by Soto, S. M.
“Fucking Christ, Blossom. You gotta stop leaving your bodily fluids at every goddamn crime scene,” he growls, striding toward me.
My eyes widen with incredulity, and a cold sweat trickles along my temples. “Are you kidding me?” I yell when he grabs my arm roughly, dragging me back to the car. “Maybe if you would stop killing people!”
He shoots me a glare. “It was either me or them. They were following us, and this was the best way to get rid of them.”
It suddenly hits me. The knocking on the motel door earlier. Why he was so quick to drag me into the car and drive away. These people wanted him dead.
I stare at him, mouth agape and eyes wide. How can he be so nonchalant about death, about all of this?
“Who are you?” I whisper, my face stricken with horror.
He doesn’t smile when he answers—that’s how I know he isn’t joking. “A man who gets paid very large sums of money to get rid of people.”
And that’s when it hits me. He’s a hitman. He kills people for a living. And now I’m stuck with him for god knows how long. At the rate things are going, I’d say I only have a few more days. If that.
A few feet away from the car is when my sense of fight or flight hits me. I jerk my arm out of his grip and make a run for it. My feet pound against the soil as I push farther into the greenage. I can hear him closing in on me. The hysteria claws at my throat as I push harder, trying to escape him.
It’s useless.
His body tackles me from behind and I’m suddenly airborne. Percivale slams me down against the cold earth, knocking the air out of me. I struggle beneath him, the blood roaring through my veins, my vision seeing red as I try kick, scratch, and claw at him. I’m just about to scream, but his hand wraps around my throat, cutting off my air supply. I scramble beneath him, my chest burning with lack of oxygen and my eyes wide with fear, tears spilling over as I wait for him to finally do it. Finally kill me.
“So pretty when you cry,” he muses, gently wiping my tears with his free hand. The touch and the lilt to his voice is so at odds with the fact that he’s choking me to death. Percivale leans into me, his face hovering in front of mine. He stares down at me with a wicked glint in his eyes.
“I’m going to enjoy breaking you, Blossom. Piece by fucking piece,” he growls. “And what’s more? When I steal your last breath from you, I’ll fucking revel in watching your fall from grace,” he whispers darkly, and he wipes one of his hands that is smothered in blood across my face roughly. A shudder runs through my body, and more tears spill from my eyes at the thought of someone else’s blood on me. He bends down, leaning toward my ear, still holding me down with his body and his grip on my neck. “You look good drenched in blood.”
His hand releases from my neck and I suck in a lungful of air, choking on my breaths. My throat is raw and feels bruised, and my head is swimming. That doesn’t stop Percivale. He yanks me up by his fist wound in my hair and drags me back to the car.
This time, I don’t fight him.
* * *
We’ve been driving for hours, and we’re finally stopping for gas and food. He switched cars a while ago. The minute he pulled back onto the road, he drove for a few miles before pulling off at a car lot and ordering me to get out. We switched vehicles just like that. No questions. No nothing.
I didn’t dare question him. I didn’t want to know what would happen if I did. My throat is still raw, and each time I swallow it feels like my esophagus is bruised. The side of my head is throbbing from where he hit me last night, and my scalp feels tender to the touch.
I’ve tried striking up conversations with him during the drive, but for the most part it’s been in vain. He’s barely restraining his anger after my attempt at running. Again.
We eventually pull up to a gas station in Anderson to fill up, then go through the drive-through. He parks at the side of the building and turns off the car. Percivale digs through the bag and hands me a burger and fries. My stomach rumbles embarrassingly loud as I snatch it out of his hand.
“Thank god, I’m starving.”
We eat in silence. He doesn’t even turn on the radio to drone out our chewing, which is annoying for obvious reasons. He always seems like he’s on the lookout even while we eat. He looks in the rearview mirror, his side mirrors, out the window, and just to be sure, he’ll glance covertly over his shoulder. I guess when you kill people for a living, you’re bound to become paranoid.
