Want You

by Frederick, Jen

  “Tell me you’re sorry,” I say, pointing the gun at his stomach. A gut wound is the worst way to die. It’s slow and painful. I like that.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he says over and over, like the pathetic worm he is.

  “Apologize for the shitty things you said about my girl.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry for that, too. My God. Why did you shoot me here? Why?”

  “Apologize for raping Camella.”

  “Who?” He shakes his head and then screams because the motion must have jarred his gonads.

  “Beefer the Butcher’s daughter. You raped her four years ago.”

  “Jesus. Who cares about that bitch?” he cries.

  “Apologize for all the women and girls that you raped and ruined.”

  “For Christ’s sake. What are you? Some white knight? You think those bitches are going to care that I’ve said two measly words? Let me give you some cash. You can buy all the virgins you want and put them in a special house and keep them from everyone. You can set up your own little nunnery where only you get to diddle the little girls. That’s what you like, isn’t it?”

  I’ve dragged this out long enough, I decide. I don’t care to hear any slander against the relationship I have with Bitsy. It’s like she says, the only opinions that matter are ours.

  “What I like isn’t important. I’m here for one reason. As you told me, death is the only way out,” I remind him.

  “Not my death,” he protests.

  “You weren’t specific,” I say, and then I put a bullet in his brain and end him.

  42

  Bitsy

  "Come on. Come on," I plead with my phone. "You've been in there twenty minutes. You said that would take ten, tops."

  I shake the device in frustration. I hate sitting on my ass doing nothing. It seems like all I've done for the last five years is to wait for that man. Next time—God forbid that there should be a next time—I'm going in because he shouldn't be doing this alone. Someone needs to watch his back and that's clearly my job. I'll spend every day practicing with a hand gun. I'll learn martial arts: judo, taekwondo, karate—

  “Miss?”

  I look up from the phone to see a patrolman knocking his baton against my car window. Oh my God. I let out a yelp and drop my device. It tumbles to the floor between my legs. The cop glares at me in suspicion and knocks harder.

  I roll down the window immediately. "Yessir?" I'm a young woman sitting outside a hotel slash nightclub wearing sweats, a tank top and my hair's in a messy bun. It's not exactly club gear. After all my yapping to Leka to be careful and I'm the one that gets caught? I'll never see the outdoors during my twenties. He'll have me locked up tight somewhere until I can prove I'm not a hazard.

  "You've been sitting here for fifteen minutes in a no loading zone."

  "Um, right, well, you see…" Think, you idiot. Think. "I'm waiting for someone."

  "Clearly. Let me see your license."

  Think harder! My heart thuds hard and fast against my chest.

  "It's my grandma," I say impulsively. "Her apartment's being treated for bed bugs, so my dad put her up here for the night, but she's old and has a tendency to wander around."

  "It's midnight," the cop points out.

  Sweat dampens my forehead. He obviously doesn't believe me because no one would put their grandma in the Bennington, a hotel that has a reputation for hosting the hippest parties in town. Grandmas go to nice, quiet hotels, not ones that have a ton of paparazzi waiting on the curb outside in hopes of catching cheating celebs in the act.

  Paparazzi. That's it!

  "Okay, you caught me. I'm with the GlossUp." I flash my insurance card quickly as if it’s a form of press credential. "I'm trying to run down a story. I heard that Kiwi LaVante is seeing Jack Torin on the sly. If I get a pic or video of them together, I can pay my rent for like three months."

  Interest flicks across the cop's face before he quickly replaces it with bored dislike. He tugs down his cap. "Doesn't matter. You can't park your car in a no loading zone. Now get going."

  I open my mouth to object when the phone buzzes between my feet. It's hard to read the words, but I think it says, lose the cop. I'm done.

  I flash the officer a smile and put the car in gear. "I'll drive around the block," I say.

  "Drive around the block and keep going," he says sternly, tapping his baton against the side of my car.

