DIRTY DADDY

by Evelyn Glass

  “This is yours?” Anna says, look sideways at me. “This is yours . . . really?”

  “Really,” I say. “Are you impressed?”

  She shakes her head in wonderment. “That’s one word for it.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Anna

  Samson steps from the car, walks around to my side, and opens the door. I hand him my bag and step into onto the cobblestone driveway. I feel as though I am in some rags-to-riches movie. That isn’t fair, because I was never in rags, but it’s how I feel. One day I’m sitting in my one-bedroom apartment, and the next I’m being carted off to James-Bond-style hideouts and mansions you normally only see on reality TV shows. I look up at the mansion. I’m in awe of it. It towers above me, three stories at least, and the doors. The doors impress me the most, for some reason. Perhaps it’s the only thing I can focus on as a point of reference. They are wide, double doors, painted red with immaculate care, not a single chip or blemish, and the knockers are carved lion’s heads, golden, shining.

  “Shall we?” Samson says, offering me his arm.

  I take it, and we walk to the mansion, up the steps, past the marble pillars, and to the doors. They open wide before we even knock, and a straight-backed, clean-shaven butler bows shortly. “Sir, madam,” he says.

  I look to Samson, wondering if he’ll ever stop being full of surprises, and he shrugs and grins like a child pleased with a painting he showed to his parents. He’s showing off for me, that’s the truth, but I don’t mind. His wealth . . . it astounds me.

  Samson hands the butler my bag and leads me inside. The hallway is cavernous, reaching right up to the rafters in the ceiling. A double staircase leads to the second floor. Paintings are hung everywhere, abstract art, just like in the hideout. “You like this particular style, then?” I ask as Samson leads me through to the living room.

  “Yeah,” Samson nods. “I can relate to it more than portraits and landscape and all the rest of it. Though I like them, too.” He shrugs, and for a moment he seems embarrassed. “I’m sure you find it strange, a man like me having a passion for art—”

  I touch his arm. “Don’t be silly,” I say.

  The living room is large and modern, with long white couches, an eight-inch television, and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. I sit on the couch and look up at Samson, who stands over me, grinning that pleased grin.

  “You like it, then?” he asks.

  “Like it?” I wave a hand at the mansion in general. “Samson, it’s a goddamn mansion. Of course I like it!” A thought occurs to me. “What about the servants, though?”

  “They’ve worked for me for two years now, and I pay them well, above what they normally get. This place is off the official record, too. The servants can be trusted, and even if they couldn’t, they don’t know about River and all the rest of it. You’re safe here, I promise.”

  I trust him. I shouldn’t trust a man I’ve known for such a short amount of time, but I do, and right here and now I tell myself to stop worrying over the trust issue. He’s stopped being a killer who drifted into my life one night. Now he’s just Samson, my Samson.

  “You were right. This is quite the surprise,” I say.

  He looks at me blankly for a moment, and then shakes his head. “This isn’t the surprise, Anna.”

  “What? What is it, then?”

  I struggle to think what else it could be. A huge mansion, servants to attend me, living a life of luxury I never once dreamed I’d experience.

  “Wait here.”

  He leaves the room. I watch him go, and then glance once more around the room. I try to calculate how much everything in here must’ve cost. The TV, the furniture, the paintings, the chandelier . . . and this is just one room. How much money does he have? It must be more than a million, probably much more. He’s a killer, I remind myself, but that doesn’t seem to hold any weight now. He may be a killer, but he’s a good man, an honest man, a man who cares about me.

  About five minutes later, Samson returns. He’s changed into a suit and trousers, his shirt opened at the collar and showing the top of his muscular pecs.

  “I feel underdressed now,” I admit.

  “That’s the point.” He leans down, takes me by the hand, and lifts me to my feet. “But don’t worry. You won’t feel like that for long.”

  “What have you got planned?” I ask.

  He places a hand on his chest, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but he’s smiling from ear-to-ear, smiling like a madman. “I don’t have anything planned.”

  “You’re a bad liar, Samson.”

  “I’m not,” he says, suddenly serious. “Not usually, anyhow. But around you? Yes, I think so.”

  He leads me to the front of the house, through the double doors, and to the porch. The street is empty apart from parked sports cars, a few jogging women (all of them looking like women from The Real Housewives), and the gardeners. We sit on the chairs and when open my mouth to ask Samson what’s going on, he lifts up his hand.

  “Patience,” he says. “Don’t worry. It’ll be worth it.”

  Ten or so minutes later, a van pulls up. Two men step from the man, both of whom have the same demeanor as the butler who opened the door for us when we arrived: straight-backed, official-looking. They walk around to the back of the van, open it, and take out boxes. They take out six boxes in total, and carry them to the porch.

  “Take them into the living room,” Samson says. “It’s on the left.”

  “As you say, sir,” the man replies.

  All the boxes are carried into the house. When they’re done, Samson reaches into his pocket and takes out two bundles of notes. I watch as he hands them to the men, guessing that each amounts to at least five-hundred dollars.

