by Sadie Grubor
"Here you go," she announces, holding out a handful of items.
Taking them quickly, I forge my own smile.
"Thank you," I state, giving a nod.
Turning, I start for the safety my apartment offers.
"My name's Caroline, by the way," she calls out to my back.
Glancing back, I give a wave, but I stumble when I see a shadowed figure down the hallway, a hundred knives exploding in my stomach.
Quickening my pace, I get inside my apartment, drop my lingerie, and secure the knob lock, both deadbolts, and the chain.
Leaning against the door, I slide down to the floor, close my eyes, and breathe deep. No, it can't be. He was much taller. It can't be him.
"There's no way he found you. It was just the person your new neighbor was waiting for,” I reassure myself. "Get a fucking grip," I growl, slapping my hands against the scuffed, hardwood floor.
Angry at my overreaction, my weakness, I open my eyes and start to collect the clothing from the floor. I scan the area around me for a dark purple satin bralette.
"I know I gave it to her last week," I mumble, looking through the items again.
Assuming Caroline missed one, I carry the rest to my dresser and put them away. My stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven't eaten since this morning. Mentally ticking off the things I have in my small kitchen, I decide on grilled cheese and canned fruit cocktail.
The sandwich and fruit on a plate in one hand and a glass of pop in the other, I sit on the floor in front of my worn couch. It, the cracked pleather chair, and small dresser came with the studio apartment. The twin box spring and mattress are my only real contributions. Unless you count the makeshift coffee table I made of plywood and two milk crates I swiped from behind a grocery store.
Setting my food and drink on said table, I glance around the open space. I don't have much as far as possessions go. Aside from the need to be frugal, I prefer to be a minimalist. It's less to leave behind or attempt to take with you. Given the very real possibility I'll need to take off at a moment's notice, it's for the best.
There's a small microwave and toaster I bought during a collective secondhand sidewalk sale a year ago, enough Dollar Store silverware, dishes, cups, pans, and cooking utensils to get me through two days before I absolutely need to wash things, my bathroom sports a clear shower curtain and enough towels to last a week, and my bed is covered in a simple green plaid comforter with green sheets.
There are no decorative items on my walls—no pictures or artwork. My curtains are a combination of green and red, both found in a discount bin because the matching panels were missing.
I return my focus to my grilled cheese, take a large bite, and reach for the new-to-me text books I picked up today and my GED Study Guide. Having been on the streets since barely fifteen, and given my upbringing, I had the equivalent of an eighth-grade education. But now, I'm so close to understanding everything in this study guide, I can feel the diploma I'll never have.
They don't give degrees to dead girls.
I stare at the print within the book, but don't see it. Over the years, I've died many times out of necessity–survival. My eyes grow blurry, remembering the first time.
"We've got twenty-two dollars." I raise my head from the small bag we keep our money in.
Our adoptive street mom, our leader, who calls herself Winter, walks ahead of me. She says the money is necessary, urgent even. We need five hundred dollars before tomorrow, but I'm still not sure what the rush is.
"Did you guys hit the streets we talked about this morning?" she asks over her shoulder.
"Yeah," two of the older boys say in unison.
Sighing, she stops, and the five of us circle her like puppies wanting to suckle, but instead of milk, we want instruction, orders, or even tips on the best cars to break into, pockets to pick.
"Okay," she points to the two older boys, "you two, go to Main Street. It's a risk, so be careful of who's pockets you get into."
With a nod, they dash off down the street.
"You two," she points to a younger boy and girl, "I want you to put on the cute kid act."
Their deceptively sweet faces split into wide grins, revealing their true devilish natures.
"You're with me, baby doll," she calls me by the nickname bestowed soon after she found me freezing and covered in blood. I hate it, which is partly why I think she keeps using it.
Putting her arm around my shoulders, she silently guides me down the block.
"Today, we're going to utilize your most valuable asset," she tells me, turning a corner.
"I don't have anything," I remind her.
"You're innocent," Winter states.
"I'm not—"
"You're a virgin," she explains. "Right?"
Swallowing hard, I give a nod. "Yeah, but…"
Stopping us, she moves in front of me. Placing both hands on my shoulders, she stares into my eyes.
"You're sixteen now, and I can't be the only one working for us, our family," she says, softly and persuasive. "Don't you want to help your family after we took you in, gave you protection, and a place to stay?"
Knowing she's right, I give a nod. I owe her and the rest of them so much. They could've left me in that alley, scared, starving, and freezing. And she could've easily taken me to the police, given the blood covering me, but she didn't. She welcomed me into their underage street family.
After months of learning the ropes, the tricks of the street, and the hierarchy of the group, Winter's taken to me like a pet. Where she went, I was to follow. This is how I know exactly what she has planned for my “asset.” I've stood in the shadows many times while she disappears into cars and alleys with strange men. I've sat on fire escapes overhearing all the things they would do, and on occasion, the fire escape was right above where the action would take place in the alleyway.
Cupping my face, she lifts it to hers.
"Good." Releasing my face, she turns, looking down a familiar street. "Let's see if Peter's home," she says, reaching back for my hand.
