by Gail McHugh
“Why?” I press, feeling sick to my stomach, images of the night I’d slipped into the serpentine flesh of the devil—all but shoving my bong down her throat—exploding in my head as everything starts to click into place. It all makes sense now, every twisted fucking second of it. Her hesitancy. The anxiety clouding her beautiful eyes. Her overdramatized response to something as innocent as weed. Christ. While my girl was trying to avoid the mistakes of her parents, attempting to do right by her future, my concern was wrapped around being the first asshole to get her lit up.
Guilt makes a speedy resurgence, sinking a cannonball’s worth of weight onto my shoulders as my breathing dulls to a slow shock. Confused, I prod again, trying to understand why she’d hide something so important from me. “Why didn’t you tell me about them? Hell, baby. Had I known this, I would’ve never asked you to hit that bong. Dammit, Ber,” I whisper, praying to God I can get her to believe me, “it would’ve never crossed my mind. Sure, I’d just assumed you’d already smoked it—I explained that to you that night—but had you told me your parents were strung out, I would’ve never laid that kind of pressure on you. Never.”
She remains quiet for a moment, hesitation hindering her response. “Embarrassment,” she finally says through a stuttered gulp of air, her body continuing to tremble like a scared child as she fists the collar of my T-shirt. “I was embarrassed. It was hard enough telling you that he killed her, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell you that my parents, the two most important people in my life, the ones who should’ve held my hand along this confusing journey, wanted their dope more than they wanted . . . me.”
“You’re not unwanted by me, baby girl. You’ll never be unwanted by me. It’s impossible.” Though I’m scared beyond comprehension that allowing her to be with Ryder again will drag her further away from me, I cave to Amber’s request, her need to slay the demons from her past—no matter what the emotional cost to me might be—my top priority. “You can be with Ryder again too. I’ll do whatever it is you want in order to keep you happy, to keep you mentally healthy. For now, that is. I can’t promise you this will be a long-term thing, though, Ber. I just can’t.”
“Are you . . . sure?” she asks, aware that she’s backing me into a corner.
I’m just not sure if she knows how much doing so is killing me.
Unsure if my decision makes any sense at all, I nod, resigned to the fact that I’m the asshole who caused the torment bulldozing its way through her mind. The asshole who needs to fix this, fix her. “Yeah, I’m sure.” I stroke my fingers through her hair, my voice thin as I move my hands to her thighs, squeezing them. “But I also can’t promise you it’ll go as smoothly as it did last night.”
She cracks a small grin. “You think last night went . . . smoothly?”
“You don’t?” I press, unable to contain my shock. “How’s that even possible? I watched—without ripping his balls off—Ryder fuck the shit outta you.” A tight chuckle ticks from my mouth as I lift her from my lap, setting her back in her seat, my attention focused on the road as I ease back into traffic. “I know I’m a little psychotic but, in my book, that’s as smooth as it gets.” Not about to tell her I’d changed my mind about letting them be together, I keep it light, brushing over my true feelings instead of telling her what’s really burning a hole in my gut. “Seeing you with him affected me differently than I thought it would. Still, for your sake, I’m cool with giving it another go.”
Amber studies me, her eyes harboring a question.
“What?” I prod after several agonizing minutes, curiosity biting at my skin as I head toward my condo. “There’s something you wanna say, so just say it.”
“Did you love Hailey?” she asks, her words spoken with mild hesitation.
I dart a glance her way. “You already know the answer to that. I told you she meant shit to me.” I bring my attention back to the road, confusion setting in as I merge onto an exit ramp. “Why would you even ask me that again?”
A pause, her silence driving me fucking crazy as I tiresomely maneuver my way through the out-of-control weekend traffic swamping the downtown Annapolis bay area.
Another moment of silence before she whispers, “You love me, right, Brock?”
“A million times more than I do myself,” I answer automatically, every fiber of me telling the truth. “Till the day death steps in, stealing the very last breath from my lungs, the single last beat of my heart.”
Amber blinks, a weary smile pulling at her lips. “That’s the difference this time around, baby.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, feeling like an asshole for not getting the point she’s trying to make. “Are you analyzing me, Miss Psychology Major? Is that what you’re doing? Am I your muse for an upcoming term paper regarding deviant personalities? If so, I’m the perfect case study.”