“Are you from New York?” I ask, balling up the paper my hamburger was wrapped in.
“No.”
My brows dip into a frown. “Then why did you come to my bakery if you weren’t from there? Were you finishing a…job?”
Slowly, his gaze meets mine and the look in his eyes has every hair on my body standing at attention. I guess I’ll take that as a yes.
“Did you do it?” I ask, needing to know if that’s how he stumbled into my bakery. How did he kill that person? Why did he do it? Could I have known them?
His sharp tone slices through me. “Shut the fuck up and stop asking questions.”
He seems angry now, so wisely, I close my mouth and finish off the rest of my fries, forcing my gaze out of the window for the remainder of our meal.
Just as we’re about to head back on the road, my bladder gives me a kick of warning, and I realize I’ll need to use the restroom if we’re going to spend another ungodly amount of time driving in this car.
“I need to use the bathroom. Do you have to escort me?” There’s a bit of snark in my tone, and it doesn’t look like Percivale appreciates that at all.
“Here.” He thrusts a cup toward me, and I glance down at it, eyeing the offending plastic warily.
“What am I supposed to do with that?”
He smirks. “Pee in it.”
“What?” Heat rushes to my face, and my anger boils to the surface. I no longer feel bad for trying to run earlier; now I just want to punch him in his stupidly handsome face. “I’m not peeing in a plastic cup! Are you insane?”
“It’s either the cup or your jeans, sweetheart. Make the choice.”
“Why can’t I go inside like a human being? I don’t even care if you stand there and watch, but I’m not peeing in this cup.”
His eyes flit toward the side of my head where it’s been throbbing on and off all day, and I finally understand. My lips thin. “How bad does it look?”
He cocks his head to the side and looks at me, like he’s contemplating what to say, but he doesn’t ever utter a word, just keeps his thoughts to himself.
Narrowing my eyes, I shift forward and snap down the sun visor. I pull the flap up and examine my head in the little mirror. It’s not as bad as I thought it would be. No blood or anything, just an angry welt that’s a blend of purple and blue. The rest of my appearance is a different story. My hair is like a bird’s nest, knotted from him fisting it and yanking on the strands. There are smudges of dirt on my face and dried blood around my neck and cheek from his handiwork earlier.
“Look,” I start, trying to reason with him. “It’s just a quick bathroom break in a fast-food joint. No one is going to ask any questions, and I give you my word I won’t say anything if anyone asks.”
Percivale chuckles, scratching at his jaw. “Oh, I know you won’t. Because if you do, I’ll kill everyone in there while you watch, then I’ll kill you.”
My chest tightens painfully, and all the anger I’ve been holding in since he clocked me with his gun comes spurting past my lips.
“I get it!” I yell. “I know you’re going to kill me, okay? You don’t have to keep reminding me, because I. Get. It!” My chest is heaving as I try to regain some composure while I wait for him to say something, and when he does, I have to make a conscious effort not to scream.
“So, the cup or your jeans?”
Snatching the cup out of his hand, I climb over the console and into the back seat. “I fucking hate you,” I hiss.
His dark chuckle grates on my nerve
s. “You’ve mentioned that already, princess.”
Here comes the Boom
Blossom
“Would you fucking sit still,” Percivale growls at me like I’m a petulant child. I shoot him a scathing glare.
“I can’t!” I hiss. “My legs are cramping from sitting so long.”
I swear I catch him roll his eyes at me.
“Can we please just stop somewhere so I can stretch my legs?”
“Or I can just knock your ass out again and toss you in the trunk.”
My eyes flare with anger, and it’s a struggle not to gouge his eyes out while he drives. Blowing out a steady breath of air to maintain my composure, I return my gaze back on the road, and my eyes widen when they see the sign off the highway. There’s a shopping center up ahead.
“How about this, you pull off on the next exit. We get out at the gas station, you can top off, and I’ll walk inside the store and get some food while I stretch my legs. It’ll eliminate the need to stop for food again,” I say, in hopes he’ll see my reasoning.