  I pull out into traffic slowly, avoiding a few staggering patrons. In my rearview mirror, the cop is watching me, so I don't dare stop. Leka walks to the end of the street and turns left. I can’t follow because it’s a one-way street with traffic slowing south. I get his plan. I drive down one block, turn left. Up on the corner, I spot him on the side of the street. He's removed his stocking cap. His hands are shoved into his jacket. I slow down, barely stopping. He climbs in the back.

  My heart is galloping and my sweaty hands can barely keep a grip around the steering wheel.

  “Everything okay?” The words come out high-pitched and tinny.

  He gives me a lopsided smile. “Everything’s okay."

  I take off again and watch him in the rearview mirror as he begins to undress. The jacket goes first. He one hands his shirt, reaching over his shoulder to grab a handful of fabric and then pulling the garment up and over his head. He winces as he does this.

  His whole body must ache. Even in the dim light, I can see the bruises on his face. The top of his left cheek has swelled so much that it's starting to impact his vision. The bandages on his left hand are soaked with blood. I can tell by the way he’s holding his arm close to his ribcage that it hurts for him to even breathe.

  He grabs the bottle of antiseptic from one of the duffles on the floor and pours it over one hand, hissing loudly as the alcohol eats away at the germs. Tears wet my eyes. I wish I could take his pain away.

  "It looks worse than it is," he says, reading my mind.

  "I didn't think it looked bad at all," I lie. "I've had paper cuts at school that went deeper than some of your wounds."

  He huffs out a small laugh. "Tell me what forest the tree came from so I can punish it for hurting you."

  "Not until you tell me the name of everyone who's ever hurt you," I parry.

  The humor falls away from his face. "There's no one who's left, Bit. It's all done. You're safe now. No need to cry."

  "And you?" I press because I don't give a shit about myself. "I'm not crying because I was scared I was going to be hurt. These"—I flick the moisture away—"these are for you. My tears are always for you. If you're not safe, I will always be afraid. If you're hurt, I will always be in pain. I love you, Leka. You are my life. I've never wanted money or things or other people. I've only ever wanted you."

  A rough, hot hand wraps around my neck. He presses his lips to the back of my head and I find it hard to see. Too bad there aren't eye wipers that can clear away the tears.

  "I love you, Bit. We're going to be fine. Keep driving. We're going to be fine."

  And so I keep driving, holding on to that promise, holding on to his love until the tears dry up, the clouds clear, and the sun breaks through the morning sky. I keep going until the promise he's made from the moment he found me comes true.

  * * *

  “You’re getting dark,” Leka says, running a finger over my arm.

  I crack open my eyes a tiny amount. “It’s the sun. It’s so close. There’s no sunscreen powerful enough to withstand the rays here.” Especially not when you’re spending most of your days lying on a cushion, drinking from a mini punch bowl out under the tropical sun. I reach out a languid arm and pat around for the bottle of sunscreen. My fingers hit the small plastic, but before I can grab it, Leka swipes it away. “Hey, I can do that,” I protest.

  “I know you can,” he says. “But this gives me an excuse to touch you.”

  “I didn’t know you needed one.” I watch him from under the brim of my hat as he squirts a generous amount of lotion onto
his palm. He’s dark, too. Two years of island living has that effect. Everyone's melanin is popping and it's beautiful.

  He picks up one of my bare legs and props my foot against his stomach. Against my toes, his muscled abdomen flexes as he starts to smooth the liquid over my skin. He might’ve lost his pale winter skin, but his body remains as hard as it’s ever been.

  "Was there anything in the mail?"

  Before I fell asleep, Leka told me he was going to go into town to get the mail.

  "A couple of DVDs. A part for that radio I'm fixing up."

  I nudge him with my toes. "Anything else?"

  "Were you expecting something?"

  "Yes." I tap him again. "And if you opened my package, I will get my revenge."

  His beautiful lips curve up. "Your Hershey's Kisses, all 64 ounces of them, are unopened in the kitchen."