She casts me another weary smile as she brushes her knuckles against my cheek, the soft, sensual act causing my cock to jerk awake in response. “You went into this thinking you’d be able to handle the situation with ease in the same way you did with Hailey.” She shrugs, her fingers playing with my hair as I kill the engine in front of my complex. “But you couldn’t because you love me. You never loved her. I didn’t know it till I met you, but love . . . changes us—changes the dynamics of everything we ever believed in. Love’s pure and selfish. It can make us want things we shouldn’t and hate what it’s turned us into. It’s giving, greedy, indecisive, vindictive, and magical all at once. It makes us jump from one delusional emotion to the next, all the while patiently keeping us dangling in its malicious yet euphoric web. A web that’s laced with beautiful lies and horrible truths.”
Amber opens the passenger-side door, her head craned back to look at me before stepping out. “But one thing love remains constant at—the most important feeling it controls in us—is jealousy. When we love someone wholeheartedly, truly can’t imagine getting through a single day without them, that’s when love can show her rage. Once released, love’s jealousy can never be taken back, her desire to forget her pain breaking all the rules, uncaring of every obstacle she destroys in her path. It’s unlike any God-given emotion we’re born with.”
Amber slings her duffel bag over her shoulder, something akin to her own regret dimming her eyes. “But it’s okay, baby. I’m just as much to blame as you are for the mess we created by doing this. We all are, Ryder included. But no matter what, I’ll always love you, Brock. Even if my love changes along the way, it’ll forever remain pure. You were the first man to emotionally open me up, the first to teach me that love isn’t always ugly. And you might think I can’t see it, but I can. You’re beating yourself up for allowing me and Ryder to be together. From the second I lay next to you in bed last night, you haven’t stopped.”
She closes the door and circles the Hummer, her chin jutted out for me to open my window as she approaches the driver’s side. “So stop, Brock.” She pokes her head into the vehicle, her lips landing on my cheek softly. “Stop beating yourself up. I forgive you for betraying the trust you should’ve had for our love, and now I just need you to forgive me for doing the same.”
She doesn’t wait for me to respond. No. Instead, she turns and heads for the elevators, her statement leaving my heart scattered with nothing but the skeletal remains of my regret as she walks away. I step out into the bitter air of late November, the wind lashing at my skin as I watch the leaves chase one another across the parking lot. By the time I reach the elevators I’m at a loss for words, the ride up to my floor silent, chilling.
As the elevator doors part, I reach for Amber’s hand and pull her to my chest, my arms swallowing her in my embrace like it’s the last time I’ll ever get to. I need this girl. Need her more than my next breath, my next heartbeat. I need her as much as a dying man needs his meds, her very being the chemo to the cancer that’s infested who I used to be. With Amber, I’m whole again, a
man who feels as complete as he’s ever known himself to be, a king worthy of the throne his queen’s set him upon.
Though not a single word is uttered between us as we make our way down my hall, I can tell Amber feels me, knows how much I love her. The only thing I fear as we round the corner to my condo is she’ll stop loving me, my allowing her to be with Ryder again no different from signing her over to him.
Trying to push those diseased thoughts from my mind, I fish my keys from my pocket but stop short the second I lift my hand to the doorknob. The lock’s been tampered with, the door frame bent, nearly cracked to pieces. Someone’s forced their way in. I immediately reach for my gun, only to realize I left the fucking thing in the glove compartment of my Hummer.
Amber lets out a gasp as I rest my hand on her waist, moving her behind me. “Holy shit. Someone’s broken in, Brock. We have to get out of here and call the cops.”
“No,” I say through a whisper, gently pushing her farther back. If someone’s still in my place, I’m catching the dick, dead set on letting him know I was the last motherfucker he should’ve played this game with. I listen intently for any sounds of movement before I nudge my boot against the door. It creaks open, a piece of molding clanking onto the wood floor as I peer into the eerie silence of the entryway. “We’re not calling the cops. I’m going in and you’re waiting downstairs.”
