I see a hotel down the road from the hospital and begin to walk, doing everything in my power to ignore the nagging soreness in my legs. There’s still about $500 in my wallet from when Adrian and I had taken it out, and I’m positive my parents have frozen my bank account in order to cripple me.
As I approach the hotel, I glance around nervously. I anticipate being surrounded by my father’s men, frothing at the mouth at the opportunity to seize me. The hospital is big enough, and I’ve heard reports of people being killed here without even being found for twelve hours. Maybe it’s extreme, but I’ve never been let down by my father’s tenacity.
As I approach the hotel, I realize how insane I must appear to anybody looking on. I still have two black eyes, and my hair looks more like an invasive plant species on my head rather than the carefully manicured, silky mane I’m accustomed to. Blood mingles within the fibers of my grey t-shirt, both mine and my sister’s, I assume. I’m lucky I was still wearing shoes when I left the hospital.
A bored, listless blonde woman tends to the front desk of the hotel. “Hi, do you have a reservation?” she asks, somehow choosing not to stare at me in this disheveled state.
“No, I need a room for the night, maybe tomorrow, too,” I reply, avoiding eye contact with her.
“Okay, fine,” she says under her breath. “You’re on the third floor down the left hallway.”
I take my card key without a word, limping over to the elevator.
As I enter my room for the night, the concept of a hot shower floods me, and I’m giddy with irrational excitement. When was the last time I showered, anyway? With Adrian?
God, even in as much pain as I’m in, I’d give anything to feel him bend me over the bed, pressing my face into the gaudy red and gold bedspread. I think that at this point, I just want to know how he is. My suddenly unbridled horniness is stopped in its tracks as I remember the situation I’m in.
The off-white marble tiles of the bathroom floor feel icy and soothing against my aching feet. I drop my bloody clothes to the floor, kicking them haphazardly to the side.
Damn, I look rough.
I stare at my bony, naked body in the too-large bathroom mirror, and just like on my wedding day, I hardly recognize the person looking back at me.
My grandmother would always tell me, “Gabriella, right now your eyes are so young and full of life. There’s a spark in them that anybody would recognize. Well, someday that spark is going to go out.”
I think that spark has finally gone out.
My once-dainty thinness has been possessed by a gaunt, exhausted cryptid that hides beneath the skin that’s stretched over my collar bones. I can see its eyes in mine, right where the spark used to live. My skin is ashen and dull.
As I start to run the water for my shower, I lay down a towel and sit on it completely naked. For the first time in weeks, I feel totally still. In a huge hotel, I’m completely anonymous. I take in deep breaths of steamy air, holding them in for longer than necessary just to capture them. I rise from the floor and shut off the light, existing in complete blackness with only my thoughts and the sound of the water running.
Taking in more deep breaths, I climb into the shower and lie down, letting my skin feel the prickling heat of the water wash over it. In the darkness, I feel completely hidden, like a deep-sea creature that has never seen light.
Nobody knows where I am.
Turning over, the water drenches my hair in warmth, washing away the burdens and anguish that have gotten tangled up in it. My fingers find their way through my heavy wet hair, and I finally begin to wash it.
Cross-legged on the shower floor, I flip my hair over, letting the weight stretch out my neck.
When my hair is clean, I take the bar of generic hotel soap and run it slowly over my body, remembering the way Adrian would wash me on the mornings after we’d drink ourselves stupid. He would hold me in his arms as we laid together in the bath, lathering me with my grapefruit soap that he loved so much.
In the blackness of the shower, I close my eyes and allow my surroundings to mesh seamlessly with my memories. I imagine Adrian’s strong forearms holding me close to his body as he would rub my nipples with my expensive conditioner, kissing my neck as I laid back in complete peace. He’d whisper stories into my ears, and his voice would send little vibrations reeling through me.
