“That’s amazing!” I shout, but Marci frowns, not sharing in my excitement.
“What the fuck happened?” Grim asks.
“Gabby...she’s been shot.”
Twenty-Two
Emma Jean
We race back to the brothel. By the time we get there, Sandy is in the lobby, flipping through a magazine in front of a closed door.
“Where is she?” I ask frantically.
The door opens, and a man appears, shutting it halfway. “Thanks for coming, Runner,” Grim says, obviously familiar with the man. He looks to me and explains. “Runner is the head doctor for the tribe.”
“Is she going to be okay?”
He nods. “Yes, I stitched her up, and removed anything that might cause her infection, but the wound itself was a pretty clean shot to the shoulder. A through and through as they call it.”
“Can I see her?” I ask, peering around his shoulder into the room. I only manage to see a pile of bloodied gauze in a trash can by the door.
“Give her some time. She’s resting now. I’m going to go back in and monitor her for a couple of hours to make sure she remains stable.”
“Thanks, doc,” Marci says. I’m so worried about Gabby I didn’t notice Marci standing right behind me.
The man nods and heads back into the room, closing the door behind him.
“Alby called,” Marci says to Grim.
“Alby as in Callum Egan’s right-hand man, Alby?” Grim asks with interest.
Marci nods. “He’s in a helicopter from Miami heading to Naples. I told him we needed to talk. He’s going to be landing on the east side of the rez in about twenty minutes. If you leave now, you can be there when he lands and get this mess cleaned up before it becomes a bloody one.”
“That’s if he believes we didn’t steal his fucking shipment,” Grim adds.
“You won’t know unless you try,” Marci says, brushing a lock of silver back into her dark mane.
“I’ll go with you,” Sandy offers.
Grim looks to me. “No, you stay with Marci and Tricks.”
“Take Sandy with you. This is important,” I tell Grim.
“Haze is in the lounge,” Marci says. “Let him know you’re leaving so he can check in on us.”
Grim looks hesitant at best, but he has to go. Besides, in order to keep him from sending me away, I’ll have to prove to him that I will take every practical measure to keep myself safe until it does.
“I’ll be right here waiting for the doctor to come back out so I can see Gabby,” I reassure him, placing my hand on his arm and giving his bicep a squeeze. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
He hesitates, then makes his decision. He nods then plants a quick yet bruising kiss to my lips before pulling back.
“Let’s go,” he says to Sandy, and they take off for the lounge.
“That boy has got it so bad,” Marci says, leaning up against the wall as she watches the men leave.
“Why do you say that?”
“He trusts you,” she says.
“Why shouldn’t he trust me?” I ask.
“It’s not that he shouldn’t trust you. It’s just that I’ve known him for many years now. If given the choice to kill someone or trust them, well, let’s just say I know what bet I’d place my money on.”
I hear the men shout something to Haze, then watch as they dart out the backdoor to Sandy’s waiting van.
“Me, too.”
* * *
I must have fallen asleep on the lounge chair, waiting with Marci outside of Gabby’s room. I wake with the same magazine I’d been trying to pass the time by reading covering my face. I toss it to the side and sit up, rubbing my eyes.
“Marci?” I call out. No answer. She was sitting next to me with her nose in her own magazine the last time I saw her.
The door to Gabby’s room is partially open. Marci is probably inside checking on Gabby. She should have woken me up when the doctor left, but that doesn’t matter now. I’m eager to see Gabby and make sure she’d okay.
My spine cracks when I stand, probably because I’d fallen asleep curled up in a ball on a chair built for its seductive looks, not its posturepedic benefits.
I stop when I enter Gabby’s room.
There’s no one here. Not Marci. Not even Gabby. The bed is empty. I’m just about to look elsewhere when I spot a fresh trail of blood smeared on the floor. No, it’s not a trail. It’s a drag line. My eyes follow it across the room where Marci is slumped over in the corner between the loveseat and the wall.
“Marci!” I shout, running over to her side. I crouch down over her. I’m just about to feel for her pulse when the door slams shut.
I lift my head just as something swings toward me. Whatever it is connects with my temple. My body slumps over Marci’s.
And then oblivion.
Twenty-Three
Grim
Sandy and I wait for over two hours. The helicopter is a no-show. I try for the third time to reach Marci, but the phone never connects.
“Fuck,” I swear, shoving the useless thing back into my pocket.
“No luck?” Sandy asks, scratching his head.
“Still no fucking signal.”
“Let’s just head back. Maybe, he called Marci to change the plans and she couldn’t reach us to pass on the information.”
“Maybe,” I grumble, heading for the van.
I’m on edge about the Irish being a no-show. But I’m even more on edge about leaving Tricks alone. Well, not alone, but without me.
“She’s fine,” Sandy assures me as I jump into the driver’s seat. He closes the passenger door, and we take off down the hill toward the other side of the reservation. “You think her friend would dig me?”
“What the fuck are you asking that for?”
He shrugs. “I think she’s hot. And once the doc cleans all the blood off her and she’s conscious? Maybe, I’ll make my move.”
