by Naomi West
“My dad never cheated on my mom,” I say. “What you’re doing here is trying to make me angry, because if you get me angry I might hit you, and then you have an excuse to put a bullet in my head.”
“My dear boy.” Brose makes his tittering noise. “What on earth makes you think I need an excuse to put a bullet in your head?” He waves a hand into the darkness. “Is everything accounted for?”
“Everything’s here, boss.”
“Okay. Make sure he isn’t carrying any weapons. You know how sneaky these Saints can be.”
I do as Whisper told me: bend my knee ever so slightly so that the small shank is buried within the crook, hiding it. I feel stupid standing there like that but the man patting me down doesn’t notice anything. He does a quick job. He pats the back of my knee, I hold my breath, and then he goes onto my calf. I let out the breath and try to appear calm.
“I have some business in town,” Brose says, turning away from me. “But we’ll talk soon enough.”
“What about Selena?” I take a step forward. Several men emerge from the darkness, guns raised.
“Oh, your whore?” Brose titters again. What I would give to throttle that tittering asshole…
“Did you really think it would be this easy?”
“Do you want to be known as a man who goes back on his word?” I talk loudly so that everybody can hear. “Do you really want that to get out, Brose? Every bastard in Austin will hear of this.”
“And how’s that?” Brose asks. “My men are loyal.”
“Every single one of them?” I laugh harshly. “No one is completely loyal.”
“I am not giving you that girl!” he screams, his hat falling from his head. He waves his cane in the air. “Do you hear me?”
I watch him silently, and then say, “That wasn’t very gentlemanly of you.”
“You think you’re funny?” Brose gestures into the darkness. “I want three men to drive him into the middle of nowhere and bury him up to his neck. I’ll collect him in the morning. We’ll see if that teaches him some manners.”
“What is she to you?” I ask. I hear a note of desperation in my voice, a note I hate. But I can’t help it. This isn’t how men are supposed to conduct business. “Why not just let her go, now that you have me?”
Brose just smiles, picks up his hat, and walks away.
Three men approach me, herding me toward a coupe parked off to the side. The man who sits in the back with me is wide-shouldered and hard-faced, exactly the sort of man I can imagine carrying out Brose’s orders without second-guessing them. I evaluate the situation: all the men have guns, but they’re not easy to get at since the car is small. And in small places small weapons work better anyhow.
The driver starts the car and heads into the dark.
I sit silently, my hand inching toward the tiny slit Whisper and I cut into my jeans.
“I can’t believe you got me on digging duty,” the passenger says. He’s a ginger-haired man with freckles around his nose. “I’ve got the game taped at home, man. And now I have to spend all night digging in the hot dang desert. What sort of deal is that?”
“Be quiet,” the wide-shouldered man says.
“Why?” Ginger cranes his neck around. “I kill for him, I rape for him, I steal for him, but now I have to bury for him.”
“The last time I checked,” Wide-Shoulder says, “you like killing and raping and stealing.”
Ginger shrugs. “Well—still.”
I strike as quick as a viper, taking the shiv from my jeans and slicing the neck of the wide-shouldered man in one fluid movement. He thrashes wildly, his fist catching me on the side of the head, but blood is pouring from his neck like a busted fountain and soon he’ll be still. I dart forward and grab Ginger’s hair, pull his head back and then slit his throat in another viper-quick movement. As both men thrash as men’ll do when they die, I grab the driver and bring the shiv to his throat.
“I guess you’re pretty damn scared right about now,” I say. “Look at your friends there.” He looks; both of them murmur, mouths full of blood, lying back as if falling asleep. “Is that how you want to end up? No, I guess not. So here’s what we’re going to do, friend. You’re going to drive me to wherever they’re keeping Selena. How does that sound?” I press the shiv firmly into the fleshy part of his neck.
“That sounds fine, sir,” the driver says. “That sounds just fine. There’s no reason to get nasty now.”
“Get nasty.” I laugh. My hands and face are covered in blood. “There’s a word for it.”
“What’re you going to do with me now, mister?” the man croaks. He brings the car to a stop outside a dingy-looking warehouse.
“If I let you go, you’re gonna go and tell your boss, I reckon.”
“No, sir!” the man snaps. “I’ve got more smarts than that. I don’t wanna tell my boss a thing. I won’t do this anymore. I’m done. I’m done.”
I sigh. I don’t want to kill this man. Killing the other two was self-defense; if I didn’t kill them they’d stop me from getting to Selena. But if I kill this man, it’s cold blood. It’s strange, because usually I don’t give a damn if it’s cold blood or not when it comes to killing, especially if I’m on a job. But I don’t have the will to drive this shank into his neck. He looks too scared, too vulnerable, too pathetic.
“Is there a rope in trunk?” I ask.
The man nods.
“All right, then. We’re going to climb out slowly together. If you make a move I don’t like, you get stuck like your friends.”
