Target on Our Backs

by J. M. Darhower

  "And I was going to love you right, remind you what it feels like to be cherished, to be idolized, to be treated like the queen you are. I was going to make serious love to you, baby." I let out a shaky breath, and before I can even inhale again, his hand shifts. It's a split second, barely a blink. His hand is around my neck, tightly squeezing, as he yanks me toward him, flush against him. "But now I think I'll just fuck you instead."

  I gasp as he shoves me onto the bed, flipping me so I'm on my stomach. He easily pushes me around like I weigh nothing, an arm snaking around me, beneath me, and pulling my ass up into the air. I try to adapt quickly, my vision blurring from the adrenaline rushing through my veins. I push up on my hands and turn my head to look at him in just enough time to see him loop the belt together.

  His eyes meet mine.

  It can't be more than a few seconds.

  Before I even realize what he's doing, he slips the belt down over my head. Gripping the end of it, he tugs, tightening it around my neck like a collar.

  I gasp.

  He tightens it more.

  Oh fuck.

  I can't breathe.

  I can't breathe.

  I try to grasp my neck, to loosen the belt, to give myself some fucking air, but it just tightens more every time I move. Five seconds. Ten seconds. A minute. A fucking eternity. My chest is burning, my eyes are watering, and I viciously start bucking, raising up on my knees. Before I can do much to fight him, Naz is shoving me back down against the bed, his grip on the belt loosening. I inhale sharply, desperately, barely able to take a breath before he pushes inside of me hard, knocking the air right out of me again.

  I cry out as the force of his thrusts shove my face into the mattress. He holds onto the belt loosely, so I can feel it pressing on my throat, but he doesn't cut my airflow as he starts to fuck me brutally. He's still wearing his suit, and he tries to pull it off between thrusts, yanking his shirt open but not getting very far before giving up. His hand that isn't holding the belt digs into my hip as he holds me in place, keeping me from moving away.

  Not that I would.

  No, not today.

  I'm pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts, grunting as he goes deeper and deeper, annihilating a part of me while still, he builds me up.

  "You fucking love this, too, don't you?" he asks, his voice low, strained. "You don't need me to treat you like royalty to know what you mean to me. I can fuck you like this, fuck you like you're nothing, and you still know you're everything to me."

  I want to answer him.

  I want to tell him that's true.

  But the words are lodged deep in my chest, blocked by the belt pressing against my throat. All that seems to make it through the barrier are grunts and cries, screams that sound like his name, as he fucks me.

  And fucks me.

  And fucks me so much I'm on the verge of trying to beg.

  Beg for him to stop.

  Beg for him to keep going.

  Beg for him to fuck me into oblivion.

  Beg for him to give me more... more... more.

  I don't know how much time passes, or how many orgasms rip through me, before my entire body starts to tremble, while he continues to push inside of me. My breathing is labored, my heart hammering hard, as something inside of me seems to break and I give up. I stop fighting. I stop bucking. I give in and let him do what he wants. My body goes limp on the bed, while Naz's body grows taut.

  The belt tightens around my neck, cutting off my airflow once more, as another orgasm tears through my spent body. Naz thrusts hard a few times before coming himself, growls echoing from his chest as he lets loose. The second he finishes, he completely stops, dropping the belt, letting it fall.

  I inhale sharply, collapsing into the bed when he pulls out.

  He sits there behind me, on his knees, not making a sound or even moving. I'm panting, still catching my breath, as I drown myself in the soft comforter. Holy shit, I can't move. I can't do anything but lay here.

  My body is nothing but an aching ball of tingles.

  I'm thoroughly fucked.

  Literally.

  Figuratively.

  Who really knows?

  After a moment, Naz tucks himself away before reaching over and undoing the belt, pulling it from around my neck. He climbs off the bed, and I hear his quiet footsteps crossing the room.

  Rolling over, I look at him.

  It baffles me how he looks so unruffled.

  His shirt is open, sure, but that's all that's askew. I don't even think he broke a sweat. How the hell is that possible?

  He puts the belt away before carefully stripping out of his clothes, tossing them aside, before joining me in bed again. Lying beside me, his hand makes its way to my neck, and I tense, but he doesn't squeeze.

  He rough fingertips gently caress the skin.

  "Probably shouldn't have done that," he says, thumb stroking my throat.

  "Why?"

  My voice is hoarse, laced with confusion.

  "Because," he says, eyes meeting mine, "you're probably going to have to wear a turtleneck tomorrow."

