Anthology - Kick Ass

by Maggie Shayne, MaryJanice Davidson, Angela Knight, Jacey Ford

  Whatever. It didn't matter. She didn't really know which one she would have liked better anyway. She didn't have a preference. She didn't care.

  She barely felt anymore. She couldn't remember what it was like to feel, so she guessed she didn't miss it much. She wasn't excited about the wedding, but she wasn't nervous about it either. It was what her mother told her she'd been planning. What everyone seemed to expect. And since she had no personal preference anymore about much of anything, the easiest thing to do was comply.

  Walking through the flowery tunnel, she emerged in the circular garden, with its fountain at the center. The sky above was clear and glittering with stars. No moon tonight, though, so it was incredibly dark.

  A twig snapped behind her.

  She spun without forethought, raising one arm in a defensive position, while jamming the other fist in a powerful thrust that connected with something, someone. He went down hard onto his back, and the next thing she knew, she was sitting on his chest, her knees on the ground on either side of him, her hands pinning his wrists to the ground.

  He blinked up at her, something strange in his eyes as they held hers. "Kira?"

  Something took over. Something alien, foreign. As if she were watching the scene play out, but not in control of it. She was leaning lower, pressing her mouth to his. He tugged his hands, as if he wanted her to let them go, but she slammed them soundly into the ground again and kissed him until she felt him start to shake, heard him moan, felt him hardening beneath her, and arching into her.

  He tasted good. She wanted more.

  What the hell was she doing?

  She jerked her mouth from his, still feeling his tongue inside her, and looked down at him, stunned to her marrow. Beneath her was her wedding planner!

  "Marshall? Oh, God. Oh, God." She blinked, unable to hold his gaze as she scrambled off him, and then she just stood, covering her burning face with her hands. "I'm sorry," she muttered.

  "I'm not."

  He had gotten to his feet. His hands closed around her shoulders, and she forced herself to look up at him.

  He was smiling. "It's okay."

  "It's not. I hit you, and then I—"

  "You didn't hurt me. And uh… the rest was my pleasure."

  She lowered her head, but he squeezed her shoulders. "It's so unlike me."

  "How do you know?"

  She looked up sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  He didn't avert his eyes; instead, he used them to probe hers in the darkness. "I know you have some… some memory loss. From the… accident."

  She sighed. "My mother told you. I'm surprised, she usually doesn't bring it up." She rubbed her arms, only then realizing she was wearing only a thin nightgown, and little else. "What are you doing here in the middle of the night?"

  "Just a last-minute check. We want everything to go smoothly tomorrow, right?"

  It was the first time she'd thought of her impending wedding day since she'd stepped into the garden. She thought she should have felt guilty. Oddly, she only felt embarrassed.

  She lowered her head, closed her eyes. "I've gotta go inside."

  "Tell me what happened to you, Kira."

  She stopped walking, turned slowly to face him. "Not so much to tell. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was an explosion."

  He nodded slowly. "Where was the wrong place?"

  "A village in Africa. Peter and I were both there, and so was my father. I was working for an aid organization. I'm still not clear why my father was there. Peter—had some kind of business connection there. Anyway, my father and I had gone to the market for supplies, when a bomb went off."

  "I see."

  She shrugged. "I don't. I don't remember anything, except waking up in a hospital a month later." She thinned her lips. "They told me my father was killed in the explosion."

  He nodded slowly. "That must have been pretty awful."

  She shrugged. "It should have been. I just—I don't remember him. It's horrible of me, isn't it?"

  "It's physical. It's not like you can help it."

  "Doesn't make me feel any better about it. At any rate, when I woke from the coma, I was as helpless as a toddler. Mom… she just took over. Brought me home, took care of me."

  "It must have felt good, being taken care of like that."

  She nodded. "I've kind of been letting her ever since."

  "Why?"

  She shrugged a little. "Because I don't care. I don't care about anything."

  "Maybe you do. Maybe you just haven't remembered yet, what it is you care about."

  Blinking slowly, she started for the house.

  "What about Peter?" he asked as she moved away. "Do you care about him?"

  She stopped walking, but didn't turn this time. "I must have once. I was engaged to him before the bombing." And that, a little voice inside her whispered, was why she was marrying him tomorrow. He and her mother were two things she knew for sure she must have cared about once. Two scraps of the identity she had lost. She couldn't let go—they were all she had.

  Again she started walking toward the house. Again, he stopped her, with a hand on her shoulder, this time. She turned to face him there in the darkness. The breeze came between them, lifting her hair. He said, "Don't give up on yourself, Kira. You're in there, you're still in there. And I think you're close to finding you again."

  She stared at him, wondering how he would know, and then she turned and hurried back to the house, grateful that he didn't follow her. She kept running, all the way through the hidden door in the back, and past the kitchen, to the back stairs and up the first flight, pausing on the landing.

  To her right was the hallway. Her bedroom. The safe haven of her soft mattress and the warm fluffy comforter she could pull right up over her head. To her left, another flight of stairs. The third floor. The attic, and the trunks it held. She'd glimpsed them once, while exploring the place in search of anything that would trigger a memory. But her mother had caught her and sent her back downstairs, telling her the attic was strictly off-limits. "Just for now."