“What do you mean we’re not calling the cops?” she asks, her tone bordering on hysteria. “And if you’re going in there, I’m coming with you.”
I spin on her and grasp her shoulders, giving her a light shake. “The hell you are,” I spit, almost losing it. Her eyes dilate with fear. A fear not caused by the dire situation but instead born of my asshole move. I swallow back bile, a grenade exploding my heart with regret from the petrified look on her face. Trying with everything I am to keep my cool, I temper down, loosening my grip on her shoulders as I drop a kiss onto the crown of her head. “I’m so sorry, Ber. You know I’d never intentionally hurt you, but I need you to listen to me, okay?”
She nods, a noticeable chill running up her spine as her gaze whips between me and the doorway.
“You’re my only concern right now. The only fucking one. For that, you are going downstairs to wait in my Hummer until I call for you. Otherwise, you’re not allowed to move, you hear me?”
She goes to speak, but I cut her off before she can say a word.
“The answer’s no.” I seize her cheeks and press a kiss to her forehead. “Don’t argue with me, because it’s not gonna work. No matter what you say, you’re not winning this one, Amber. You’re just not. There’s no way in hell I’m letting you go in there with me, understand?”
Another nod, this one reluctant as I shove my keys in her hand. She stares at me a second then turns, disappearing around the corner, her soft cries echoing in her wake as I try to get my head together for what might await me inside.
With Amber safe, I enter my condo and instinctively pull open the hallway coat closet, reaching for my twelve-gauge that’s Velcroed to the wall. I press the gun, already cocked and loaded, to my shoulder and inch forward, moving quietly from room to room, closet to closet, eventually ending up out on the balcony. I have yet to find anything disturbed. I recover my tracks and hit each room a second and third time, the tension bleeding from my muscles ebbing some as I make my way back into the living room, scanning the space for anything I might’ve missed. Nothing’s been touched, broken, or stolen. Not even the few grand I keep in my safe. Right down to the imprints in the carpet—save for my own footsteps—my place is in the same pristine condition it was in when we’d left for Atlantic City.
I fall into a bar chair at the kitchen island and set the shotgun on top of the counter, trying to figure out who the fuck might’ve done this. Considering I keep my business far away from campus, never selling to a single prick attending Hadley U, I know it couldn’t have been any of those douchebags. Going into this shit, I was all too aware that was the last problem I needed—some sophomore cokehead getting picked up for some stupid shit, only to turn around and pin me to a wall with the pigs.
Yeah, no thanks.
Other than Ryder and Lee, not even my teammates know it’s my blow they’re most likely getting hemmed up on the night of a huge win. I took the safe route, limiting my clientele to a few street dealers and the uppity elite of Annapolis and DC, who have something to lose, those whom I could turn around and easily fuck if need be. Leverage: that’s all you have in this business, the one thing that can keep you afloat. Your local congressman jacked up in a hotel, wired on the best nose-candy around, partying it out with not one, not two, but three of Washington’s finest call girls, can make for some interesting evening news.
Especially to his wife and family.
After eliminating the young couple with a baby to my right and some one-foot-in-the-grave retired Marine neighbor to my left as possibilities, I’m at a loss for who it could’ve been. However, that only lasts a second. As my gaze skids across the kitchen I spot a CD leaning against the coffeemaker, chicken-scratch writing scribbled in black marker on the front of the plastic case. Alert, I yank up the shotgun and cross the room to approach the foreign object. The foreign object that wasn’t here when I left for the weekend. Before picking it up I look around, making sure some psychopath isn’t aiming his gun at the back of my skull. All clear, I bring my attention back to the CD, catching the name written on the case.
Cindy Lewis
483 Culvert Road, Apartment B
Matoaka, West Virginia
24736
Face, name, and address burned into my memory like acid on flesh, I know exactly who’s broken into my condo. Who’s attempting to blackmail the fuck outta me for the shit she knows. The shit she was a witness to. The whore from the warehouse the night I killed Dom. The whore Ryder talked me into letting go unscathed. The whore who’s about to flip my whole world upside down, taking me for everything I’ve got. Everything I’ve worked my ass off for.