I can’t help but smile at my brother. “You’re a fucking moron. You know that?”
He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Dude, I’ve got a good feeling about her. Plus, I’ve always had a thing for girls with that whole Cindy Crawford thing going on.”
“What the fuck did you just say?” I ask, dread rips through me like a stampede of doom. A flash of the night of Belly’s funeral plays in my mind. The girl on the path. The security video.
Sandy frowns. “Dude, calm the fuck down. I’ll wait to hit on her until she’s mobile, or at least sitting up.”
“No, what did you say about her face?”
He raises his hands in surrender. “Nothing, man. Just that I like beauty marks on chicks, and this one has one in the same place as Cindy Crawford.”
“Fuck!” I roar, slamming my hands against the wheel.
“Chill the fuck out, dude. You need to take a Xanax or something before you stroke out.”
I press my foot down hard, pushing the gas pedal to the floor. “No, I don’t need to chill the fuck out.”
“You don’t?”
“No, I don’t. I need to do anything but chill the fuck out because the girl you just described, the one we left with Marci and Tricks… isn’t Gabby.”
Sandy looks as panicked as I feel. “Then who the fuck is it?”
I see nothing but red beyond the windshield.
“Mona.”
Twenty-Four
Emma Jean
“No!” I scream through the rag in my mouth. It’s shoved so deep half of it is in my throat.
Marco slaps my face with the back of his hand. “You don’t need to be afraid of me, right now. You think I’m going to fuck you after I know Grim has had his Bedlam hands on you and his dick inside you again?” He makes a tsk noise and shakes his head. “Not yet, puta. You’ll have to wait for me. First, you have to be cleansed of everything Bedlam.”
He goes for the door and opens it. Three of his soldiers enter the room and stare at me with gazes dark enough to make the de
vil himself shiver.
“No, Marco! Please!” I shout, but it sounds more like mmmoooo eeeeee! Through my gag. I try with all my might to break through my restraints, but it’s no use. Marco’s learned his lesson. It’s no longer rope I’m tied-up with, but handcuffs.
I want the world to stop spinning, but there’s no pause button, not on the world and not on this moment. I need time. I have questions.
Marci. What the fuck happened to Marci? But I can’t ask even if he’d answer. I can’t do anything. I’m a spectator of my own life, sitting in the very best seat to the very worst possible show.
“The time for begging is over. Because I realized where I went wrong the first time. You see, EJ, you’ve been used, but you’re still wild at heart.” Marco leans over me. Bracing himself on the arms of the chair, he pokes me in the chest with his finger, blowing hot air into my face over and over again with each quick and angry breath he takes. “Do you know what you have to do to get a wild horse to submit?”
I shake my head while choking on my gag as I swallow it further and further down my throat. I plead with Marco using my eyes. Hot tears stream down my cheeks.
His smirk flattens. “You break it.”
Marco pushes off the chair and heads for the door. The corners of his lip curl into a wicked smile. “Welcome back to the motherfucking pasture, chica blanca.” He looks over to his men who step closer and closer to my chair. “Don’t kill her,” he warns. “Buuuutttt... Disfruta el paseo, chicos.”
I’ve learned enough Spanish over the years to get by. I understand his words all too well, although I wish I didn’t. Sickness shakes my stomach. Terror courses through my body and soul.
Disfruta el paseo, chicos.
Enjoy the ride, boys.
Twenty-Five
Emma Jean
I won’t break.
Not this time. Not ever again.
It’s been days since I was tossed around like a mouse between cats, and no one has come or gone except to make sure I’m still breathing. Why they care I’m still not sure. To pass time between conscious and unconscious I exercise my mind, mentally reciting every quote about strength I can recall.
That which does not kill us, makes us stronger.”
- Friedrich Nietzsche
Life is tough, my darling, but so are you.”
- Stephanie Bennett-Henry
Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from indomitable will.”
- Mahatma Ghandi
Keep ya head up.”
- Tupac Shakur
The one I latch onto most, the one I repeat over and over again, is what fuels me to stay alive. When I recite it to myself, it’s not my voice I hear. It’s Grim’s.
Destroy what Destroys you.”
- Anonymous
Burning heat from the sun’s rays wake me. I blink rapidly against the light. The curtains are open. Why are the curtains open? My dark dungeon of despair has become a bright bastille of brutality.
Marco enters the room in a hurry. He doesn’t bother with any of the usual violence or threats. Instead, he orders me to do something he’s never ordered me to do before.
Clean myself up
He uncuffs me from the chair, pulling a needle from my arm I hadn’t noticed was there. It’s an IV drip attached to a bag of clear solution hanging from a metal coat hanger looking contraption on wheels.
“You really do want me alive,” I think out loud as Marco shoves toward the back door of the room. “Why?”
“Don’t worry. You’re about to find out.” He pushes me into a small bathroom and slams the door. On the chipped sink I find everything I need. Shampoo, body wash, even a toothbrush.
Hotel de psychopaths is really stepping up their game.