  "But I must have had things of my own, things from… before," she'd whispered to her mother, when she'd first come home. Everything in the bedroom her mother had made ready for her was new. Brand-new. The clothes still had tags on them. Even to the underwear.

  "Yes, and you're right. Your things are packed away in those trunks."

  "Then shouldn't I—see them?"

  Her mother had met her eyes, her own filled with worry. "When you start to remember the past, you can go through them. Until then—well, the doctors think your mind isn't ready yet. You don't want to do anything to force it. It could cause a setback that would make things even worse than they already are."

  She shivered a little, somehow knowing her mother was right. It was better not to remember. It was easier.

  But tonight… tonight, she needed to know. So she turned left instead of right, and she moved up the second flight of stairs to the door at the top. She opened it and walked into the darkness, one arm reaching out in front of her, searching for a light, and finally finding one. She flicked the switch, but only dim light appeared from a single, dust-coated bulb in the ceiling. The trunks stood in front of her, two of them, and she moved closer to them, feeling as if she were at the threshold of a doorway with something frightening on the other side.

  Drawing a breath, she knelt, put her hands on one dusty lid and pushed, but the lid didn't give. The trunks were locked. Her mother had the keys. She ought to wait until morning, ask her mother then. She would open them.

  "To hell with that," she muttered, and then almost wondered who had spoken. But she didn't wonder long. There was a hammer on the windowsill, coated in grime. A screwdriver beside it. She pushed cobwebs out of her face as she went to get the tools. Then she turned to face the two giant trunks that were the most recent additions to the collection of forgotten relics that filled the attic.

  The trunks were not old ones,
like some of the others filling the space. They were new, modern, in designer colors. Junk. She didn't feel any compunction about ruining them. She bent to the hasp of the first one, positioned the screwdriver, lifted the hammer, and wondered what secrets she was about to set free.

  Her stomach was tied up in knots. Her heart beat rapid-fire, and she held her breath as she flipped open the lid.

  Six months. It been six months since she'd come out of that coma. A month before that, she had been some other person, the Kira from before. A stranger. The person who was, maybe, locked away in these trunks like everything she'd ever owned.

  The lid fell back. She knelt down and pawed aside the bubble wrap that was lovingly layered over her possessions. And then she sat very still, just staring.

  Her hand trembled as she reached out and trailed her fingers over the glossy black metal. It was cold, hard, and unbelievably smooth. Kira closed her hand around the white grips and picked up the gun. The handle was pearl, she thought at first, but then decided it was white onyx. An oxymoron.

  Kind of like the notion of the woman she believed herself to be walking around with a .44 Magnum.

  And just how the hell do I know it's a .44 Magnum anyway?

  * * *

  CH@%!*R 3

  In the morning, Kira's bedroom looked like an explosion at a punk and goth shop. She'd dragged the trunks down the stairs, using a folded blanket as a cushion to muffle the noise. Then she'd gone through them in the privacy of her bedroom, item by item.

  There were clothes. Tons of them, but none that looked anything like the ones her mother had stocked in her closet. Nearly everything was black, from the sinfully short skirts to the tight leather pants and tank tops. What wasn't black was green. There were cargo pants with numerous pockets in six different styles. There were boots, black ones that looked for all the world like military issue. And there were straps that she at first took for some sort of S&M fetish gear, but finally figured out were holsters for her guns.

  Yes. Guns. Plural. In addition to the pair of matching big black .44s, she'd found a nickel-plated snub-nosed .38 revolver, and a .22 with a twelve-round clip. Beyond those there were boxes of ammunition, a case containing a detachable scope, and two knives that looked so deadly they made her blood run cold, one big and one small.

  Guns and clothes. That had been the sum total of the contents of the first trunk.

  The second one had most of its space taken up by a black wet-suit, complete with flippers, goggles, and other items she couldn't identify, but which she guessed would attach to an oxygen tank. Tucked beneath those items she found a stun gun and a framed photograph.

  The photo stunned her. It shocked her. And more than ever, it made her want to remember. Because it showed her, as she had been before.

  Kira moved slowly to the mirror and stood there, looking from the photo, to her own reflection and back again. The girl in the glass wore a loose-fitting, white nightgown, and her skin was pale. The one in the photo was dressed in skintight black, and her skin was almost bronze from the sun. The one in the mirror had long, straight hair, a dull brown color. The one in the photo had short hair that curved around her face to her chin, and bangs the perfect length to somehow enhance the exotic tilt of her wide-set eyes. The brown had streaks of gold shot through it. The girl in the photo wore makeup, heavy on the eyeliner. Dark on the lips. And it looked good. She looked good. She looked confident, sure of herself, powerful, and strong.

  And the man standing beside her, with his arm around her shoulders and his head tipped to rest against hers, wasn't the man she was going to marry in the morning.

  He was her wedding planner. And the background that spread out behind them was one that was familiar to her—it was a small, impoverished village in Africa.

  "Darling," her mother called, her voice a songbird's trill, as she tapped rapidly but softly on her bedroom door. "Are you up? Best get in the shower, dear, you have a hair appointment in an hour."

