The Vigilantes Collection

by Lake, Keri

  I nodded, tears streaming down my face. His spicy scent penetrated my senses, calming the tension wound so tight in my gut I thought I’d snap. With a lift of my arms, he stripped off my shirt and bra, tossing them to the floor, never once staring at my scarred body. At the yank of my pants that jostled my body, I gripped his shoulder to steady myself. He helped me inside, and while I stood shivering in the spray, he remained outside of the shower and sponged me down with soap, creating a pool of reddened water at my feet.

  I stared at him, the blood spattered all over his white shirt and arms as he worked. A killer, who’d shot all three men without hesitation, murdered without remorse, was worried about the blood on me.

  His strokes were gentle, careful, as he meticulously wiped every trace of those bastards from my skin while avoiding the new bruises on my legs and the cuts on my back. I should’ve been afraid of him, at the way he’d so deftly wielded a gun, the way he’d proven to be just as dangerous, perhaps more so, than Michael—because Michael would’ve weighed the risks to himself first.

  Nick was impulsive, unpredictable, fearless and intimidating all at the same time. As I stood in awe of his kindness, gentleness of his hands caressing my body, for the first time in my life, I felt safe.

  Once he’d gotten the blood off of me, he flipped the shower off and toweled me dry, before carrying me to his bed, where he wrapped me in the warm blankets. Shame tore at my heart and I cursed myself for what I’d done, trying to get away. I cringed at the thought that I’d betrayed him. He’d given me freedom, trusted me, and I’d exploited it.

  “Stay here for a minute, all right?” He spun away from me, but I clutched his arm, not wanting to admit that I’d been shaken to the core.

  “Who … were they?”

  “Scrappers, I think. Saw their truck, full of steel and copper.” He leaned forward and stroked my hair, giving me a good look at the way his dilated pupils had begun to soften, to shrink from the wild intensity of before, into a calmer blue. “They won’t hurt you now, okay? Just stay here.” His face pinched to a somber frown. “I have to find Blue.”

  30

  Nick

  I searched the perimeter of the mansion, all the way to the back, where I finally found Blue, lying in a pool of blood. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. The wounds at his skull oozed blood around his head.

  So many bullet wounds. As if he refused to fall.

  My knees gave out, and I dropped to his side, lifted his head into my lap. “No, no, no. Blue, c’mon. No, buddy. C’mon.”

  His closed eyes didn’t flinch. His head lolled with every shake of him, every attempt to wake him. Nothing.

  I bent over him, listened for a heartbeat, confirming what I already suspected.

  Silence.

  Lifting him higher into my lap, I stroked his face, his expression as peaceful as if he slept in my arms, and an old memory struck.

  Jay sits in a strip of sunlight that shone onto the floor through the window. The tiny puppy is stretched across his small legs. “Daddy? Can I name him?”

  I reach out to stroke the puppy’s ear. “Whatcha got, little man?”

  “Blue.”

  “Blue, huh? How’d you come up with that one?”

  Tipping his head, Jay toys with the puppy’s tail, not even that disturbing the sleeping dog. “His eyes are blue.”

  I smile. “All puppies’ eyes are blue when they’re first born.”

  He looks thoughtful for a moment but shrugs. “I just like Blue.”

  “Blue it is.”

  “He’s my best friend in the whole world.” Jay plants a kiss on top of the pup’s head. “I love him.”

  I pat my son’s head, my smile fading to something more serious. “He’ll protect you from the bad guys while I’m at work.”

  “But he’s just a puppy.” Jay frowns. “How can he protect me?”

  “Well, he can’t right now. But some day, he’s going to be the best guard dog on the block.”

  He nods, holding Blue’s tiny paws in his. “Because he loves us, too.”

  “That’s right.”

  While the memory broke, I paced back and forth, stroking my skull. “Fuck!” Tears welled in my eyes, and I stopped moving, pinched the bridge of my nose to keep them from surfacing. “Fuck!” I kicked an empty flowerpot, sending it crashing into the brick wall of the house.