  I laugh lightly, reaching up to lay my hand on top of his. "Yeah, well, I'm afraid I don't own any of those. I don't think anybody does."

  "I do."

  I gape at him. "You do?"

  He nods. "A black one."

  "I, uh... what? How come I've never seen it?"

  "Because I don't wear it," he says. "It's in my closet somewhere."

  I've scoured that closet and stolen clothes.

  I can't believe I've never noticed it before.

  "Why am I not surprised?" I mutter. "I mean turtlenecks were all the rage long ago... you know, when you were my age."

  He squeezes my neck playfully as he glowers at me, and I laugh. He gets so worked up when I pick on his age.

  "Keep it up," he says, "and I might end up spanking you before this day is over."

  Rolling my eyes, I scoot over in the bed, moving closer to him. He wraps his arms around me, pulling my head onto his chest. Neither of us says anything else for a while. Silence overtakes the room. It isn't long before I'm lost in my head again, thinking about everything.

  "Do you ever feel guilty?" I ask eventually, curiosity getting the best of me. Okay, maybe I do want to talk about it.

  "Guilty about what?"

  "Everything," I say. "Anything."

  He pauses before saying, "Why are you asking?"

  "I don't know," I say. "I guess I'm just wondering."

  "You're wondering if I feel bad about the things I've done."

  "Yes."

  He's quiet again.

  I don't really need him to answer.

  That silence tells me everything.

  "If I had the chance, I might do some things different," he says finally. "But most of it, I'd probably still do. Do I feel guilty? No, not really. I don't think I have it in me to feel that kind of remorse."

  That response doesn't surprise me.

  It's about what I expected to hear.

  Joseph Gladstone.

  They call him Fat Joe.

  That's all I really know about the man in front of me—his name—but it's more than enough. Armando dug up an address where I could find the guy, which—lucky for him—turned out to be credible. I don't know when he was born or where he's from, don't know if he has a family or if he lives alone, don't know how much money he makes or if he even has any in the bank. Don't know, and don't care, because at the end of the day, it doesn't make a difference.

  All that matters, frankly, is that he somehow crossed the wrong path, walked the wrong line, and offended the wrong man.

  Me, namely.

  But poor Joe doesn't know that yet.

  He doesn't know I'm watching him.

  He doesn't know I've been following him.

  Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

  He walks leisurely¸ like he's got nowhere to be, like he isn't afraid of anything out on these stre
ets. And maybe he isn't. I'm certainly not. But he should be.

  It's nearing midnight on a Wednesday. Karissa is at home, in bed, asleep, oblivious that I'm even out here, picking up old habits, prowling the streets. If I'm lucky, she won't wake up until morning, won't even know I left the comfort of our bed to come out here and do this.

  Do something I told her I wasn't doing anymore.

  The kind of thing good men don't do to other people.

  Stepping out of my car, I quietly shut the door, keeping my head down as I follow Joe down the mostly barren street. He walks this route almost every night at this time… every time I've been out here, anyway. I'm not sure where he's going. I never stick around that long to see. He leaves a shitty little apartment above a small grocer in the Lower Eastside and cuts down a few side streets on his way to a park over by the East River.

  Tonight, he's not going to make it there.

  He cuts down the first alley, and I'm right on his heels. He doesn't notice me in the shadows, doesn't hear my footsteps until it's too late. He starts to turn around, sensing my presence, words on the tip of his tongue that barely break through from his lips when I hit him.

  I punch him.

  Son of a bitch, his face hurts my fist.

  It stuns him but he doesn't drop. Not fat, like his nickname suggests, but the man is massive. It catches him off guard enough to give me the upper hand. I put him in a chokehold, cutting his airflow, strangling him.

  He fights.

  He's strong.

  I can barely keep my grip on him.

  He claws at my clothes, trying to hit me, trying to break free. His eyes bulge, his face turning bright red as he panics. He knows he's in trouble.

  A lot of trouble.

  "You're lucky I don't feel like killing anyone today," I tell him as he starts to fade.

  Once he's out cold, I let him drop.

  He hits the alley hard, banging his head on the asphalt. A nagging feeling claws at me, taunting me, urging me to finish it. To kill him. I should. I could. Part of me obviously wants to. And as I stare down at him, I almost do it. Wouldn't be hard.

  It's never that hard.

  I'm just here to send a message. To let them know I'm not just rolling over and taking it. If I wanted him, I could have him, but this pathetic coward isn't worth getting more blood on my hands.

