by JA Huss
When I started taking it off I felt her breath hitch. It almost made me stop. Almost. But then she relaxed and I untied the knot holding the silk to her neck. Pulled it free and tossed it aside.
My mouth was there on her skin. My tongue dancing along her earlobe, then down to that little hidden cleft on the side of her throat.
I pulled back, intending on kissing her lips next—and that’s when I saw the scar.
A raised silver-white line that started just below her ear and traveled down across her throat. When I placed my thumb on her chin to make her turn towards me so I could see where it ended, I understood what I was looking at.
I traced it with my fingers over and over again, searching for the right words to say. I leaned over her to pick up the gun off the bedside crate and looked her in the eyes as my hands automatically popped out the magazine, checked the gun for ammo. “Who did this to you?” I asked, clicking it back in place and pulling on the mechanism that loaded a bullet into the chamber. “Because I need to have a little talk with him.”
Chapter Twelve - KATYA
There was murder in Oliver’s eyes that night. Every word that came after he removed my scarf was deliberate and calculated.
I never told him who did it or how it really happened. The last thing I wanted was attention from that family. No. They took enough from me. They took everything from me and I started over. Made a brand-new life. And no, it was not a perfect life back then. Hell, it’s still very far from perfect right now. I’m not a perfect person. But it’s my life. It’s what I have and it could be worse.
I glance at my laptop, still waiting for some kind of acknowledgment or reply about the last video I uploaded, when my phone buzzes on the desk next to me. I read the text.
Unknown Number: Come back to me.
I stare at the message until my phone screen goes dark and it disappears. The invitation lingering in my thoughts.
Unknown Number: You wanted me to find you. And I have. Don’t play games, Kat. Just meet me. One hour. You know where.
Again I stare at his message until the phone goes dark.
I know where.
After that first night we were inseparable. Not true, we were separated a lot. I didn’t want a boyfriend and he didn’t want a girlfriend. So we never used those terms. And even though we spent the first two nights together, after that it was back to business for me and back to the shell of a life he was leading for him.
I needed that client he chased away. I didn’t get him, but I got another one. This guy was weird. He made me nervous. But he didn’t want to meet me in person. And he didn’t want to fuck me. He just wanted to watch me on cam. That’s how the whole thing started. Voyeurism was my saving grace back then. A way to be part of that moneymaking world and not have to actually interact with the men.
I bought better camera equipment and every morning, after Lily left for school, I turned it on and went about my day. The Hook-Me-Up site offered lots of opportunities if you knew how to log in to the right part of the website.
I knew how. My parents left me a care package before they died. New identities for both Lily and me. Complete with school records, birth certificates, and social security numbers. Just enough cash to get out of town and pay tuition at a new school. Disposable phones. A pre-paid credit card. And directions on how to find help on Hook-Me-Up.
But it all came with a warning.
Do not be obvious. Two teenagers on their own can’t live an easy life and stay under the radar. You must work for it. You must know struggle. You must fight your way back to the top.
So that’s what I did. I fought for it. I opened a live-stream website, I got paying clients, and I worked on my photography. Self-portraits. Who’d have thought my life’s work would begin and end with me?
I never showed my face. Even in the live stream I covered my face with a veil or a scarf or a mask. I covered the thin silver-white scar on my neck with makeup. And later, the larger scars with the tattoos Oliver carved into my body with ink.
I have taken hundreds and hundreds of headless self-portraits. And not all of them are nude. Some are whimsical and artsy. I even had one in a gallery in Brooklyn. A picture of me sitting on a guard rail in front of an abandoned gas station somewhere in New Jersey. I was wearing a Fifties vintage dress and I had a lampshade on my head. I Photoshopped in some butterflies later, but all the rest was real.
And it sold! It was my first sale. It took a while for the next sale to come in because not many galleries were interested in what I was doing. I wasn’t sure it was a thing at first. I worried about that. But then I found another artist online doing something similar. She used fashion and accessories to replace her face and describe herself. And she had a website with a store.
It was the luck I needed to get over that struggle and win for once.
I used sex to make my photos stand out. Nudity. Eroticism. Mystery.
The live stream was the money-maker, for sure. No one was paying any attention to my photographs back when I first met Oliver. And once the cash started coming in I got an apartment for Lily and me.
She was just finishing up eighth grade in public school when I applied to the Parson School for Girls. I really didn’t expect her to get in since it was so late in the year. But the documents my parents left us included her SSAT results and glowing letters of recommendation from teachers at an East Coast boarding school.
So she did get in. I used the rest of the cash from my care package to pay the tuition and I worked hard so I could pay it again the following year.
I never finished high school and I never went to Harvard. But Oliver didn’t know that. I don’t think he looked too hard at my excuses. He liked me. I liked him. But our relationship was nothing but a diversion from the reality we lived with.
He had secrets, which was fine with me, because I had secrets of my own.
He went to church every Sunday, he explained that first weekend. And if I ever wanted to see him again all I had to do was show up for the eleven o’clock mass, wait in my pew for ten minutes after mass was over, then walk outside and get on the back of his bike.