  "Your life is saved," I announce and lie back. I peer through my eyelashes. He’s beautiful to look at, glorious to touch, and delectable to taste. With him in front of me, I forget why I so desperately needed chocolate the other night. There's nothing sweeter than him. I run my tongue across my lower lip.

  He pauses mid-sweep, his fingers tightening around my right calf. "You hungry?"

  We both know he’s not talking about food. I smooth a hand over my burgeoning stomach. “When am I not?”

  Leka glides upward to rub his cheek against the small bump. “Then we’ll need to feed her.”

  “It’s a him,” I correct but pat the top of his head to lessen the sting. Leka’s wanted the baby to be a girl since the moment we discovered I was pregnant.

  “Could be a her,” he stubbornly insists. He rises and then helps me to my feet. I'm drowsy from the sun and from the lazy lovemaking we'd engaged in before my nap.

  He pulls a yellow gauze dress peppered with bright blue flowers over my head. We laugh because my arms don’t seem to be working properly and keep getting in his way. He finally gets the swath of fabric over my head and then tucks me against him.

  I lean into that powerful frame of his and allow him to half carry me into the kitchen, where we find a platter of fresh fruit on the counter and the makings of sandwiches in the refrigerator, courtesy of the part-time housekeeper Leka employed when I found out I was pregnant. The man has read every article on the internet about pregnancy and is convinced that any amount of work is too much. To say that he's overprotective would be an understatement.

  I let him think I'm being lazy and when he's gone, I get my stuff done. I've learned to be very efficient. I bypass the fruit and tear open the silvery bag of goodness. The foil-covered Kisses tumble out onto the counter. I unwrap one and pop it into my mouth. Leka starts assembling a sandwich big enough to feed the island.

  What a perfect life this is. My child is growing in my belly. I have a huge bag of chocolate lying by my right hand and my very fine man is standing in front of me with his off-white linen pants hanging low around his hips and his red and white cotton shirt unbuttoned enough that I can see the hard slabs of muscle and the sharp V-line definition where his obliques and abs meet. I shift in my seat as my sex starts to throb. Another side effect of pregnancy is constant horniness.

  "Which movie do you want to watch? Italian Job or Oceans 8?" he asks. His head is bent over his culinary masterpiece, so he doesn't see the need in my eyes.

  "Ocean’s 8, of course. Rihanna over everyone."

  The corner of his mouth slides up again. “Rihanna it is.”

  I stick another chocolate into my mouth and watch the best movie reel on the planet—the one involving my gorgeous husband slathering mayo over his bread. It’s a simple, domestic scene, but it’s my dream come to life, and that is something better than Hollywood could ever conjure up.

  There’s only one thing I’d change and that’s the setting. I rub a hand over my stomach and broach the topic that has been knocking around in my head for the last few weeks. I don’t know what he’ll say. He’s never once shown any dissatisfaction with our current situation. Not many people would. This small patch of land in the Maldives is more beautiful in real life than any picture could convey. The water is so clear that you have to boat out for miles before the bottom disappears from sight. The fruit seems like it is always ripe. The fish are plentiful and the people around us are kind and generous.

  If we get the hankering for company, there are several resorts, although they are rarely very busy and the tourists usually keep to themselves. The one thing that paradise is lacking is families. There aren’t many families down here, and with a little one on the way and possibly more children to come, I keep thinking that perhaps the island isn’t right for us any longer.

  Paradise is wonderful for two people with no responsibilities, but now that we're going to have a family, I want to put down roots.

  “I think we should go back,” I tell him.

  “You miss the snow?” he asks mildly and without an ounce of surprise, as if he’s been on the same wavelength.

  “Yes, as silly as that sounds, I do miss the snow and the pine trees and fall colors and spring rain. I want to live in a neighborhood with a patch of grass that you mow in the summer and a driveway that we have to shovel in the winter. I want to see our kids riding their bikes in a cul-de-sac while I gossip with the neighbors about whether that chorus teacher is part of a cult because she makes the kids sing weird chants.”