We climb from the car together, but as soon as his feet touch the ground he ducks his head and springs for the warehouse. I sprint after him. I’m faster, and I catch him in less than a few seconds. The shank bites into the back of his neck, cuts down between his shoulder blades and then nips at his lower back seven or eight times. He falls with blood gushing from the myriad wounds. “Fucking idiot,” I mutter, stepping over him.
I go into the warehouse, shank at my side, ready to strike. I creep along the hallways, listening for any sound. To the right, there’s the sound of dripping water. To the right, there’s the sound of men grumbling. I sneak to the right, almost growling now with my excitement to get Selena back. Get her back and get the fuck out of here. I’m done messing around with these Wraith fucks.
I stop at the metal door. It’s half open and inside men are talking. “She got you good, Rolf,” a young man says.
“Is it bad?” The older man sucks in breath through his teeth, making a whistling noise. “Not so hard!”
“Don’t be a baby!”
“How do you think she got that screw loose?”
“No fucking clue. Good job she’s tied up proper now though.”
I knock the shank against the door, making a ringing metal-on-metal sound, and then retreat into the shadows.
“What was that?”
“I don’t know. Let me check.”
“Be careful …”
“Probably just the metal cooling or whatever it is metal does.”
“Make annoying sounds to freak us out?” The old man laughs awkwardly.
The ginger-haired kid walks past me, squinting into the darkness, gun at his side. I leap at him and stab him through the side of the neck, grabbing his weapon with my free hand. He gurgles and spasms and then collapses, bleeding everywhere. I heft the pistol and aim it forward as I creep through the metal door. The old man holds his hands up. “It’s you,” he says. “Oh Lord. No, no, no. Not you. I thought the boss had you?”
I shoot him twice in the leg. He screams, clutching at the burning flesh. “Limp out of here,” I say. “Right fuckin’ now.”
Tears stream down his cheeks as he limps past me. I keep the gun trained on him the whole time, and then creep down the hallway to door jammed at an odd angle into a frame. My guess is there never used to be a door here; it was an open passageway to a communal shower. I shoulder the door open and find Selena hunched against the wall, cuffs
tied behind her back.
“Dante?” she gasps.
I take a step forward, and then another, and another. And then I kneel down next to her. “Wait, let me get the key.”
I quickly get the keys to the cuffs from the younger man’s pocket, and then return to her. She stands up when I uncuff her, smiling at me in a serious, focused way. “I’ve thought about you a lot,” she says. “Does that make me crazy?”
“If it does then I guess I’m crazy, too.”
She throws herself at me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and kissing me like no woman has kissed me before. For a moment I’m so stunned, I just stand there like an asshole as she presses her lips against mine. And then the relief and the joy at seeing her explodes out of me. I know we should get going, but I want to savor this moment. I grab her by the hips and pull her close to me. We’re strangers—I have to keep reminding myself of that—but our kiss is like we’ve known each other for a long time and are coming together again after a long torturous absence. I reach down to her ass, knowing I shouldn’t, knowing that now isn’t the right time.
I want her to stop me, to tell me we can do this later. I can’t stop without her. But then she reaches down for my crotch. Madness grips us and we begin tearing at each other’s clothes.
It’s only when I hear the man step into the room behind me that I stop, cursing myself. I turn, gun raised—too late.
A shot fires and then I’m falling. Selena screams, charging at the figure. But I don’t see anything now. Falling seems to take a long time. I topple like a tower. When I finally crash into the ground, everything goes dark.
The last thing I hear before falling into the abyss is a bony crack and Selena’s body hitting the floor beside mine.
Chapter Twelve
Selena
I fell to the ground from the force of his blow. How many times had I taken a hit like that, a hit so hard that I felt as if all my body would break?
And I knew what was going to happen next. I was going to cry and beg and tell him that I was sorry and I’d never do it again. I was going to kiss him and soothe him as though he wasn’t the one at fault. So much of my life had been spent convincing my abuser that I was the one in the wrong. But now, as I lay there bleeding and coughing and struggling to catch my breath, I didn’t want to soothe him. He didn’t deserve to be soothed. A wild instinct I had never before experienced gripped me and, before I knew what I was doing, I was laughing hysterically.
“You think this is funny?” Clint whispered, kneeling down next to me. “Are you really going to start laughing right now, Selena? Is this really how you’re going to handle this? I think you need to get a grip. I think you need to understand a few things, all right? By the way you’re acting I can tell that you completely misunderstand what just happened. I’m not being funny here. I’m trying to make you see sense.”
I just kept on laughing. I couldn’t stop. I knew it would make him crazy and yet I just forced that mad laughter out. He deserved to be laughed at more than anybody I knew. He was an evil, puny, pathetic man and I wouldn’t be his plaything any longer. He darted his hand out and gripped the back of my hair, yanking my head back so that I was staring up into his eyes.