With these memories dancing through my mind, I feel my body come alive with a deep need, one I’d shut down in the face of my potential death. My hands move down to my nipples, and I rub them with my thumbs the way Adrian would. They begin to perk up and stiffen, and as I rub harder, that strange sensation of raw desire and existential dread fills up my chest. I inhale deeply as if to capture that feeling, to hold it down before it carries me away.
I pinch my nipples a bit, deepening the pit of hunger that lies in my lower belly. I let out a slight moan, freeing myself from the fear and self-consciousness I’ve felt incessantly for far too long. I trace along my firm, perky breasts the way Adrian would have if he were here with me, grazing my nipples to tease myself.
After a moment of doing this, I become frustrated and eager, sliding my hand down my belly and allowing my hand to explore my pussy. My slick lips are swollen and needy, and my clit throbs as I slide my middle finger over it lightly. I haven’t had the presence of mind to masturbate since the time in the bath before my wedding, and knowing that I won’t be interrupted this time excites me.
Behind my closed eyelids, I see Adrian leaning over me in our bed back at our apartment. He’s stroking my left breast and kissing me deeply and passionately, first on my lips, then my jawline, then my neck.
In my mind, I can feel his thick cock throbbing against my leg, and I want nothing more than to turn over and place it between my soft pussy lips, grinding on him softly and feeling the head of his cock slide up and down. He loved to do that, and I remember the drops of precum that would slide down the tip when he begged me to keep going.
I’d lift up my legs for him, begging him to kiss my pussy with wide, desperate eyes. He would graze his lips across my puffy labia, smirking at me in defiance as I begged him to flick my clit with his tongue. Instead, he would slide his fingers inside me, kissing only my inner thighs. My clit would swell and pulse in anticipation as his lips would pass over it, one thigh to another.
I slide my own fingers deep into my vagina, curling them and pressing them into my walls as he would. At this moment, I want his lips on me so badly that I could cry.
I rub my clit and labia in a slow, circular motion, picturing Adrian’s mouth on me as my fingers work. I begin to moan louder. I feel like an addict, a junkie that will never be satisfied until I’m reunited with pure heroin that will surely kill me.
My own hands aren’t enough for my desire.
I slide my fingers back inside, using my other hand to tickle my clit as my own fingers fill me up. A fire is lit throughout the nerves rooted under my soft flesh, and I climb higher and higher toward orgasm until my eyes roll into the back of my head, and I’m thrust into deep space.
My head swims as I pant heavily, my hand still between my legs. My pussy is so warm that it feels red to the touch, like it wants to burn me and keep me away until Adrian is back. I pick myself up from the shower floor, very slowly as I see stars.
I rinse my hair, steadying myself on the handrail, promptly breaking it. I crash down to the floor, immediately checking to make sure all of my teeth are intact.
“God damn it!” I shout.
I scramble to my feet, stepping out of the shower and turning on the light, still soaking wet. When I turn on the light, I see my hair flopped over my battered face, and I resemble the girl from The Ring.
Still angry at myself for being careless, I scoop my hair up into a towel and wrap one around my body. The chill of the artificially-cold hotel room hits me like a sheet of ice as I exit the bathroom, exacerbating my frustration.
I realize that I have no clean clothes and that all I can
do is curl up under the blankets to keep warm. I decide first to look out the window, unashamed in a towel. The view is nothing but an overgrown parking lot next to a decrepit, defunct gas station.
Sadness pricks my chest as I’m reminded of the rainy morning after my wedding night with Adrian when we were able to recognize the beauty in the storm together. I think of his face illuminated by the grey light, somehow more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen, even in the dreary glow of the street. As I look out over the parking lot lined with barren winter trees, I feel more lonely than I’ve ever been.
Chapter 15
The morning takes over like a hurricane. My head throbs as sunlight spills through the blinds, slicing through my line of sight like a blade. I cover my eyes and groan. Today is not the day to fold, to roll back over and sleep.
Today is the day for action.