I take it, allowing her to tug me down the street.
Peter, a drug dealer and sometimes pimp, doesn't have a stable of girls like the others we deal with. Instead, he makes arrangements between willing women and seeking men.
"He's definitely the least of a prick," she finishes.
A part of me warms at those words, her caring enough not to shove me at some random stranger.
Until she continues. "We can get more money from him, especially if he's high."
My only solace is the fact that it will probably take at least a day for Peter to make the arrangements—and that is short lived when we reach his place.
"How old is she?" he asks, circling, examining me.
"Does it matter?" another man asks.
I've never seen him before, and I would certainly remember a man dressed as well as him. No one on this street wears a suit this expensive.
Unzipping the oversized black hoodie I'm wearing, Peter tugs, pulling it off of my body and dropping it to the floor. Standing in a pair of oversized jeans and t-shirt, my stomach turns. Peter steps close to my back, and I try not to flinch when his hand grips my shoulder and slides along my spine.
"You have to know someone who–" Winter begins.
"Go shower," the other man instructs, motioning toward the bathroom.
Peter shoves me in the same direction.
Stumbling, I ask, "What? Why?"
"Because I need you clean." The look in the stranger's eyes knots my stomach.
"Max, I didn't know you were such a sick fuck," Peter insults on a laugh.
"Hold on," Winter's words halt my steps. "She's not doing anything until we talk money."
The suited man, Max, stands to his full, intimidating height. "Tread carefully, little girl," he warns.
"Talk money to me, Max," she bites out.
Max steps closer, fists clenched.
Stepping close, her chest presses against hi
m. Pushing up on her toes, she narrows her eyes and pokes his pectoral. If there's one thing I know for certain, her temper flares when challenged. It gets the best of her almost every time. I close my eyes, hoping she's mad enough to call it off.
But Peter knows her too, so he tries to diffuse the building tension, offering, "Three hundred dollars."
At his words, I open my eyes.
"Five hundred," she counters, eyes now on Peter. "She's completely untouched. Not even a kiss."
My mouth goes dry and heat flushes my chest. I want to yell. I want to run away. But I'm suddenly frozen mute.
"One thousand," Max interjects, "and no more. Now, get her cleaned up." He pulls out a roll of cash, shoving it at her chest.
"I'll have clean clothes brought with my car.” His words send a chill across my skin.
"Car?" she asks, brushing her long blonde hair from her forehead. "She's not going anywhere."
"The deal is made. She comes with me," Max sneers.
"No," I squeak out, shaking my head, and all eyes move to me.
"Go shower," she states, fisting the money.
"Don't worry, pet, I'll have you back here by morning." Max's words do nothing to reassure me.
When I don't move fast enough, Winter helps me into the bathroom and shower.
"If they offer you anything to eat or drink, don't take it," she warns. "Ask for bottled water, and make sure it's unopened."
Rubbing the thin, rough towel over my head, I nod and fight back tears.
With the knock of the door comes a bag of clothes and instructions to hurry up.
It starts with an apprehensive touch, giving me false hope that he might not be able to go through with it. Until I realize it's just for show. From slow to quick, eager movements, the blouse and skirt I'd been given are torn away, ruined. My body is then put into position on top of the comforter—on display for all. A haze settles over my eyes, blocking out what's happening.
My defiler's hands and mouth move over my flesh, both teasing and brutal.
Blood roars through my veins, creating a deafening thrum between my ears that begins to rival an unfamiliar throb between my legs. The first thrust tears through me like a knife, setting off a rage I've never known before.
The deep chuckles and taunts from the men observing, witnessing my death, slip over my bare body, each word soaking into my skin, creating a spark deep inside me.
Fingernails bared, I claw the defiler's face and fight against him.
Stilling the thrusts, his hand comes up, and I brace for the hit, but he grabs both wrists with one large hand and pins them to the bed. The moment he resumes the assault between my legs, my body responds. Lifting my face to his, I find his dark eyes swimming with ferocity.
Clenching my jaw, I narrow my eyes and meet his stare, unblinking, until an explosion swirls across my nerve endings. The room and my anger fall away as my eyes snap shut and my back bows. A scream escapes my mouth, plummeting into an oblivion of tingles and warmth. The fall is too much, too fast. I'm dying.
A roar of applause and laughter breaks through the oblivion, bringing me back to my surroundings. My eyes snap open when wet fingers are shoved into my mouth. A mixture of salt, copper, and something unfamiliar slip over my tongue.
"That's the taste of me owning you, little whore," the man on top of me states before pushing off my body and the bed, his fingers now in his own mouth.
Men congratulate, praise the performance, and eyes shift to me. Leering, taking in my naked body, they lick their lips.
"Careful, Max, the boy may want to keep her," a salt-and-peppered-haired man taunts.
"My son has better taste than that, I would think."
At another man's heavily accented words, the room falls silent. Bodies part, clearing the way for the tall, large-shouldered man with black hair. Unlike the others, he doesn't share a second of his attention on me. Instead, he strides toward the killer of my innocence. Clapping his bare shoulder, he grins before bringing him in for an embrace. Then, over his son's shoulder, he takes in my naked body with his dark eyes. Stopping between my legs, he licks his lips. Even when he releases him to the rest of the group, his focus remains on me. The look on his face is familiar, predatory.
