Woman Named Red

by Stasia Black

  Another long pull on the cigarette. “By the time she was five hundred pounds we started getting disability checks. She got diabetes. A bunch of other shit. The checks went to food, of course. I was the one doing the shopping at that point since she couldn’t leave the house.”

  He continues, his voice just as toneless, “But even when we had the money, it was hard finding food. We lived in a food desert. You know what I’m talking about?”

  I shake my head. Food desert. Maybe I’ve heard the term before but I can’t remember the context.

  He laughs and it’s so bitter and caustic, I swear it’s cutting me up on the inside.

  “It’s where there are no grocery stores with fruit or vegetables or anything remotely healthy in a five-mile radius of where you live. We were in one of those. So the only food available was the kind of shit I keep in there.” He waves a disgusted arm back in the direction of his food closet. “But even then, I would try to make the money last all month, only go every few days and keep some for myself.” His face scrunches in self-disgust. “I kept food from my own mother. She’d be crying in the other room for it and I’d hoard it in my room, shoving it in my mouth so she didn’t come out, see it, and take it.”

  He looks up at me, eyes meeting mine for the first time since I’ve come out here. He stubs his cigarette out furiously. In the dim light from the apartment, I can see the sheen over his eyes. “All day long, she cried for more food. She knew I was keeping it from her. I was her darling boy, wonderful and handsome on the days I brought her a stash.” He shakes his head, his mouth twisting, “But on the days I didn’t bring her as much as she wanted, she hated me. Said she wished I’d never been born.”

  His hands shake as he looks away from me and pulls another cigarette from the small box and tries to light it.

  I reach over and pull the lighter out of his hand. “Stop it. How old were you when all this was happening?”

  His entire body is trembling. There’s a chill in the air tonight, yes, but I have a feeling it has little to do with the cold.

  “Kennedy, how old were you?”

  “Well, like I said, I was seven when my father left. About nine when I started doing the shopping.”

  I can’t help the anguished noise that escapes my throat. He carried the burden of a mentally ill mother who would’ve starved him if she’d had her way. All when he was just a little boy? And then she’d made him feel guilty for every piece of food he put in his mouth?

  “Oh honey.” I pull him into my arms and stroke his back. It’s a reversal of earlier in the evening and he sinks against me.

  “Come with me.” I stand and tug on his arm until he stands up as well. He follows me robotically as I lead him back inside.

  I push him onto his bed and for the first time in minutes, his eyes light with something other than numbness. Surprise. Wonder.

  And still, the underlying pain and guilt that he always carries. How have I not seen it before?

  God, am I really so wrapped up in myself? He puts up such a good front all the time. He’s confident. Always in control. Why didn’t I ever ask myself what drives that unrelenting ambition of his?

  The same ambition that made him run my father out of business.

  I feel the stab in my own heart as I reach out to caress his face.

  God, we’re both so broken. What he went through all those years… His mother choosing her demons above her own son.

  Kennedy’s still watching me with wide eyes as I untie first his robe and then my own. Followed by lowering my body over his.

  My father died because of this man’s actions. But I embrace that truth and the hurt of it as I wrap my body around him. I take the pain in my heart at the same time as I want to heal every wound Kennedy’s ever endured.

  I reach down and guide him inside me. He groans low and then his arms come up around me, pulling me even closer to him. I clutch his head to my breast.

  Oh God, I can’t let him go. No matter what he’s done, I can never let him go. Our brokenness brought us together. Our fates twisted us into this intertwined vine and it’s too late. Breaking away from him now would be like cutting one of my own arteries.

  Kennedy grabs my hip and rolls us over on the bed so that he’s on top. Then he thrusts inside me and I cry out.

  In pleasure. And because I’m betraying my father.

  I’m the lowest of the low. I’ve failed him and Enzo. Oh God, Enzo. What am I going to tell him? How will I explain this?

