I wasn't raised in the South. "You're not my neighbor."
"Baby, I'm right here next door."
"You don't live there."
"No, but I am staying here."
"Why? The AC is broken," I pointed out.
"Yeah. I'm gonna have to fix that. Or maybe I will just walk around naked," he added with a teasing smirk. I did not picture him naked. Nope. I didn't even have a passing thought about whether or not those tattoos on his arms snaked across his chest or back. The one across his throat, an eagle with his wings spread outward toward his ears, was not positively distracting me every time he swallowed or anything. "The motel doesn't allow cats, honey," he clarified when I forgot to speak.
My eyes snapped up guiltily. "I'll take Millie then," I said automatically, shrugging.
"Careful, Amelia, you might just bruise my fragile ego," he chuckled, the sound low and deep.
"The last thing your ego is, is fragile," I said, rolling my eyes.
"You know what I think, sweetheart?"
"No. And I don't care to know what you think either."
He uncurled s
lowly from his seat, Millie jumping down with a loud, offended meow, and he moved toward the side of the balcony where it almost butted against mine. "I think you have the wrong idea about me."
"Hardly," I scoffed, refusing to move back from my position, despite him completely invading my space. If I leaned forward slightly, I would feel his breath on my face.
"Wanna know something else?" he asked, his eyes dropping down in another leisurely inspection that made it feel like my dress melted off.
"No."
"Look at me," he said, holding his arms out to show me, presumably, his tattoos. "I'm pretty accustomed to being stabbed with sharp objects. Honey, those thorns of yours practically tickle."
I sucked in a breath. Those words... they meant something to me. It was silly, but after spending your life noticing your sharp edges driving people away, it was really powerful to find someone who wasn't phased by them. Unfortunately for me, that person was someone I wanted nothing to do with. My awful karma strikes again!
"It's no surprise that someone so heartless would feel no pain," I said, finally taking the much needed step back.
The jocular lightness seemed to drain from his face, leaving his eyes looking almost haunted. He shook his head as he watched me retreat toward my apartment door. "What the fuck poison was that bastard slipping you?" he asked, but it was more toward himself than me and I took it as a cue to leave.
I closed the door and pulled the curtain but stood there staring at the outline of Johnnie as he stayed leaning on the railing of the balcony, staring off into the distance. I couldn't shake those words. I couldn't get over the way in which he said them, like they hurt, like they were honest. But they couldn't have been. Ben had been nothing but good to me. One time, when the doohickey on my shower broke off and water was spraying everywhere and I didn't know what to do, he had come rushing over, drunk as a skunk, and fixed it for me. And once, when I had broken two fingers falling on a run in the woods, he had insisted on coming over for dinner and cutting up my food for me.
Everything I knew about Ben Allen was good and selfless. Even when he was drunk, he had nothing but nice words for me. There was a deep well of loneliness in him that I felt drawn to, perhaps because it matched my own.
It was absolutely ridiculous that I was second-guessing my own opinions based on years of evidence because of one sentence uttered by a man I didn't know and whose reputation hardly recommended him.
I just had to do my best to avoid him until after the funeral. Then he would be gone for good and things could go back to normal.
Three
Amelia
I got up early the next morning, throwing on another sundress in white, and got the heck out of the building way before anyone else would be up and about. I didn't really need to be at work early, but there was always something to do if you looked for it. Besides, even boring office work was better than having another run-in with Johnnie Allen. As it was, I had been tossing and turning all night. First, because he was loud as heck over in his apartment. It sounded like there was a party going on even though I knew he was alone. There was banging and shuffling and crashing. Then, of course, there was the blaring music that I was shocked old Aggy across the hall didn't pitch a fit about. If I let my TV go above a whisper, she was banging on my door. But also, second, because, well... I couldn't stop my brain from thinking about him.
I wondered about what had caused him to up and leave one day, never to look back. From what I understood, no one ever heard from him save for a call to his grandmother on her birthday each year (along with some sort of extravagant present, as if that could make up for his absence). I wanted to know what on Earth could have led him to a life of crime. He seemed relatively well adjusted, calm, laid back. That didn't exactly scream "killer", but that was exactly what he was. That was what he did. He killed people for money. And, seriously, what was with the scotch? Was he being ironic? Was it some kind of jab because Ben named him after a brand of scotch?
During all of this tossing and turning, there was not a single thought of how attractive he was. I didn't get a full-body shiver at the memory of him touching my cheek. I didn't feel a blush at remembering him saying that... pussy comment. I didn't wonder about how he earned his reputation with women; what he was capable of doing to them. Nope. Not me. I was not that messed up.