  “Then let’s go.” He slaps a slice of bread on a mountain of ham, turkey and Swiss and takes a bite.

  “Is it still safe?” Once Cesaro died, Arturo’s organization suffered one brutal overthrow after another until everyone with strength and power and connections ended up in a body bag. The people that were left standing didn’t have the will to hold the gang together. From the last that we’d heard, everyone had died or left. Mary was forced to eat her poisonous cake. Mason ran off and was never heard of again. Snow and the others joined another, smaller gang who boosted cars.

  “Yeah. There’s nothing left. Marjory’s was razed to the ground to make way for a high-rise.” He takes another bite. He seems unaffected, but this is Leka. His foot could be blown off and he’d tell me it was a scratch.

  “Marjory’s was your home for a long time,” I say. “It’s okay to miss it.”

  He places his sandwich and reaches for a napkin, which he pats at the corners of his mouth before coming around the island to draw me against him. “I never had a home until I met you. You’re my home. You and now the baby inside of you and all the other babies you’ll have. Wherever you are that’s where I wanna be.”

  Epilogue

  Zach

  Many years later

  I’m not sure why I agreed to come. The Moore household with the smiley mom and the scary dad scares the shit out of me. I’m the only one that sees the danger. Everyone else calls Mr. Moore by his first name, Leka, like he’s not some predator ready to take them all down if they so much as look cross-eyed at his kids. If someone told me that there were bodies found at Tom’s Quarry where Mr. Moore works, I wouldn’t be surprised.

  The Moore house itself makes the back of my neck itch. It’s too neat and pretty. The counters are the white expensive kind that my mom sighs over when she watches cable. The kitchen cabinets are a soft gray that remind me of clouds that appear just after it rains in the summer. It smells like vanilla and cinnamon and some other warm, wonderful scent. There’s an actual bowl of flowers in the middle of the kitchen table. They’re round and really pink.

  I hate that I like them. My mom deserves something like this. Instead, our kitchen is crushed beer cans, old cigarette butts, and sticky vinyl flooring. The only thing on our table is a bag of chips that my old man left out after binging the night before. Sometimes there are flies in the kitchen, lapping up spilled milk or melted cheese.

  This place doesn’t look like it’s ever held a piece of garbage or hosted even one fly. Outside, my classmates are already filling the pool. I look down at my oil-stained jeans and my Tom’s Quarry bask
etball T-shirt and know instantly I should leave.

  I might go to school with all these kids. I might play on the same club basketball team—the one that Mr. Moore pretty much ordered me to join. I might even eat lunch at the same table, but none of us have a thing in common. I need to get out of here. I need to find Beckett and Kincaid, say my goodbyes, and get the hell out of here before I start melting like the Wicked Witch of the West.

  A hard hand lands on my shoulder. I spin around with my fists up only to stare into the unsmiling face of the Moore siblings’ father. “Sir.”

  “Brooks.” His gaze falls to my fists, which I quickly hide behind my back. “You forget something at home?”

  My good sense, the smartass side of me says. I give that voice a boot in the mouth and manage a respectable, “No, sir.”

  I’m certain he knows I’m on the verge of fleeing.

  He squeezes my shoulder before releasing me. “Good. My kids were looking forward to you coming today.”

  I don’t need a Moore anger translator to understand that means disappoint my kids and I’ll bury your body so far beneath the earth that your fossilized remains won’t be discovered until the next millennium. I’m big on self-preservation, but that’s the very reason why I need to leave. The longer I spend in this house with Beckett, the harder it will be for me to give her up. I highly doubt that Mr. Moore wants me around his precious daughter.

  I give a short nod and say, “Thank you for inviting me,” and turn toward the front door only to be met with a bowl of cut watermelon.

  “Oh, Zach, you came! Take this outside for me, will you?” Mrs. Moore shoves the fruit into my stomach and lets go, forcing me to take it.

  Or maybe she thought I was going to grab it and didn’t realize I was intending to leave. Either way, I’m left with a fruit bowl in my hands.