  Kennedy leans down on his elbows so that he frames my head on each side as he drives slowly, achingly in and out of my body.

  I gasp and raise my legs to cradle his hips, pressing one foot against his ass. Deeper. I need him deeper even though his body is already covering me on all sides. He presses me down from above, from inside. Everywhere it’s Kennedy, everything is Kennedy.

  He doesn’t kiss me, though. He keeps his face inches from mine, just staring at me with those piercing hazel eyes of his. And God, his eyes. They’re so full as they search mine. My breaths quicken. Because they’re full of…

  “I love you,” he whispers.

  My heart breaks, then fills to bursting with joy.

  I kiss him hard and then I forget everything else but the feel of him in my arms.

  Him inside my body.

  Everything he makes me feel. Friction. Sensation. And love.

  Oh God, love.

  I know it’s true at the same time I want to reject it. No, no I can’t love Kennedy Benson. I can’t. It can’t be true.

  But I grab his ass and pull him into me even more frantically. Oh God, there it is, so close. And there are Kennedy’s bright eyes, with no guards up. He’s baring everything to me, watching me, and waiting for me.

  I stare back at him and my whole world is in those eyes. When the explosion hits, I gasp the only words I know to be true on this earth, “I love you, Kennedy.”

  Chapter 16

  That’s it. I have to pull the plug. I can’t go through with what I was planning. Not after last night. Yes, it will mean having to deal with fallout from pulling out on the 12th Streeters. Somehow I’ll have to get Enzo away from them.

  I prop myself up on my elbow staring at Kennedy while he sleeps. Even in sleep, he carries some of his world-weariness. That furrow in his eyebrow that never leaves. Like it follows him even in his dreams.

  I want to reach over and touch his brow, to soothe him, and then curl my body against him. To make everything better for eternity. To be his.

  No matter the consequences.

  I wince even as I think it. Somehow I’ll make Enzo understand. When he sees us together, when I explain that Kennedy had a difficult childhood, too. Or, you know, it was nine years ago. Kennedy was younger then. Maybe he didn’t realize…

  I turn away from him on the bed, wrapping my arms tight around myself. God, I don’t know how I’m going to do this.

  “Scar?” Kennedy murmurs, rolling toward me and flinging an arm across my waist, pulling me to him.

  And the thing is, it instantly comforts me.

  How can that be? How can his touch make me feel better when I was hurting from wounds he himself inflicted? It’s so screwed up.

  But when he nuzzles his nose against the back of my head, goddammit, Jezebel or not, I sink back against him.

  Because I love him.

  Which means I have to call off the plan with Francisco. Apparently I can betray the memory of my dead father but not Kennedy.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. No, it’s not like that. It’s just me moving forward. Holding onto revenge will only destroy both Kennedy and me. I’d just be digging two graves like Confucius said.

  Instead, I’m choosing a better way. The way of hope and reconciliation. The path to life and a future and good things. For all of us. Enzo, too. What good would it do him if I was destroyed and guilt-ridden forever for what we’d been planning to do to Kennedy? After everything Kennedy’s mother put him through, what would it have done t
o him if another woman he let into his life betrayed him?

  No. I can’t do it.

  I look over my shoulder and Kennedy seems to have fallen solidly back to sleep. I bite my lip and start to slide away from him out of the bed. He shifts a little and murmurs something, but I keep going, ever so slowly, until I’ve pulled out of his grasp and am off the bed.

  I pad through the apartment to my room where I pull on a shirt and some jeans. I grab my burner phone and slip into my Converse, then I snag my keys and I’m out the door and riding the elevator down to the ground floor.

  It’s been my policy since the beginning to never use the burner phone when Kennedy is home. I’ve seen too many movies and read too many books about overheard conversations to risk it. No, if he’s home, I only make contact where I can be sure I’m out of earshot.

  I nod to the evening desk attendant and then exit into the chilly night air, walking a little ways down the sidewalk before pulling out the phone. I’m just about to dial the number I’ve memorized when a gloved hand claps over my mouth. Strong arms grab me from behind and start yanking me backward.