He took me places almost every Sunday that summer. We went to the river, or the mountains, or down to Denver for lunch and a walk through a museum. Afterward we’d end up at his place fucking like we’d never see each other again.
After a few Sundays like that I’d show up on that bench across the street from his garage, dressed up like a makeshift schoolgirl. He’d pull up and I’d get on the bike. Then he’d drive us across the street and we’d… have fun. We had so much fun.
I allowed myself until August to enjoy a normal life and then, under the pretense of Harvard, I escorted my little sister to her dorm at Parson, told her I’d call every Sunday night, and I left town.
It had to be that way. I had to set things straight. I had to get my true freedom back if I ever wanted to stop this constant cycle of struggle.
And I had no choice. So I went. I left.
Oliver was part of someone’s plan, but it wasn’t my plan. He was never a plan to me. He was just… Oliver. The guy who wanted to save me, but decided to fuck me instead.
I’m glad he stopped trying to fix my life. Stopped offering money. It made it easier to keep him at a distance that summer.
I could not afford to drag an innocent person into my plans. I could not afford to fuck things up for Lily. She was the good that came out of all of my pain.
There is this thing artists have about pain and misery. One cannot create anything worthwhile unless it comes from hardship, or fear, or stress.
It’s stupid. I knew it was stupid. But I believed it as well. My struggle started with a sick man carving a threat across my throat. But that led to so many good things. A way out, a way forward, and the determination to make it all happen.
So I took that pain. I captured it on film and turned it beautiful. I showed it to the world so they’d all look at my work and think about the pain in their own lives and
we’d commiserate until they opened their wallet because they needed my art to remind them of their own misery.
It’s stupid.
But I believed in it. Artists are delusional like that.
Unknown Number: Answer me.
I look at the phone until it goes dark and then pick it up and reply.
I can’t.
I won’t.
This is a mistake.
I erase it all and type… I’ll see you in fifty-seven minutes.
Chapter Thirteen - OLIVER
“Oliver?”
I look up from the message on my phone and try to concentrate on what we’re talking about in the here and now.
“Did you hear me?” Mac says.
I nod. Then shake my head. I haven’t heard a word since they all followed me into Ariel’s office.
“He’s dead,” Mac says. Pax reaches for the remote on Ariel’s desk and flicks on the TV mounted on the wall.
“Who?” I ask, still preoccupied with Katya.
“Brutus,” West and Mac say at the same time.
“Who the fuck is Brutus?” I’m still behind. Can’t possibly catch up right now.
“Allen,” Mac yells. “The rock star. You know, the guy you took the fall for back in school? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Jesus Christ, Mac. No need to scream like a bitch. And I didn’t take the fall for anybody, let alone that asshole.”
Mac just shakes his head at me. “You’re a liar. You call West a liar?” He huffs out some air. “You’re still lying. At least the rest of us have come clean.”
As if Mr. Perfect ever had anything to come clean about. I’ve never seen him pissed off before. Mac is cool, calm, and collected every moment of every day.
Except this moment right now.
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Oliver,” Pax says, pointing at the TV. “Look.”
I glance up at the newscast. Brutus’ face—Allen, whatever he’s called these days—is on the screen. Video of people outside his Santa Fe compound—mourners and fans all gathered there to be sad together.
The headline says, Rock Star Dead After Execution-style Shooting.
And then another face we all know well is flashed beside his.
“What the fuck is she doing on the TV?” I look at Pax. He shakes his head and exhales a long, tired breath.
“She was his girlfriend,” Mac says. “Do you get what’s going on right now? The media has just tied Claudette Delaney to Brutus. And now everyone is looking at you and Pax, because you two were there. Pax shot her, Oliver. Do you fucking understand where this is all going? They have connected us. Us,” he yells again. “To the murder—”
“It wasn’t murder,” Pax interrupts.
“—of Claudette Delaney. And Allen connects us to the Mr. Brown case.”
I scrub both hands up and down my face for a few seconds, realize I badly need to shave and try to focus.
But I don’t care. I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.
Katya is the only thing I think about right now.
“Nolan is pissed off,” West says.
“At who?” I ask. “Me? Pax? Because his piece-of-shit sister was some kind of secret society killer? Well, let me just fill you assholes in on something you don’t know, OK? My sister was invited into the Silver Society—”
“What?” Mac says.
“And you never bothered to mention this?” West says, slamming his fist down on the desk next to me.
“Just calm down,” Pax says, pushing West back with a flat hand to his chest.
“You knew?” Mac asks Pax. “He’s part of this Silver bullshit and you knew?”
“My mother told me—”
“Your mother told you?” West is about to lose his mind.
“Look,” I say, standing up, ready to make my getaway. “My sister was invited in. Five—”
“And just where the fuck is Five?” Mac asks.