“I’m going to give you five seconds—”
“No!” I snarled. “You won’t give me a thing. You won’t give me one fucking second!”
He was so stunned, I was able to bat his hand away and jump to my feet.
“Selena …” he warned. “Don’t go down this road.”
“What road is that?” I stepped around the couch, putting it between us. “The road where you finally learn what a pathetic little man you are?”
“I’m pathetic?” He spit on the floor. “I’m pathetic? You’re the one secretly calling your mother! What are you, twelve?”
“The police are on their way,” I said, though I wasn’t sure.
He snorted. “I thought they might be, too, but it’s been too long. I’m a smart man, Selena. I know you like to belittle me and humiliate me but I really am a smart man; I read a lot. I know you’ve never opened a newspaper in your life, but I happen to enjoy keeping up to date with current affairs. The average police response time in Austin is ten minutes.” He tapped the side of his head condescendingly. “Maybe use your brain in future, if you have one?”
I didn’t want his words to wound me, but they did. I felt tears forming. I fought them back. I’m done, I told myself. Whatever happens now I’m never letting this man make me cry again.
“I’m leaving you,” I said.
His face dropped. “You’re not leaving me,” he said. “Don’t even say that.”
“I’m leaving you today, and there’s nothing you can do about it!” I cried, walking toward the bedroom.
“You’ve gone crazy!” he roared, chasing after me.
He grabbed my wrist and pulled his fist back, ready to punch me. I yanked my hand away and offered him my face, standing with my arms at my sides instead of raised in protection as they usually were. “Hit me then!” I screamed. “If you think you’re so tough! If it makes you feel better about yourself! Do you think it’s my fault you don’t get promotions, or respect? Do you think it’s my fault you didn’t do well in college? Do you think it’s my fault your parents didn’t love you? Is any of that my fault, Clint?”
He paused, fist trembling. He wanted to punch me, but he’d never seen me like this before.
I took a step forward. I felt powerful. For the first time in years, it was like I was a person. “I didn’t force you to skip classes and get shitty grades. I didn’t force you to go out partying instead of doing your work. And I didn’t make it so you didn’t have a mind capable of doing good work in the first place! You’re pathetic. I see that now. All you do is pity yourself, every day of your life. Pity, pity, pity. It’s pathetic! If hitting me makes you feel better, then fucking do it!” I took another step forward, speaking right into his face. “But just know that I’m going. If you stop me tonight, I’ll go tomorrow, or the next day. I’m leaving you the first chance I get, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
He was quiet for a long time, fist raised, watching me with hate in his eyes. Then he said, “What’s happened to you, Selena?” He lowered his fist and tried to bring his hand to my face. That was when I knew I’d won: when he tried to get emotional, to make me forget what an animal he was. “Talk to me. You can talk to me.”
I stepped back out of his reach. “What’s the matter with me?” I pointed at my split eyebrow. “Maybe this.” I lifted my shirt to show him the purple bruises on my belly. “Or maybe these.” I showed him my wrist, red from where he’d grabbed me. “Or this! Take your pick. I’m leaving. Let me pack.”
He stood in the doorway, pouting and looking like a little kid, arms folded. He wanted me to soften, go to him and lay my head on his chest and tell him I didn’t mean it. I’d never really leave him. Of course he was in the right; he was always in the right. I was just a silly ditzy woman.
“You’re breaking my heart,” he murmured as I zipped up the suitcase.
It was so predictable, I almost started laughing again. In that moment I saw the cycle clearly. He would abuse me and then emotionally manipulate me, and on other nights it would work. I would feel bad for upsetting him. Even as I bled and ached and bruised from the abuse, I would feel guilty for making him feel bad. I would rub his forehead like he was a toddler and tell him everything was going to be okay. But not today.
I barged past him and made for the door. “I don’t care,” I said. “I’m done caring.”
“You’re done caring!” He leaped forward and grabbed the suitcase out of my hand. “What sort of thing is that to say? What sort of woman are you?”
“I’m a tired and bored woman. Yes, bored—because this has happened before, and if I stay here it will happen again. Give me the bag, please.”
“You can’t leave,” he said. “You can’t leave me.”
“I can. I am.”
I reached my hand out for the bag. “Give it to me, Clint. I’m not playing.”
“And you think I am?” His face grew dark. His cheeks trembled. All the self-pity vanished. “You think I am!” He threw the suitcase at me and ran for the kitchen. I heard him rooting around in drawers. I knew what he was doing.
My survival instincts kicked in, fear driving me forward. I forgot about the bag and made for the door. I fumbled with the latch, too late … He swiped the knife across my arm, cutting a deep gash in my bicep, and then stabbed me through the back of the leg. I screamed and swung for him, my fist catching him in the jaw. I hit him over and over, but he lashed out again. The blade stabbed me through the hand.