  Kira opened the bedroom door and stepped out into the hall, quickly pulling the door closed behind her. She'd stuffed most of the evidence of her predawn raid into various drawers and closets and under the bed. She'd returned the empty trunks to their spots in the attic. But she didn't know how her mother was going to react, and she didn't want to upset her.

  Abby greeted her with a warm hug. She was still in her filmy nightgown, but Kira had dressed—temporarily, at least. She wore a pair of slender, dressy pants, with knife-sharp creases, and a silk button-down top. The pants were brown, the top mustard yellow.

  "Are you excited about your big day?"

  Oh, she was excited all right. But not so much about the wedding. God, the wedding. What the hell was she supposed to do about that? "I am," she replied.

  She returned her mother's hug, then held her hand as they walked down the stairs together.

  "I hope you're not too nervous eat breakfast."

  Kira smiled. "Actually, I'm famished." And eager, God she was eager to explore and question and try to find her past. Her identity.

  For the first time she wasn't afraid of it. Instead she was itching to delve into it.

  If only she could remember.

  "I'm so glad," her mother was saying as they moved down the stairs together. "I had Cook make your favorite. French toast with real maple syrup."

  Kira smiled. "Was it always my favorite?" she asked.

  "Since you were four. Maybe longer, but you were four when you informed your father and me." She closed her eyes briefly. "God, I wish he were still here with us, to see you married."

  Kira nodded, wishing she could remember her father. The man deserved his daughter to mourn him, and yet she hadn't. Couldn't.

  Her mother led her into the cozy breakfast nook, which was a sunny, glass-enclosed enclave off the dining room. The table was set, the sun streaming in through the window. Like magic, their cook, Anita, appeared with a silver coffeepot and a covered tray. She set the tray down, poured the coffee for them. It must have been nice, being raised in the lap of luxury, Kira thought. "Thanks, Anita," Kira said when her cup was full.

  Anita nodded, saying nothing, but her eyes lingered on Kira's for a long moment before she hurried back to the kitchen.

  Kira took a piece of French toast, set it on her plate. "Mom?"

  "Yes?"

  "Do you like Peter?"

  Her mother blinked and frowned at her. "Well, of course I like him. Oh, well, I'll admit when you first introduced him, I had my doubts. But your father assured me you knew exactly what you were doing." She sighed, pressing a hand to her heart as she lifted her gaze to the photo of her and her late husband, Daniel, smiling, arm in arm. There were photos of him in every room of the house. She must have adored him.

  "So Dad approved of him."

  "He seemed to."

  She nodded slowly, wondering how best to approach the new thought on her mind, and finally settling for the inane, "How do we know Marshall?"

  Her mother lifted her brows. "He's your wedding planner, dear. Are you sure you're all right?"

  "I'm fine. What I mean is, do we know him outside his job? Was he ever—a family friend or anything like that?"

  "What a strange question." Her mother shrugged. "No, dear. We don't know him outside his job." Then she tipped her head. "Has he done something inappropriate, Kira?"

  "Mother, really. Of course not."

  Her mother studied her. But then the bustle of footsteps through the house drew their attention away, and they both turned to see Peter Nelson himself hurrying into the room. He wore a big smile—even white teeth in a tanned face—and beach blond hair.

  "Peter!" Abby jumped to her feet and stood behind Kira's chair. "You're not supposed to see the bride before the wedding!"

  "That's superstition," Peter said with a smile. "I promise, no disaster will result if I give my bride a gift before the ceremony."

  "It's all right, Mom," Kira said, rising from her chair. "Hello, Peter." She watched him, searchin
g his face. He was handsome. Polite. Good to her.

  Hell, why was she having such misgivings about this marriage?

  Maybe because you don't love him, have you thought of that?

  She shrugged off that rationale. She didn't feel strong emotions for anyone or for anything. It was part of her condition. She'd loved him once. It would come back, probably when her memory did.

  He clasped her elbows and kissed her cheek. "Morning, love. How are you feeling?"

  "Wonderful. Join us for some French toast?"

  "No time. So much to do. But I wanted to give you this." He brought a teddy bear from behind his back.

  It was pink and wore a bridal gown and veil. Custom-made for her, obviously. What were soon to be her initials were embroidered within a red, heart-shaped outline on the front of the dress, which was made of real satin, unless she was mistaken.

  "It's incredible."

  "Look around her neck. Under the dress," he added.

  Frowning, she ran a finger under the dress's neckline and pulled out a strand of pearls. They were huge. "God, Peter, these must have cost a fortune."

  "Nothing's too good for you. I hope you'll wear them today."

  "I will. Thank you, Peter."

  "You're welcome." Again, he leaned in, kissing her lips this time, lightly and gently. Then he turned and hurried away.

  Kira sank into her chair, placing the pearl-laden teddy bear in an empty one nearby. "That was sweet of him," she said.

  "It was amazing." Her mother dabbed at the corner of one eye with her napkin.

  Kira sighed and dug into her French toast, eating quickly, because she was eager to get to her hair appointment. She finished up, said good-bye to her mother, and dashed up to her room to get the bag she'd packed. Then she headed for the salon.