I let myself in through the back of the building, walking down the old stone hallways and opening my small, dark, windowless office. It really was one depressing place to work. Not even the stark white desk and light throw rug could warm the place up. I pushed the button for the coffee pot, not adding grounds because, well, I hated coffee. I brewed hot water for tea. Yes, hot tea... in August. See, not only was my office figuratively cold, it was also quite literally cold; I guess because it was buried in the basement. I dropped a teabag into a mug and walked back over to my desk, tidy to the way of compulsive. I liked things in order. Actually, I liked them not only to be in order, but color coordinated and alphabetically or numerically sorted. I was, and always had been, a bit of a control freak. I had a psych student once tell me that people who were crazy about orderliness were that way because it was the only thing in their life that they could control. It had been a comment that had been all-too true at the time. Of course, it wasn't that way anymore, but it was a habit I didn't even think about breaking.
Sometime around lunch time, I heard voices a floor above me. It wasn't unusual for that to be the case; people were in and out all day long. But what caught my attention was the fact that the voices sounded agitated and raised. I got up out of my chair and walked into the hallway, shamelessly trying to eavesdrop near the staircase. When the voices seemed to get even louder, I found myself moving up the stairs, worried that whoever was working upstairs might be in some kind of trouble.
I pushed the door open and walked into the front of the church with a pit in my stomach. Father Sanders was standing in the aisle between the front pews, holding his hands up like he was trying to silence who he was talking to (yelling at).
That person was... oh, lordy... Johnnie Allen. Of course. That was just my life.
"Are you raising your voice to a priest?" I heard myself ask as I moved further into the room.
Johnnie's smile was on his face before his eyes even lifted to find me. "Heya angel," he said, inclining his head at me.
"It's alright, Amelia," Father Sanders said in his rough voice that always kind of rubbed me the wrong way. He always seemed (because he was) dismissive of me.
I looked from him to Johnnie who was wearing another pair of black jeans, plain black creepers, and a white v-neck tee that showed a generous chunk of tattoos that were on his chest, thereby satisfying my inappropriate curiosity. "What's going on?" I asked him, ignoring Father Sanders' none-too-subtle dismissal of me.
"Father Sanders and I were just... discussing my father's arrangements," he supplied with a shrug.
"And that resulted in raised voices... why?" I asked, more than a little annoyed that someone like him, someone who didn't give a spit about Ben got to be the one to make his final arrangements.
"Amelia that is hardly..." Father Sanders started, but was cut off by Johnnie.
"We simply don't see eye to eye on my part in the process."
"Your... part?"
"Yes, see... I plan on being the checkbook, honey," he explained calmly. "Father Sanders would like for me to be a pallbearer and to say something at the services. I apparently owe it to his memory to say some nice words."
"And the problem is?"
"Darlin' I don't have any nice words to say."
I let out a long breath, nodding my head. There was honesty there; he truly felt like he had nothing to say about his own father's existence. "Don't you think, Johnnie, that maybe it's time to... forgive him?"
His arm raised, rubbing across the back of his neck, a muscle ticking in his jaw in a seemingly uncharacteristic sign of anger. When his face rose to mine again, there was none
of his humor, of his light-heartedness.
"Tell you what..." he started, his voice so low that I felt like I was straining to hear him. "When you spend your childhood choking on your own blood after having your baby teeth knocked down your throat, then you can tell me about how I need to forgive that son of a bitch, angelface."
His words landed like a kick to the stomach, pushing out all my air violently. There had been nothing but raw emotion in his words and, with a quick glance at Father Sanders who looked away uncomfortably, I knew they were the truth. Ben Allen had knocked out his son's teeth. I felt like the floor was giving away beneath my feet, like it was crumbling to dust.
"Hey," Johnnie's voice called, sounding concerned, but from far away. All I could hear was my swirling thoughts, the pounding of my heart, the whooshing of blood through my ears. "Amelia, hey," he said, sounding closer and my head jerked up to find him right in front of me. His hand moved out to grab my elbow, holding it hard, like he was trying to keep me from falling over. "Fuck. You alright, sweetheart?"
"Hardly cause for that kind of language," I heard Father Sanders say, but Johnnie ignored him so I did too.
"Come on, sit down," he said and he was pulling me down toward the pews and pushing me into the front row. He knelt down in front of me, his face set in worry lines. "You alright? I mean... I know my charm can make women feel positively light-headed, but this is all a bit much, don't you think?" he quipped, trying to ease the tension his words left in the air and in every molecule in my body.
"I think..." Father Sanders tried to break in again.
"That you should be going to get her a glass of water?" Johnnie supplied, his tone clipped. "Yeah, I think that's a good idea."
Father Sanders huffed but shuffled away.
"This is fitting," he said cryptically when we were alone.
"What?" I asked, taking a deep breath to try to ease the swirling inside my head.
Killer Page 3