  Once again, I fell to my knees beside him and lifted his head, rocking him as I stroked his ear. “You did good, Blue. You’re a good dog.” I sniffed and cleared my throat, desperate to hold back the agony itching to escape, and buried my face at his ear. “Do me a favor, huh?” Arms tight around his neck, I squeezed my eyes shut, my voice faltering. “Watch out for them for me.”

  Just like that, the last thread slipped through my hands. If not for Blue, I could’ve easily swallowed a bullet a while back. I owed him my life. He’d followed me out of the burning house the night of the attack, keeping at my heels as I stumbled along. It’d been his bark that caught Lauren’s attention, as he stayed at my side.

  Sliding my hands beneath his body, I lifted him into my arms, carried him inside the house, and set him down in his bed. I’d bury him the next day.

  In the meantime, I had to get rid of the bodies.

  * * *

  It was nearly midnight when I returned to the mansion. I’d driven the truck just a few blocks over and set it on fire with all of the men inside. No one would find them there. No one would give a shit about them.

  I entered my bedroom, found Aubree sleeping, curled in my blankets, her body twitching. Staring down at her bruised face, I stroked a finger across her cheek, and she startled awake, backing herself against the headboard.

  I turned to leave, but she struck out, gripping tight to my wrist. “Wait! Please, stay. Please.”

  I hadn’t meant to wake her, but I did as she asked, taking a seat beside her on the bed.

  Her eyebrows lifted, in a worried expression. “Blue … did he—?”

  I shook my head, and she ran her hand through her hair, tears shimmering in her eyes.

  She cupped her face in her hands, curling her fingers into fists as she sniffled. “It was my fault. He was just trying to protect me.”

  “He was doing his job. It’s not your fault.”

  “What have I done?” Pulling her legs to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them and buried her face in her knees. “I’m sorry, Nick. I’m so sorry.”

  “No reason to be sorry.” I caught a glimpse of the bruise on her face, and mentally put the focus back on her. Blue was dead. Apologies wouldn’t change that fact, and she didn’t need to torment herself over it. “You okay? That bruise looks pretty bad.”

  She ignored my question. “I shouldn’t have … I’m so sorry.” Her eyes shifted back and forth, lip quivering, and I sensed another round of sobbing would follow.

  Reaching out, I hesitated a moment before placing a hand over hers. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe now.”

  “It’s not okay. It was selfish. I was selfish to run from you. And now Blue … because of me …”

  “Stop beating yourself up. Blue didn’t do it for you, okay? He did it because that’s what he was trained to do. I trained him to guard you. It’s my fault.”

  The gold of her eyes dulled, and her refusal to look at me told me shame plagued her mind. “I just … can’t stop seeing their faces.” She shook her head, eyes wet with tears. “And … I tried to fight them off, but …”

  “They were three men with guns, Aubree. Anybody would’ve been afraid.”

  “Except you.” Her eyes shot to mine, staring so intently I almost had to look away. “You seemed … different tonight. Almost like you snapped. I was scared … at first.” Her gaze lowered to my bare chest, forcing me to shift on the bed. Running her hands through her hair, knees still pulled tight to her chest, she closed her eyes and drew in two long breaths. The tightness of her jaw and the painful-looking knit of her brows softened. When she opened her e
yes again, they remained directed on my chest. “Dylan Thomas.”

  The name, completely out of context, caught me off guard. “What?”

  “The quote on your chest. A poem from Dylan Thomas. My mother had a large book of poems that I must’ve read a thousand times as a child. I remember that one.” Her eyes tracked back and forth to each side of my chest. “The tattoos … what do they mean?”

  Two sets of sound waves inked on each pectoral were the beginning and end of my son’s first newborn cry. I’d uploaded the recording into a computer sound wave generator and had it made into a tattoo design. Over my heart, were two stars, one outlined with my wife’s initials, one with my son’s. Both carried the date of October 30, 2012—the date of their death. Below the stars was Thomas’s quote:

  Do not go gentle into that good night.