My ribs scream as I flip over onto my right side away from the window. A tear escapes my eye, tracing its way down my cheek as I close my eyes in pain. I need to make a plan, an overwhelming proposition that almost feels counterintuitive in my current state. I have nobody, no resources.
My body is battered and broken. Adrian could already be dead, sunk to the bottom of the sea, or dissolved in a bath of acid. I curse my unquestioned dependence on my family, leaving me with no survival instinct, limping and dragging myself along like a wounded fawn.
I sit up slowly, assessing the varying degrees of pain as I rise from my side. Even breathing by itself is agonizing, each inhalation a staccato of tempered yelps.
Standing to my feet, one bearing more weight than the other, I run my hands through my hair. My jeans are sprawled on the floor, and I pick them up with my toes to avoid bending down. Sliding them up my legs feels like a crack of lightning within my marrow as the fabric clings to my skin.
Five minutes crawl by before my pants are fully on.
I lie back, simultaneously frustrated and relieved. A yellow paper pokes out of my pocket, and I grasp at it, deliriously racking my brain to remember where I got it.
Rahim.
It’s Rahim’s phone number.
My memory swirls listlessly throughout my skull like a lukewarm martini, fractals of our conversation ringing through. He said he could help me.
I fish around in the dark for my phone. I text his number: “Yes.”
I force myself off the bed.
I’m starving.
Goddammit. Suddenly, simply being alive feels like a never-ending chase for comfort, or food, or warmth. I’ve never been without, and now I have nothing.
My phone chimes, and I glance at the screen.
“Meet me. Lalonde Cafe. One hour.”
Ugh. Now I’m obligated.
I know the cafe is near the hospital. With my injuries and my foggy constitution, it’ll take me at least forty-five minutes to get there on foot. I’d better go now.
The journey to the cafe is hazy. An overcast sky looms over as a reminder of yesterday’s storm. I pull my hood up over my head like a jaded celebrity at a smoothie bar, glancing around with paranoia and fear written all over me.
Like a target.
As I enter the cafe, the warmth of the yellow lights inside washes over me like healing rain, almost like forgiveness. In contrast to the hospital’s harsh, clinical environment and my hotel’s isolated, almost apocalyptically lonely feeling, the cafe feels like a return to childhood.
I smell chocolate croissants, French pressed coffee, and the perfume of an elegant yet understated woman who sits to my right reading Beloved by Toni Morrison, her perfectly tousled blonde hair swept back into a low ponytail. Pure romance.
Whatever tension I was bound by, whatever blade I balanced on, falls away. I feel ordinary and unseen in the best of ways. Toward the back of the cafe sits Rahim, unbothered and unbusy, waiting for me. He’s wearing grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt, quite the contrast from his work uniform. I recognize now that there is a poignant vulnerability in seeing somebody out of uniform in this way.
Our eyes meet, and I casually pace over to him, attempting my most unassuming and natural stance. He looks at me quizzically, and I drop my persona. I am just as nervous and shaken as I appear, and he can smell it on me. I pull out the chair across from him and fold into myself a bit, burying my hands in my sweatshirt.
“I was hoping to hear from you, Gabriella,” Rahim begins. “I can sense that you’re in a lot of trouble.” He is looking through me, right into my soul, past all of the pageantry and quiet inaction that I had mastered as a young girl.
“I don’t even know where to begin, and a big part of me doesn’t even know why I’m here,” I whisper, a note of panic vibrating through my words.
“Well, first off, I can’t say I know exactly how you must be feeling, but I know how it feels to be running from something bigger than you. That’s how I know you need help. That look on your face when I told you what I learned about your husband just confirmed it for me.”
A very round woman with a very round child approach the counter near us, the woman snapping over to the barista, her expression colored by an inert, unyielding dissatisfaction. I hesitate to continue, to add more confession to the air around me lest I be caught or reported by wretched beasts such as this impatient, petulant woman.
Rahim senses this. “I know you’re scared. I would be too. So I’ll do most of the talking for now, and then we can form a plan, okay?” he says gently.