  “That’s very kind, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “What is happening?” I whisper, when the men drive away. “What’s in the boxes?”

  “Follow me and you’ll find out.”

  We return to the living room. The boxes are stacked neatly on the glass coffee table, six of them arranged invitingly.

  Samson nods at the table. “Go ahead,” he says. “I can’t take you out on the town like I want to, not yet, at least. It’s too dangerous. But that doesn’t mean I can’t bring a little glamor into your life, does it? I guess you could say this is my way of saying sorry for disrupting your life.”

  I can barely contain my curiosity. I feel like tearing into the boxes with my nails and teeth. Instead I walk as calmly as I am able to the closest one. I feel like a child on Christmas morning, my chest tight and pounding with anticipation. My world, for the moment, has honed down to one focal point: the boxes. I open one, look in, and gasp. The inside of the box reads Tiffany’s, and the box is overflowing with jewelry: pearls, earrings, necklaces, rings. All diamond, all glittering, shining, winking at me. I can’t stop myself: I open the rest of the boxes. Four of them contain dresses and shoes from Neiman Marcus and the sixth holds more jewelry.

  “You can choose whatever you want,” Samson says. “Anything. I’ll settle the bill later; I have an understanding with the owners of the stores. They trust me. Anything, Anna, from any of the boxes. Choose it and it’s yours.”

  I have been focused for a long time on my studies, on making my way, and no matter what happens that will always be important to me. But that doesn’t mean I stopped dreaming the dreams most women do. Glamorous. That’s the word, and I have to admit, it’s something I’ve never felt.

  I choose two dresses, a pearl necklace, diamond earrings, and a diamond ring. I show them to Samson. “Is that alright?” I ask.

  “Of course,” he smiles. “Anything for you, Anna.”

  I lay my selections on an armchair, and then dance over to Samson.

  “Come with me,” I say, suddenly hot. It grips me, the passion only Samson can draw out in me.

  “Where?” Samson asks, but he stands up.

  “Well, I’m assuming a p
lace like this has a bedroom.”

  I lay my hand on his chest, and he nods. “Several.”

  “Then lead the way.”

  We walk up the double staircase, into the bedroom, and no sooner has the door closed behind us than we jump on each other, our lust exploding.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Samson

  It’s fitting, I think, that River and I arrange to meet at the dockyard where it all went wrong, where she was shot and taken away on the boat, and I ran away and left her. After we had sex, I told Anna that I was going to see River, to end it all once and for all. I told her to be safe, and led her to the safe room in the basement of the house. A vault just like the one at Point Lookout. I also gave her the numbers of Jack and some of my other contacts, men who I trust. She didn’t want me to leave, I could tell, but she accepted it. Because she knows there’s no other choice, I think. It’s this or wait for River to strike first, and if River strikes first, there may not be a second time.

  It’s late afternoon, but clouds have moved across the sun and everything is grey. I stand on a balcony on the far side of the dockyard, on the balcony of an abandoned warehouse. We arranged to meet below where I stand now, near the water. But I won’t be a fool and wait precisely where we arranged. I don’t know River anymore. Maybe she only arranged this meeting to kill me. Maybe she only wants revenge for me leaving her. But I thought she was dead! Yes, but that won’t mean much to her, will it?

  I clear my mind, find my center, and watch the clearing below me. In my hand I hold my pistol, scoped and silenced. I know what I have to do. If I can’t talk her out of it, she’ll have to die. Regretful, maybe, but necessary. I won’t let her hurt Anna. That’s something I’d die before I let happen. I won’t let Anna be the victim of my mistakes. I have one mission now, and that’s to protect Anna, protect the woman I—

  ‘Love?’ Richard laughs. ‘Were you going to say love, Samson? Do you really love this woman? How can you? You don’t even know her!’

  But Black Knight is wrong. I do know her. She’s kind and loves animals and has nightmares about Eric and her father and she’s passionate and, most of all, she understands me. Understands me in a way even Uncle Richard didn’t. Understands that I’m not just a killer.

  I shake my head, shaking away the thoughts. I need to focus.

  I wait for an hour, watching, but River doesn’t appear.

  Suddenly, panic grips me. What if this meeting is a ruse? What if, even now, she’s on her way to the mansion to hurt Anna? Maybe the servants aren’t as loyal as I told Anna. Maybe something . . . I grit my teeth, anger lancing through my jaw. Images fill my mind, twisted images of River causing Anna pain.

  I’m about to turn around, leave the balcony and walk down the stairs and get back into my car, when somebody bursts through the door behind me. I swivel—too late.

  River presses the barrel of her gun against my spine and wraps her arm around my neck.

  “Samson,” she says. “It’s good to see you again.”

  ###

  She presses the barrel of the gun firmly into my back and squeezes my shoulder with her hand. I half-turn, as much as her grip will allow me, and manage to catch a glimpse of her face. Her hair is no longer dyed pink; now it’s a dull brown, cropped military-style close to her head. Her face is more haggard than when I knew her, and there’s a strange look in her eyes, almost like a mixture between hate and regret.