  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  I’d had it tattooed when Jay was first born. Three months premature, he’d spent the first sixty-two days in the NICU, fighting for his life. As a result, I called him Jay Louis, after the famous boxer, Joe Louis—my little champ.

  The very thought incited a sharp sting in my eyes and nose with the threat of tears. How could a child, who’d fought so hard to live early on, be taken away so young?

  “The stars … they were … something I used to tell my son. When he was young, he’d asked me what happened to my wife’s father, who’d passed away when Jay was three.” The memory filled my head, no less vivid than if I still sat at the edge of my son’s bed, talking with him before he fell asleep:

  “Where’s papa?”

  “Well, he’s no longer here. He’s up in the sky, looking down on us.” Jay’s small chin peeks over the spaceship blanket as I tuck him in tight.

  “How? Does he live in space?”

  The question makes me smile, and I run my fingers through his soft, downy hair. “The stars in the sky are the souls of the people we love. They shine so bright, not even the night can hide them. And when we’re lost, they guide us.”

  “Will you be a star someday, Daddy?”

  “Someday. When you see one shooting across the sky?” A sweep of my hand over him illustrates the visual. “That’ll be me, saying hello. I’ll watch over you on the darkest nights. And just before the sun rises, when it’s time for me to sleep, I’ll whisper in your ear, see you in the night.”

  A tear slips down his cheek, and he tucks his face in the pillow as though hiding himself.

  “Hey, why the tears, buddy?”

  “I don’t want you to die. I don’t ever want you or mommy to die.” He sniffles. “I’m going to pray every night that you don’t ever become a star.”

  His comment brings a contradiction of laughter and sadness at the thought of ever leaving him alone someday. I wipe his cheek and kiss his head, letting him pull me in for a tight hug, when he wraps his arms around my neck. “Everyone becomes a star eventually, Jay. But no matter what happens, or where I am, part of me will always be here,”—I rest my hand against his heart—“with you.”

  “How?”

  “Your heart was made from mine.”

  He glances down at his chest and then to mine. “Am I in your heart, too, Daddy?”

  “Always.”

  “Nick … what happened to your wife?”

  Aubree’s question ripped me from the memory, and I could feel the beating against my chest—the punching on the outside from someone trying to get past the armor and steel that caged me in.

  I’d only been asked the question once before, by a therapist, and I never returned after. Alec never asked. Lauren never asked. I’d never talked about the murder to anyone. I couldn’t. That was a box best kept locked and stored away. I had no idea what unleashing those memories into the open might do to me. Like Pandora’s Box, it contained my greatest pain in the world and my deepest, most intense love. My firstborn son would always hold a prominent place in my heart, and his mother, my first love, was the only woman in my life who had the power to destroy me. Losing the two of them took me to depths of pain I couldn’t even remember, places so dark I feared them myself. I drowned myself in memories of their voices, their touch, the feel of them in my arms. And when those sensations had begun to fade, I replaced that soul-crushing misery and despair with anger. Anger so venomous and lethal, I’d become more beast than man. I dreamed of blood on my hands and tortuous screaming, not from my wife and son, but my victims—the men who hurt my family. I wanted a pound of flesh for every year that I’d miss watching my son grow up.

  Opening that box was dangerous. Talking about them, without the protective coating of wrath to keep my insides insulated from the pain, could’ve left me blacking out and waking up to bloodstained sheets, and Aubree’s lifeless eyes staring back at me. It was bad enough that she knew anything at all about my family, that she had some curiosity to explore and tease out when I might’ve let my guard down.

  Shaking my head, I braced to leave, and felt a cold grip on my wrist.

  “Please don’t leave. I won’t push.”

  My body relaxed and settled beside her once more.

  Feather light, her fingers drifted across my neck, presumably tracing the scorpion tattoo. “Will you stay with me tonight?

  I nodded. “I’ll be right here. Get some sleep.”

  * * *

  The screams. I can’t get them out of my head. Blackness keeps me from seeing, from feeling. I could be alive. Or dead. This would be my hell if I were dead. Those screams rattling my bones, pushing me over the edge. Hurt. Kill. What made me a good man has turned me into a killer. Love. My muscles tighten as the screams intensify, and through the dark, I feel around, searching for the source.