Sitting up in the center of the bed, pain pulls my eyes down my body.
Legs still parted, red tinges my skin and the bedding. I quickly close them, bringing my knees to my chest. Everything throbs, and nausea coils in my stomach realizing I enjoyed what happened, what he did. Suddenly, the taste in my mouth sours on my tongue. Wrapping my arms around my knees, I bury my face as the shame settles over me.
The first time I died…I liked it.
Saint
The photos Sketch sent don't surprise me, nor do the documents attached with dates, times, and locations. With the number of our men who have met death's door as of late, I was already sure they were connected. Our syndicate has an assassin on their hands, even if the others don't want to admit it. Part of me suspects our very own boss—our Godfather, if you will—Angelo.
When I click on the first sound file—one of three Sketch was able to get his hands on—there's no keeping the creature calm. Angelo is guilty, all right. And not of just what I’ve assumed. His guilt runs much deeper than I could have ever fathomed.
That voice. The fucking traitor providing information to Max, Angelo's righthand man. Dates, details, and disclosing what he's overheard.
I don't have to click anything for the second or third audio file to begin. This time, it's Angelo and what he says unleashes the monster I am.
Fisting my hands, I punch the desk on either side of the laptop before clearing pens, papers, and a lamp with a swipe of my arm. I push away from the desk, draw my blade, and stab the now empty corner. A guttural shout escapes me at the same time I bend forward and press my palms to the dark wood.
My office door slams open.
I don't look up at their entrance, but they've been in my service long enough for me to know who it is. Russ, Vince, and Tony—my diligent, dedicated, and loyal soldiers.
I snort at the thought of loyalty now.
"Boss?" Russ is the bravest.
Inhaling deep, I push off the desk and yank my Jagdkommando knife out of the desk.
I lift the blade in front of me, keeping my eyes on it, and slowly make my way to the three men.
"Did you know the Jagdkommando," I nod toward the steel in my hand, "is one of the deadliest knives ever created?" I tighten my grip on the handle. "It's got a comfortable grip, but it's the tri-dagger fixed blade and the way it swirls around like a sharp serpent that makes it deadly."
Glancing up, I find the three men, each holding a gun at their hip, looking back and forth between the blade and me. Their eyes follow the weapon as I drop my arm to my side.
"Is," Russ starts, swallows, and then perseveres, "everything okay?"
"No," I admit, my voice low, deep.
Each of them straighten and move closer together. I'm not sure if it's a safety in numbers or unified front move, but it brings my target closer to me, to the creature. It's too late for the traitor now.
Taking a step forward, I'm not sure if I should be proud or offended they don't back away.
"A team of surgeons would need to be readily available to fix the damage it could do," I continue.
Three sets of eyes drop to my right side before raising back to meet mine.
Lifting the knife, I point it at Russ. His eyes widen and he swallows hard, but he doesn't move.
"What's he done?" Tony asks, hands raised as he steps forward.
Eyes focused on Russ's, I respond, "Nothing."
Flipping the knife in my palm, I grip it with the sharp edge aimed at Tony and strike. The metal pierces his face, and with a twist my wrist, his long scream fills the room.
Grip still on the handle, I hold him in place and finally move to face him.
"You're the fucking traitor," I ground out.
Having landed the knife i
n the lower socket, his eyeball bulges out, ready to pop. With another twist, the flesh splits across his cheek bone. I let him drop to his knees, and when his lips part on another scream, blood fills his mouth.
I lift one foot, place it on his chest, and pull the knife free.
He falls back on the floor, bringing his hands to the mutilated flesh.
"What else have you told him?" I shout, moving to stand over his writhing body.
"I didn't—"
The roar inside my head is deafening.
Crouching over him, I take his protruding eye in my fingers and rip it out.
"Fuck," he screams.
I toss the eye on the floor and close my eyes. His scream satisfies one of the cravings, but we have many more to go and a lot of hours left in the night.
Dark urges getting an unexpected fix the night before, I slept surprisingly well for someone who still holds the secrets of a deadly and protected man.
When I enter my office, part of me is disappointed the cleaners have already erased all my fun, but the other part needs to get down to business. Taking a seat at my desk, I pull out my cell and place a call to Felix. If anyone will feel the same way I do about this new information, it will be him. At least, I hope he does, or I'm about to give him enough ammo to get me dealt with.
Getting his voicemail, I only invite him to join me at the strip club Friday night. As much as I want to start dealing with Angelo now, Tony's unfortunate accident will draw attention, and I don't need further suspicion falling on me.
Besides, I have another interest—a tiny bleach blonde who taunts my fucking thoughts.
Felix enters the VIP room with Nico and two other men at his back.
"This is a private conversation," I inform, lifting my tumbler glass and draining the amber liquid.
He raises one brow, expressing his surprise, before raising his hand and motioning for his men to leave us.
Crossing the room, he settles into a leather seat adjacent to mine.
"I'll admit, I was a bit suspicious when you requested to meet here."