I turn on the water and a wait for it to warm up before stepping into the heat. I wash every crevice of my body, scrubbing until my skin is raw. I wash my hair three times and while I’m still under the spray I brush my teeth until my gums bleed. When I’m done I linger in the shower. I might as well stay until someone comes to get me. It’s not like anyone gave me a time limit. Besides, the heat of the water is soothing and a stark comparison to the coldness waiting for me outside this bathroom, and I don’t mean the temperature.
There’s an angry bang on the door.
My time is up.
I wrap a towel around my body and step back into the room.
Thankfully, Marco is gone.
Unfortunately, Mona’s now here.
Mona flits about, moving from the bed to the dresser. There is a simple yellow sundress hanging from the door. Mona opens a case on top of the dresser, revealing a bevy of beauty products within.
“What’s going on?” I ask, hesitating in front of the chair. Dread sinks in, causing my stomach to feel like it’s about to implode.
“We’re having a celebration, and your attendance is required. I’m going to make you look--” Mona looks me up and down with disgust written all over her face. “--presentable.” She scrunches her nose as if she finds the task impossible.
“What kind of celebration?” I don’t remember a lot of actual celebrations in Los Muertos. Parties, yes. But Gabby and I stayed as far away from those as possible. Even when our attendance was required, we stayed to the back of the crowd and kept to ourselves.
“The kind where you celebrate,” she remarks sarcastically. She pauses with her hands in the bag, setting out brushes and lip gloss on the table. “Gabby will be there.”
Gabby.
“Does she know you’re here?” I ask.
“No, she doesn’t. She doesn’t know, just like she didn’t know two years ago when I got here.”
“Two years?” I ask. “You’ve been here for two fucking years?”
“You think Marco took you and Gabby, but not me?” she scoffs. “Of course, he waited a little bit longer while I got an education, but he informed me of my role the second you two left for Los Muertos.”
“And what role was that?” I ask.
“Spy,” she whispers.
Mona takes my brief moment of distraction to guide me over to the chair. She pushes on my shoulders, and I reluctantly sit facing the mirror. I tuck the front corner of my towel underneath my arms to keep it from falling.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my own reflection. My cheeks are sunken in. My ribs are protruding through my skin all the way up to my collar bone, which casts a new deep blue shadow on the pale skin underneath, even darker than the circles under my eyes. My eye color is no longer a bold mixture of blue and green, but a duller version. Like headlights of a car that have fogged up from within, casting a muddied version of the original bright light. My blonde hair is lackluster at best, the honey-blonde now more like ash, but my almost waist-length curls are still as wild as ever.
Mona stands behind me, giving me another once-over in the mirror before fluffing and fanning out my hair. She attempts to brush it with a standard square brush, but it tangles within seconds. Mona growls under her breath while attempting to free the brush. My eyes water as she pulls hard, but regardless of the pain, I stifle the need to laugh.
“That kind of brush is for straight hair,” I inform her, keeping all traces of humor from my voice.
Mona huffs. “Then, what do you do with…this?” she waves her hands at my head like it’s a flaming bag of dog shit that’s been dropped on her doorstep.
I still want her to believe I’m on her side, so I bring up the past. “It’s damp so you can just use a comb or a pick. Don’t you remember? You used to bitch that my curls were all over the room after I picked through it.”
“Vaguely,” she mutters. She reaches in her bag and grabs a pick. It takes her a few minutes to get through my curls, and she’s not gentle. I refuse to grimace or show any weakness, so I remain silent as she works. When she’s done, she places a thick, yellow headband in the center of my hair.
She spins my chair so I’m facing her and twists her face in concentration as she appli
es concealer under my eyes, mascara, blush, and lip gloss. It feels heavy and foreign on my face since I’m not used to wearing much makeup.
When she’s done, she walks over to the other side of the room and removes the dress from where it’s hanging on the door. I take that moment to look at myself in the mirror. I look simple, but pretty. She’s muted the circles under my eyes and even managed to take the sharpness from my cheekbones. I’m surprised she didn’t take the opportunity to make me look like a clown or try to embarrass me. Whatever she was primping me for, she really did want me to look presentable.
But why?
I don’t have time to think too much about it because Mona motions for me to stand and rips the towel from my body. I’m standing naked before her, but I don’t try to cover myself. My bruises may have faded, but they are still there. If not on the surface of my skin, then deep underneath where they will always be. She removes the hanger from the dress and tosses it onto the bed. She unzips the back and holds it open for me to step in then spins me around, zipping it closed.
“Please, Mona. Can you tell me anything about what’s going on? Why you’re primping me like you used to primp your Barbie dolls?” I’m hoping that my mention of our shared past, a memory of my own, would show her that I did at one time care about her and somehow strike a chord, and get her to answer me. “I just want to know what I’m walking into.”
She opens her mouth to answer me, but the room floods with music from down below in the courtyard. She smiles. “You’re about to find out. Trust me, you’ll hate it.”
Mona reaches for the door handle, I grab her wrist. “I believe you when you say that I’ll hate it, but I will never trust you. I mean, who trusts someone who fucks their own brother?”
Possession: The Perversion Trilogy, Book Two Page 12