  Lena! Jay! Their names echo and fade beneath the undercurrent. I have to find them. I know what comes after this. I know the pain that will follow if I don’t find them. Frantically, I pat around the walls, the floor. The dark room seems to shrink, squeezing me into this box where the screams become louder.

  A cold, sticky substance glides beneath my fingertips as I crawl along the surface—up, down, I have no sense of direction. I rub my fingers together, and somehow, the biting tang of copper hits the back of my throat, as the smell penetrates my nose. Whose blood?

  The screams drone on, kicking up my heartbeat, driving me mad with the desire to find the source. They need me. The desperation in the voice tells me they need me to find them. Help them. Save them.

  A warm but stiff body hits the palm of my hand, and I explore the surface, anxious, searching. “It’s all right, I’m here,” I whisper to her.

  The screaming subsides. A sharp blow knocks my jaw, kicking my head to the side. A hand grips my wrist, and on instinct, I draw back a fist.

  A light flips on.

  Movement in my periphery snaps my attention to the left. A streak bleeds into the darkness, swinging like a pendulum, back and forth, back and forth. I focus on it, concentrating.

  Aubree’s wide eyes stared up at me, her hand off to the side, waving back and forth, back and forth. Beneath me? A sweep of the room showed the light of the nightstand flipped on. I’d straddled her body, pinning her down. Her arm was drawn back beside her head, frantically vying for my attention, the other gripping my wrist at her throat. My arm was drawn back, too, as if the two of us were frozen in a standoff.

  Fuck. Scrambling backward from her body, I fell to the floor and backed myself to the wall. “I’m sorry.” I cradled my face in my hands and rubbed my skull back and forth. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Aubree.” With both hands planted at either side of my head, I rocked, wishing I could crawl out of my own skin to get away from myself. What the fuck was I doing? What would I have done? Hit her?

  I could’ve hurt her! The agony of that thought left a caustic burn in my gut.

  Warm hands across my skin set my muscles flinching, and my palms flattened against the floor, my spine pressed into the wall, as her sad eyes searched mine while she gently stroked my arm.

  I shook my he
ad— please don’t ask why—but then she took my hand and kissed my knuckles.

  “I’m sorry.” Drawing my hand to her chest, she held it tight to her. “Please don’t go.”

  Sorry? What the fuck was she sorry about?

  She bowed her head, and I caught a glistening stream of tears down her cheek. “I woke from a nightmare. I thought … I thought you were one of them. I didn’t mean to hit you.”

  My brows came together. “Your nightmare?”

  Wiping the tears from her cheek, she nodded. “You tried to calm me down. And I … I hit you. I’m sorry.” She sniffed, lifting her gaze. “I didn’t mean to hit you, Nick.”

  Quiet followed as I attempted to process what the hell just happened.

  Her eyes flitted to the side. “You called me Lena.”

  Jesus Christ. Drawing in long, easy breaths, I slowed the apeshit pounding of my heart. “I thought she … you were hurt. I heard screams and … blood.” My gaze fell to my hands, and I opened them, studying the marks where I’d tightened my fists so hard, my nails had gouged the shit out of my palms. Puffing my cheeks, I blew a sharp breath and double-blinked. “What was the waving about?”

  “A trick I learned. Helps break nightmares.” Her eyes shied away, then flicked back to mine. “Who’s Lena, Nick?”

  What’s your wife’s name? Do you remember? What’s your name? The therapist’s voice rolls through my head.

  A sting hit the back of my neck, and I suddenly realized I’d scratched the hell out of it.

  Aubree’s gaze fell from mine, a faint blush to her cheeks, as if she was embarrassed for having asked. Perhaps she thought it was another woman. A girlfriend.

  “My wife. Lena was my wife.” I couldn’t explain why or how the next few words flew from my mouth. “She and my son were … murdered.” I waited for the fury, the blackness to crash over and send me into rage. My stomach tightened as a tingle moved through my body and heat warmed my muscles.

  It dissipated.