“Goddamnit!” I bellow, nausea roiling my stomach as I slam a fist into a column that separates the kitchen from the open dining area. Pissed, a migraine sawing through my skull, I stomp over to the entertainment center. With blood dripping from my knuckles, I shove the CD into the player, scoop up the remote from the coffee table, and stab the play button, my nerves mounting as I sink onto the couch, preparing myself for the demands the cunt’s gonna make.
As the video begins, it takes me a second to recognize my own voice calling out, “Cindy Lewis, Four eighty-three Culvert Road, apartment B, Matoaka, West Virginia, two four seven three six.”
I blink, confused as shit, as both Ryder and I come into focus. “Repeat what he said,” Ryder chimes in, clenching the whore’s hair. “Now.”
“Cin-Cindy Lewis,” she cries, her body shaking, “Fo . . . four eighty-three Culvert Road, apartment B, Matoaka, West Virginia, two four seven three six.”
“Very good, Cindy. You wanna live?” Ryder questions. “Wanna wake up to your kid tomorrow? See him grow up?”
Continuing to cry, the chick nods but doesn’t say a word.
“Answer me!” Ryder spits, his voice going hoarse as the back of his hand connects with her cheek. She stumbles into the wall, but Ryder catches her before she hits the ground, pulling her to his chest. “Don’t just fucking nod! This is serious! Do. You. Want. To. Live?”
“Yes!” she sobs, her unclothed body falling against his. “I want to live!”
This is a video from Dom’s warehouse. But how did the whore, who left before us, get it? More so, how the fuck is it even in her possession when Ryder swore he cleared everything from Dom’s office?
Before I can dwell on my unanswered questions, the video transitions to a darkened hallway, the claustrophobically narrow space strewn with boxes, clothing, books, and empty Chinese takeout containers, I’m convinced I’m watching the worst-e
ver episode of Hoarders. A deep, annoyed whisper breaks me from my reverie, my eyes landing on a hooded figure leading the cameraman through the less-than-stellar living conditions. The silence is deafening, my whole world reduced to what’s happening on the video as the pair makes it down the hall to their final destination, stopping in front of a partially closed door. Seconds decrease to milliseconds, my heartbeat lasts a lifetime as they slip into a dimly lit bedroom. Save for an aged dresser, the space is relatively empty—a twin mattress centered dead in the middle of the room, additional heaps of dirty laundry haphazardly tossed across a multistained brown carpet.
I direct my attention to the bed where the hooded figure is standing above it, a sleeping body blissfully unaware of the evil presence. Without a word, the hooded intruder lifts his hand, displaying for the first time a pistol and—lacking even a second’s hesitation—fires three shots into the huddled mass on the bed. I shoot to standing, adrenaline causing my fists to clench of their own accord as my focus remains locked on the screen. Soon after the gunshots, a child’s scream reverberates in the near distance, his fear palpable. The gunman methodically moves toward the sound of the child’s crying, his ogre-like stature barely fitting through the doorway. As the monster disappears into the hallway, the cameraman pans in on the bloody, unmoving mass on the bed, revealing an all-too-familiar face: Cindy Lewis, 483 Culvert Road, Apartment B, Matoaka, West Virginia, 24736.
My jaw hits the floor as her kid’s cries increase, my need to stop what the psychopath’s inevitably about to do to him unleashing fury across my skin with every nerve catapulting to life in my body. Helpless to do a fucking thing, I yell out into space, swinging my fists at a phantom recipient, sweat spilling from my pores as the chatter of the universe eats away at my pleas. Silence, long and menacing, chills me down to my bones before one final shot splices through the air, the child’s tiny cries fading into nothing as the bloodcurdling sound of his last, mangled breath pierces me straight to the hollow of my soul. A ball of grief tightens my chest, its potency wiping out the strength from my muscles, as I watch, tears hindering my vision, the cameraman produce a small canister of gasoline. An entertained chuckle strums from his mouth as he drenches Cindy’s bed in the hazardous liquid, a calculated strike of a match following the premeditated movement. Flames scream through the room, the screen shaking in sync with the cameraman’s quickened footsteps as he and the hooded figure bolt out of the apartment.