  No! This can’t be happening right now!

  I fight to get free, but there are two of them. I have no chance of getting away. That doesn’t mean I’m going down without a fight. I knee the guy closest to me in the balls.

  And my face explodes in pain.

  Once. Twice.

  Not just slaps. One or both of them punched me. Ow, I just— Pain. Everywhere.

  The dim light of the streetlights disappears as I’m shoved into the back of a van. Wheels squeal on asphalt as I’m stolen away from the man I love.

  PART III

  Chapter 17

  KENNEDY

  “Mmmm,” I groan as light comes through the blinds. I reach for Scarlet. It’s too early to be awake but my morning wood wouldn’t mind nestling against her ass while I drowse some more.

  Except she’s not there.

  “Scar?” I call, still not wanting to open my eyes fully.

  I’ve looked forward to this for so long. Waking up to her in my bed.

  When there’s no answer, I drag my eyes open.

  Scarlet’s not in bed with me.

  My eyes pop open all the way and I slam my head back against my pillow. Damn it. I thought we’d really made some headway last night. Apparently not as much as I’d hoped if she ran away back to her own room in the middle of the night.

  But then I grin, remembering her high-pitched exhalation last night. I love you, too. She sounded surprised as she said it, like she was just realizing it.

  About time. I’m not going to let her weasel out of it either, that’s for damn sure. She said it. I heard it. I’m holding her to it. She loves me. She’s mine and I’m keeping her.

  On that thought, I swing my legs out of bed and stand up, stretching in all my naked glory. My cock’s standing at full attention with all these thoughts of Scarlet.

  “Yeah, buddy,” I smirk down at him. “I hear you. Let’s go find her.”

  I toss on the robe she pushed off me last night—my dick gives another jump at that memory—and then I head out for her room.

  She doesn’t answer when I knock, but I’m not so easily deterred. Not after last night. Besides, maybe she’s in the shower. My cock stand gets even harder at that thought. Seriously, I need to find my lady, because I’m about to burst here. And her pussy’s been neglected for what, nine hours while we slept? That’s completely unacceptable for the woman I love.

  And the woman who loves me.

  Yeah. My stupid fucking grin grows twice as wide at the thought. Because, like always, Scarlet makes me a stupid goddamn schoolboy. Always has, always will.

  There’s no shower running, though, and she’s not in the bathroom when I check.

  I hit up the kitchen next, but still no Scarlet.

  I stand beside the kitchen counter and look around me, a little baffled. Well damn, where the hell is she?

  Time to check the phone. She always texts if she’s going out for groceries or anything. I head back to my bedroom and grab my pants from yesterday. My phone is in the pocket and I see I’ve got an unread message.

  She probably wanted to make something good for breakfast after our special night last night. Completely unnecessary, but she’s like that. Always doing little things.

  My smile dies the instant I open the message.

  What the fucking fuck?

  I shove the closest thing I can reach—a chair—and send it flying.

  The message is a picture of Scarlet, but God, her face. She’s bruised and beaten and fuck, oh fuck, fuck—

  There’s a message attached, too.

  Thirty million dollars or she dies. No police. We’ll be in touch in 2 days with exchange and routing info.

  That’s all.

  Just the picture and those few fucking phrases. I scroll back to the picture. Her lip’s swollen, there’s a fresh bruise blooming on her cheek, and her eyes are red and puffy from crying.

  “Fuck,” I yell.

  I raise my arm to throw the phone but stop myself at the last second. It’s my only connection to the bastards who have Scarlet. Instead, I clutch the phone to my chest.

  Fuck. Thirty million dollars. It’s an oddly specific amount. Aka, the exact amount of money I’m investing in the new hotel deal. Whoever took her has to know that. Shit.

  I pace the length of my bedroom. Who knows about the deal? It has to be someone involved who took her.