I nod, swallowing the massive lump growing in my throat as it crawls up from my chest.
“My best friend was involved with a lot of organized crime a few years ago, and I’ve heard him mention your family name once or twice. They’re scary shit, for sure,” he continues, “but they’re not invincible. Your father has a very bad habit of mistrust due to his massive ego. He loves to brag. Getting information from him is easy. So, what we can do is send my friend back to help locate your husband. I don’t know your father personally, as you do, but something I’ve learned from my friend is that nobody dies for no reason. Your husband’s living body is worth something to your father right now.”
I pause, considering his words. “Why did your friend leave the family? What happened?” I ask.
Rahim’s face falls.
For a moment, I wish to recant my question. I cringe.
Rahim gazes out the window at a woman waiting for a bus, who appears to be screaming into her phone. “He got gassed because he told me what he knew. That’s why I’m here to help you, it feels kind of like divine intervention, like I can do his memory justice by helping you. He was lost, but he was a good person. He’d want me to do this for you,” Rahim says, returning my concerned gaze.
“Shit,” I whisper. I feel as though I’ve made a deadly mistake. How could I involve somebody in this on purpose? After everything I’ve seen growing up with my father, and the things I haven’t seen. I feel selfish, almost evil, for calling on him.
Then, a realization washes over me: my father did this to Rahim, not me. If my father hadn’t murdered Rahim’s friend, he wouldn’t have begged for a hand in Adrian’s rescue. He wouldn’t have felt so strongly compelled to avenge someone he loved.
Rage begins to rise in me again.
I picture my father’s face the second after he had murdered his own best friend, his brother from beyond the womb. Pure complacence, almost boredom colored the way he returned to his dinner while his longtime partner choked and coughed on the floor. Tarry, black blood crawled slowly over the cream colored rug as his heart suffocated. He looked me in the eyes, silently pleading with me, with god, with anybody who would listen to save him or end his suffering.
My father fussed with his steak while my mother wept silently, and all I could do was meet his gaze. All I wanted was to help him feel less alone.
I think of Jonesey, though I admit he’s never left my mind since we found him dead, alone in his house. I wonder about the family he never got closure with, how he died alone in the world with nobody to claim his body
in the morgue.
The collapse of a star.
The burning out of a brilliant mind.
“I think I know what we have to do,” I say in a low voice.
“What’s that?” Rahim asks.
“We need to kill my father.”
Chapter 16
Rahim’s eyes grow wider. “Gabriella, that is not what I meant when I said I’d help you,” his face is remorseful and panicked. His eyes dart around the room, meeting the fervent, knowing stare of a two-year-old standing on a table across the cafe.
“Rahim, you met me here because my father took something from you. He’s taken something from me too. Why should he be allowed to keep cheating and hurting people for doing nothing? Where’s the justice in that?” I reply.
Rahim rolls his eyes. “So now we’re vigilantes? Or do you secretly want me to commit murder so that you can take over your father’s mafia empire?”
I scan Rahim’s face, waiting for something to give. “Yes, either. Both are fine,” I respond with far more confidence than I should.
I’m taking control of the situation.
“You don’t have to join me, but if we succeed, you’d be set for life. You could quit your job and run shit with me,” I say, attempting to add credibility to my voice.
I sound crazy.
I feel crazy.
But I know that without help, I’ll never be able to find Adrian.
Rahim’s demeanor changes, and suddenly I can see something flicker behind his eyes: blood lust. The primordial compass, the driving force of predators and war machines alike. His instinct has spiked his blood full of a radioactive component of humanity called revenge. I see his expression intensify, and I know he has come to a similar place of understanding: that my father needs to be destroyed for what he’s done.
“So it’s settled, then. We need to make a plan,” I say, breaking his concentration. “I need to return as a prodigal. I need them to believe it, really believe it. That way, I can find out where Adrian is, and you can help me get him to safety. I’ll need you closeby, and we’ll need weapons.”
Broken King: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance Page 8