“No.”
I bare my teeth in a snarl at the cold response.
“You asshole! First you take me from everything I know, turn my entire world upside down, and now, now you won’t even let me walk inside of a damn gas station? Look at me!” I yell, pointing to the side of my face like a crazy person. “I look like I’ve been through hell and back.”
“Oh, so the princess is upset she’s been snatched from the castle? Boo-fucking-hoo.”
“Princess? Boo-fucking-hoo? You don’t even know me! You’re just a sorry, good-for-nothing bastard—”
Percivale suddenly slams his fist down on the steering wheel, startling me silent when he roars, “Enough!”
Just as we’re about to pass the exit for the chance to stretch my legs, he suddenly tugs on the wheel and veers toward the exit. The muscles in my legs damn near sing in rejoice.
As he pulls the car up to the eerily empty shopping center, I can’t suppress the shiver that runs down my spine. The shopping center isn’t completely deserted, but it also isn’t jam-packed with people. There’s maybe about ten cars total.
I don’t even care to evaluate the eerie vibe coursing through my body, I just need to be away from him. Hours sitting next to this man will surely drive anyone insane. I tried coercing him into conversation, thinking after our fast-food meal he was in a better mood.
Not the case.
He only humored me with discussion a few times like when I asked what it was like to be a hitman—that one didn’t go over so well; he just sort of looked at me like I was an idiot and hell, maybe I was.
I finally ask the one thing that I have been dying to know the answer to. I figure once he stops driving and we get food, he won’t be so hangry and hopefully he’ll be inclined to at least answer one of my questions—or say anything other than sit brooding in silence.
“How did you become a hitman?”
With his left hand slung casually over the wheel, he doesn’t bother turning to look at me, he doesn’t react to my question at all. So, I try a different tactic.
“Does your family know what you do? Do they care?”
The muscle along his jaw ticks. “They’re dead.”
I let out an inaudible gasp.
Well, that was…not what I was expecting.
“I’m sorry. What happened to them?”
I don’t really expect him to answer me, so when he does, it surprises me into silence. “My oldest brother was murdered when I was just a kid. My family was into some bad shit, and he ended up paying for it. A few months later, my other brother and my father were murdered too.”
“Percivale…” My saddened whisper trails off.
“They were killed in front of me and my mother. We hid in a compartment my dad built.”
I blanch, my face paling as I process his words. And suddenly, everything about him starts to make a little more sense. Why he’s so rough around the edges. Why death seems to be of such little consequence to him. It’s because he’s been exposed to death and dead bodies since he was a child. I’m no psychiatrist, but even I know the detrimental effects a traumatic experience like that can have on the child’s mind, let alone shape it.
“And your mother…?”
His face tightens. “Died three years ago. Cancer.” He lets out a dark, self-depreciating chuckle.
My heart breaks for him. I can’t image losing my entire family, especially the way he did. All the anger he must hold inside is why he is the way he is—and honestly, I can’t really say I blame him. It still makes me wonder what on earth made him decide to kill people for a living. Then, like the answer is slapping me in the face, it hits me. I cock my head to the side and watch him while he drives. He’s angry. Always angry. It radiates off him. But now that I know what I know, I can also see pain in the way he holds himself. He’s the type of man who turns his grief into anger, using it to his benefit.
“You want revenge.”
I don’t pose it as a question because I know it isn’t one. It’s the truth. It’s what makes the most sense. Percivale wants revenge for the death of his family. I don’t know if killing people gives him that sense of revenge in the form of bloodlust, or if there’s a bigger picture I haven’t quite understood yet.
It’s small, but I’m able to catch the slight tic in his jaw. I’m beginning to notice his tells of frustration and this? Definitely one of them.
“Something like that,” he eventually replies, his voice low, tinged with darkness.
After that topic, it seemed like Percivale ignored any questions I asked. He probably felt I already knew too much. And technically, maybe I did.