  No, dammit, I run my hand through my hair, it only has to be someone who knows about it.

  Someone who knows about it and isn’t happy with me.

  Like the Chinese. Yang. Yang knows I’m closing on the deal next week and that I haven’t made any move to include him. He’s a gangster. He has the muscle to do this kind of bullshit and he’s seen me with Scarlet.

  “Fuck!” I scream again and slam the wall with my fist so hard it breaks through the drywall. I shake off the sheetrock dust and start to pace. Think, think.

  Going to the police would be no help. The Chinese syndicate is such a deep web that the cops wouldn’t be able to help me get to Scarlet in a month, much less a couple days. And there’s no one else I could hire that could help me get past their vast network of security either.

  Goddammit, she’s too important.

  But I know Yang. All he wants is the money and to remind me of my place in the world. If I play his game, there’s a chance he’ll actually give Scarlet back.

  I drop to my knees, right there on the floor in my bedroom. I have no pride when it comes to Scarlet. I need her back. I need her safe. I’ll do anything, pay any cost. I don’t care about The Sutler deal. I’d lose a hundred contracts for her. I’d give everything I own as long as I know she’ll be safe.

  I breathe out a long breath, not that it helps my galloping heart rate or the sickness that’s settled in my guts. Fuck, they have my Scarlet. She’s got to be so scared. What are they doing to her right now? Yang better fucking know to keep his hands to himself or I swear, triad ties or not, I’ll cut his balls off with a rusty, unsharpened blade.

  Christ. I squeeze my eyes shut. Picturing any of that isn’t going to help.

  It’s time to pull my shit together. That’s the only thing that can help get my woman back quicker.

  I force myself to get up off the floor. I’ll head to a store to get a burner phone in case whoever sent the message is somehow tracking my phone. I’ll contact a tech guy I know to track down whatever he can about who sent the message. If there’s a way to be less blind about the situation, I’m all for it. Though I doubt I’ll find much. Yang has access to Triad resources, and a thirty-million dollar payday is worth putting forth some effort. Motherfucking bastard. Still, I’ll try.

  Second, I’ll continue mobilizing my resources at my bank. I was moving my assets to get the thirty million ready to transfer for the closing of The Sutler next week, but it looks like I might have to make it all liquid sooner rathe
r than later. Two days will be hard to manage, but if I get down to the bank early and stay on the phone the rest of the day, I think I can pull it off.

  I get dressed and all but run to the elevator.

  And I do something I haven’t in years. I pray. Please God, keep my Scarlet safe. Bring her back to me.

  Chapter 18

  KENNEDY

  “I’m here, Yang,” I call out into the ground floor of an abandoned construction site. I was a little surprised he arranged the meet here in the Tenderloin District instead of Chinatown. But I guess an abandoned building is an abandoned building. It’s empty in here, so he must have kicked out the homeless and the crackheads, though I can see all kinds of paraphernalia left behind. It stinks of piss and shit and there are needles and glass from broken crack pipes all over the place.

  “I’ve got your fucking money,” I step around a pile of broken glass. “Now where’s the girl?”

  A laugh echoes out across the concrete and exposed steel beams.

  “I ain’t no cunt, chino.”

  And then a man steps out from a partially finished hallway at the back of the room and— Fuck. Me. I made a serious mis-fucking-calculation.

  Because it’s not Tony Yang standing in front of me with a cocky-ass grin on his face.

  “Remember me?” Some thickly-built little bastard with a decidedly not Chinese accent walks to the center of the room. “You thought you could fuck the 12th Streeters over, but look who’s getting it up the ass now, eh, cabrón?” Then the bastard laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. As he walks closer and the light from the mid-morning sun falls on his face, holy shit, I see that he does look a little familiar.

  “Francisco?” I ask incredulously.

  He stops laughing and I swear, almost puffs out his oversized chest. Christ, is this dumb fucker preening in front of me?