“They killed her, OK?” I don’t want to think about this right now. Ever, actually. Everything about my family changed after Rory went missing. Everything. My parents were so sad. My sisters. And Five. God, it kills me to think about Five and Rory. Everything he did when he was younger, he did for her. “They killed her.” I say it as bluntly as I can just to get it over with and out in the open. “My sister was killed by these people. I’m not part of them. She wasn’t part of them.”
“You don’t know if she’s dead, Oliver.”
“She’s dead, Pax. I get that Cindy has high hopes, but Five told me she was dead, OK? Why would he tell me that if he wasn’t sure?”
“We need to get Nolan here,” Mac says. “You need to call him up and assure him that everything is fine and Ivy will be safe. And they need to get their asses here right the fuck now.”
“Why the hell would he listen to me? He doesn’t even like me. Hell, I don’t even like him. Goddamned pervert is what he is.”
Mac actually steps towards me, grabs my shirt by the collar, and tries to take a swing.
Pax pulls him back before his fist connects with my face, and then everyone is yelling.
A sharp whistle makes us all stop and look at the open door where Ariel, Ellie, Cindy, and Tori are all standing there, mouths open.
“What the fuck is going on in here?” Tori asks.
“Oh, my God,” Ellie says, her hand over her heart as she stares at the TV screen. “What?” She looks at Mac. “He’s dead?”
“Nice secret meeting,” Pax mumbles under his breath. “They won’t suspect a thing,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“Ellie,” Mac tries to explain. “Just go back out there and let us sort this out.”
“Go back to the kitchen?” Ariel snaps. “I don’t think so.” And then she looks me dead in the eyes. “I want to know what’s going on, Oliver. And you’re going to tell me right the fuck now.”
I look at my watch.
“Why are you looking at your watch?” West asks. “You got something more important going on right now? You got somewhere else to be, Shrike? Because let me tell you something. You don’t. Your place is right here, right now, until we get your version of events that night.”
“Fuck you,” I say. And then I look at my sister. “And fuck you too. I’m not a little kid, Ariel. I’m not your baby brother you can just order around. I don’t need to explain myself to any of you, OK? None of you. And as far as I’m concerned, this meeting is adjourned.”
I only get a few steps towards the door when Mac pushes me against the wall and grabs my collar again. His face is pressed up right into mine and he spits the words out between his teeth. “You’re calling Nolan,” he growls. “You’re calling him up and you’re gonna tell him you’ve got everything under control. That he and Ivy are safe here. That Five is coming, OK? And all this shit will be dealt with. Because if you don’t, and anything happens to Nolan or Ivy out there in the motherfucking middle-of-nowhere desert resort they live in, I’m holding you responsible.”
He lets go of my collar and I look around at each of them in turn. West is glaring at me like I’m filth. Pax looks sympathetic, but he’s nodding his head, which means he agrees. I’ve never seen Mac so angry. And all the girls look scared out of their minds. Even Tori. Even Ariel.
I don’t say a word.
I just walk out.
Chapter Fourteen - KATYA
I left town in the middle of the night four years ago. Not because I was hiding or escaping. I was, in a way, doing both of those things. But that really wasn’t the reason I left town at four AM.
I was on a deadline.
It was a Sunday, so it was a day Oliver and I had spent together. We hung out at his place, just chatting and making lunch, then dinner, in that makeshift kitchen. Most of the building was a total construction zone. No workers were there, but they didn’t exactly clean up when they left on Friday, so the only place to really relax was up in his makeshift bedroom loft that still smelled o
f old tires.
Looking back now on the state of his home, and having become accustomed to the finer things in life as the years have passed, it makes me laugh. Picturing myself up in that loft surrounded by dust, and dirt, and industrial things that weren’t pieces of outsider art created by a local artist or ordered from some high-end catalog.
Isn’t it funny? When you get all the things you thought you wanted, and you look back on how it all started, it feels much sweeter from the end of the road than it did at the beginning.
I loved his place, even back then. And I’ve driven by it recently, so I know that my last memory of it is just that. A memory.
The brick exterior, which was white back then—covered in grime, and oil, and filth after having served its purpose as a six-bay automotive garage for decades—is now a trendy dark gray with white trim around the windows. The door has been painted a glossy red and the asphalt parking lot has been turned into a manicured lawn, the perimeter lined with pine trees. There’s a brick wall surrounding the property with an impressive iron gate that has a sign out front near the intercom proclaiming it’s protected by ShrikeSafe Security. Which I know is co-owned by his sisters—one of their many (many) side businesses.
But I’d love to go back in time. Be back in that loft that last night smelling those old tires. Be filled with angst about what was coming, what I was leaving behind, and then make a different choice.
Would we have stayed together if I had stayed? I wasn’t even eighteen yet. Oliver was twenty-four.
I had a promise to keep and Oliver… well, he was still stuck in his past back then.
We never had a chance.
I look at my watch as I gaze down to the street below. I can see the tattoo shop, still open, down the block.
That’s where Oliver and I ended up that last night. That was the last place I saw him—machine in hand, dipping the needles in the dark ink, squinting down at my skin in concentration as he inked his words onto my body.