We get out of the car and head inside the gas station. I know I look like hell, but honestly, I couldn’t really care less. All I want is food and possibly some wipes to clean this blood off my skin.
I head straight for the chip aisle, grabbing handfuls of random snacks. After that, I move toward the candy, pulling off all my favorites—Snickers, Skittles, York’s. Percivale doesn’t have anything when I meet him at the register, just that permanently sour look on his face as he glances all around us.
We pay without a hitch. The stubby guy behind the counter eyes us warily but doesn’t say whatever it is that’s on his mind. When I make a move to grab the bags and head out to the car, Percivale grips my arm so forcefully that I whimper in pain.
“You’re hurting me—” I stop midsentence when I look up at Percivale and realize his cold gaze isn’t trained on me, it’s focused outside the gas station, at the men dressed in all black standing near our car. A few of them look inside the vehicle, peering into the window, and the others walk around, assessing it. I can feel the anger radiating off him in waves as he stands next to me. His body is tense, and even though I have no idea why or who those men are waiting for us out there, I know it can’t be anything good.
“Percivale?” I whisper in a small voice, unable to mask my alarm.
He looks down at me slowly, something dark sliding over his eyes. He doesn’t make a big show of it, but I see the subtle way he pulls me behind him as he steps out of the gas station. The men loitering near the car watch us. I feel their eyes trailing across my skin, and a shiver runs down my spine.
I glance over my shoulder at the middle-aged man behind the register, watching with wide, fearful eyes. Ever since I walked into the gas station, he’s been looking at me like I’m insane, and I don’t blame him. Now that he eyes the other men loitering outside, he’s probably wondering what the hell we’ve just brought to his business.
Licking my suddenly dry lips, I try to ignore the pounding in my chest and keep an eye on Percivale as he calmly closes the distance between him and the other guys. He reaches into his pocket, and I’m sure he’s going to pull out a gun. I flinch when all the other guys tense, grabbing for their weapons, but he surprises us all when he pulls out a smashed pack of cigarettes and his lighter and sparks up. Right here, at a fucking gas stati
on of all places.
“What can I do for you boys?” he asks between puffs.
One of the men replies with a thick, almost unintelligible Irish accent. “We have unfinished business.”
My brows furrow. What does that mean?
I expect him to deny it and play it cool, but instead, Percivale does the opposite. He chuckles darkly, flicks his cigarette ashes toward the men, and says, “That we do.”
I can’t even comprehend what happens next, but I watch in almost slow motion as he pulls his gun out and suddenly the men are firing. Angry shouting ensues just as the sound of popping gunfire echoes around us.
A scream rips from my chest, and I stumble back inside the store, tripping on my own feet and falling to the gas station’s linoleum floor. I try to find a corner to hide in and steer clear of the stray bullets. They whiz through the air, the buzz of them so loud and close, they sound like angry bees flying past, wreaking havoc. Glass inside the gas station shatters from stray bullets, and with each deafening impact they make, I flinch, pressing my chest farther into the tile floor.
Covering my ears with my hands, I clench my eyes shut, waiting for it all to stop. The tight, unrelenting grip around my bicep and the fist curling in my shirt has a scream bubbling up my throat.
“Help!”
“Shut the fuck up!” I hear Percivale growl in that deep, angered voice. I whip my head up and find him still firing shots off while trying to pull me upright.
Percivale manhandles me to my feet and shields my body with his large one. He pops off shot after shot, and instead of heading toward the car like I thought he would, he backs us farther and farther away from the gas station. When he fires at the pumps, I fully understand why. One second I’m standing, gaping in shock, the next he pushes me to the floor behind the drugstore building and covers my body with his just as an explosion rocks the foundation beneath us.
With my ears ringing, it takes me longer than normal to realize Percivale’s body is no longer covering mine. My vision is disoriented, and as I try to push off the ground, gravel digs into my palms and my arms give out.