  “River,” I say. “You don’t have to be so aggressive, you know.”

  “Oh, no? Really?” She giggles softly. “Then why are you up here, looking down on our meeting place? And what’s that pesky little thing in your hand? It wouldn’t be a gun, would it? Give it here, please.”

  I sigh and hand her the pistol. She snatches it from me with the hand that was resting on my shoulder and stuffs it into her waistband. “Really, Samson, what happened to you? I never would’ve been able to sneak up on your like that back in the day. Has this cute new piece you’ve replaced me with muddled your brain?”

  “Are you going to kill me, River?” I ask. There’s no fear in my voice, and little fear in my chest. There’s a sense of apprehension, but that’s for Anna. If River kills me here, she’ll be free to go after Anna. Too late, I realize it was a mistake coming here.

  “Maybe,” she says. “I haven’t decided yet. I should, though.” She twists the gun, and the barrel presses even harder against my skin. “Yes, I should. Would you like to know what happened after you deserted me?”

  “You were shot, River. How the hell was I supposed to know you survived? Up until a few days ago, I thought you were dead—”

  “Quiet!” she screams. A flock of birds that are perched on a power cable near the balcony squawk and flutter into the air, flapping madly. “Don’t lecture me again, please,” she goes on, her voice calmer. “You deserted me, Samson. That’s all. Plain and simple. You didn’t even try and come after me, did you?”

  “No,” I admit. “No, I didn’t, because you had a goddamn bullet in your chest.”

  “Missed everything important, you’ll be glad to know, lover boy.”

  “I am glad you’re alive, River, of course I am.”

  “So what’s with the bitch?”

  “Don’t call her that,” I growl, before I can stop myself.

  “You see!” she cries. “Don’t act like you’re glad I’m back and then get all defensive over that whore.”

  “River,” I say, voice shaky. “Don’t provoke me. It won’t end well.”

  “For who? Me?” She laughs. “I think you’re forgetting who’s holding the gun, Samson. But that’s not important. I was telling a story. Okay, so listen closely. I want you to know what you did to me before you die. What you made happen.”

  I make to contradict her, but she prods me with the gun.

  “Uh-uh,” she grunts. “If you talk one more time without my permission I’m going to kneecap you.”

  She says this matter-of-factly. There’s no doubt in my mind that she really would shoot me in the knee just for interrupting her. I bite down, fighting away my words, and ready myself for an attack. I don’t know when it will come, but it will, and I’ll be ready. I relax my muscles, like a hunter before pouncing. She thinks she has me, she thinks there’s nothing I can do, and that’s a weakness. She’ll drop her guard and I’ll make her pay. But for now, I’m forced to listen to her.

  “You remember the tall Chinese man, I bet. How could you forget him? He’s a dangerous man, Samson. A very dangerous man. A sadist. When we were far out in the water he lifted me up and made to throw me overboard, thinking I was dead. But when I started begging for my life—as we all do, when it comes down to it, as you will in a few minutes—he sat me down and tended to my wound. I thought, maybe, he was doing it for my good. I was wrong, Samson, I was very, very wrong. He only tended to my wounds so that he could make me his plaything, and he did just that, oh yes, in the worst possible ways you can imagine. He took me to an apartment somewhere. I was groggy, half-conscious, and I had no clue where I was.

  “And for two years, Samson, he tortured me. At first it was cutting. He would take me out of dark dank room where he kept me, tied me to a table, and cut for me hours on end. He only spoke broken English, but even so I kept asking him, over and over and over, what he wanted. I asked until my voice was hoarse, but he never understood me. He just cut and cut and cut.”

  She laughs shortly, more of a cough, and then goes on: “After a month or two—time was difficult to tell in that place—he got bored of cutting. He began experimenting on me, you know, seeing how far he could push me. Pretty soon he got—sexual, if you can even call it that.” I heard her swallow, a big lump in her throat. “He reached down and he—he—and he did this many, many times, over and over, just with his fingers at first.”

  “I don’t need to hear this, River,” I say.

  She smacks me over the back of the head with the butt of the pistol. I stumble forward, head pounding, and grip the rail
ing of the balcony. Then she shoves the gun against my spine again.

  “You will hear it,” she says. “You’ll hear anything I want you to hear.”

  Blood sticks to my hair and drips down the back of my neck. My head is trembling. It feels like there’s something pressing against my skull. I stand up straight, forcing my legs to be still.

  “It went on like that for a long time, Samson. It went on and on and on. He raped me, tortured me, did everything to me a person can do. I was broken by the end of it. But all through it, I thought of you. I thought of you leaving me and I got angrier and angrier. I got insanely angry until the rage broke through my numbness and fixed something in me my torturer had broken. I used the rage, Samson, used it like a weapon. He had become lax, thought I was finished, and so one day when he unlocked the door and came in to retrieve his toy, I jumped at him, buried my teeth in his neck and tore as hard as I could. He died, and I fled. Do you know where I was? New York, all that time, in a rundown neighborhood in Queens.