  Less than a minute and I'm turning to stroll away, heading back out of the alley. I make it a few steps, no more than ten, before I hear something behind me, the sound of a running engine.

  A car is pulling into the alley at the other end.

  I toss a quick look that way. It's all black, small… looks like a BMW. I can't make out much of it in the darkness. The lights are blacked out.

  It's trying not to be seen.

  I hurry my steps as I turn back around, needing to leave.

  I make it barely another five, almost to the end of the alley, when another car whips in right in front of me, so close I have to make a quick retreat, a few steps back, to keep it from ramming me. My heart stalls in my chest, stalls at the identical black car with the blacked out lights and tinted windows facing me.

  I'm blocked in.

  And I know it instantly then.

  And I'm pissed.

  I'm fucking pissed.

  Because I wasn't the only one sneaking around tonight.

  Wasn't the only one watching, stalking, waiting for the perfect moment.

  I'm pissed I didn't catch it sooner, that I didn't realize I was being followed, too.

  I freeze right where I am, slipping my hands into my pockets as I stare down the car, not letting the fact that I'm alarmed show. Never let them see your fear… it's rule number one. And it's not that I'm afraid. No, I'm not.

  I don't fear death.

  I've already died too many times before.

  I'm a cat with nine lives and I'm already on number twelve. I'm living on borrowed time. When death wants to take me, it'll take me.

  But I'm so pissed that I'm off my game, pissed that I might not be able to kill whoever is in that car before they can kill me, and that's just unacceptable.

  If I die, you can be goddamn sure I'm taking everyone around me out, too.

  Everyone that might ever try to go after her.

  Three of the car doors open—both front and the rear passenger. Three men step out, stalling right where they stand, shielded by the doors. I don't recognize any of them, not that I expected to. They look like the typical roughnecks who run in our circles, dressed in all black, a leather jacket thrown in here and there. Dark hair, dark features… Italian, obviously, or close enough to pass as one. I don't see any weapons, but that doesn't mean they're not carrying.

  Men like that don't leave home without a gun.

  The fourth door opens after a moment, another man appearing. The second I lay my eyes on him, a sense of familiarity hits me.

  Son of a bitch.

  I know him.

  He's older than I remember, but I suppose I'm much older now, too. It's been almost two decades since we crossed paths, an entire lifetime, but I would never forget a face that fucked up.

  I get it now, why they call him Scar.

  I almost laugh at the absurdity of it.

  A grotesque jagged scar runs the whole way down the right side of his face, slicing through his eye. It's discolored, a lighter shade of blue than the other. He's blind in it, has been for as long as I've known him, but it has never gotten in his way. His other senses make up for it. He's a stealthy motherfucker.

  He ought to be.

  I taught him a lot of what he knows.

  He learned how to survive by watching me.

  He strolls toward me… saunters, really. The bastard has not an ounce of fear or alarm written on him anywhere. His eyes burrow right through me as he approaches, and he pauses a foot to my right, hesitating, as his gaze trails over me, like he's sizing me up. He's assessing.

  He steps past then, walking down the alley behind me. I don't move my body, but I do turn my head, watching as he approaches Joe lying on the asphalt, bleeding from where he hit his head.

  "Friend of yours?" I ask.

  Lorenzo shakes his head as he kneels down beside the guy. "He's still alive."

  He glances at me as he says that, raising his eyebrow.

  "For today," I say.

  "For today," he repeats, turning back to Joe. Shaking his head again, he stands back up and starts toward me. "It's been a long time, Ignazio."

  "It has."

  "It's good to see you."

  "I wish I could say the same."

  He laughs at that.

  I'm not surprised.

  Most people probably find him charming, even alluring, despite the scar on his face. He can be so charismatic, so manipulative, that they overlook it. But me? I know a predator when I see one. I can spot one a mile away. There's nothing innocent about the guy, nothing harmless about his intentions. He draws you right into his web with every intention of trapping you for life.

  For however long, it is, he decides to let you live.

  I told Karissa before that I wasn't the most dangerous thing out there, and I hadn't been lying. Because him? The one they're calling Scar?

  He might just be the worst of the bunch.

  Lorenzo Gambini.

  When Genova said he was from the south, he'd meant it.

  Florida.

  Kissimmee.

  "Oh, don't be that way," Lorenzo says, stopping beside me again. "We're friends, are we not?"

  "I have no friends."

  "None at all?"

  "None, and you know that," I say. "There are no friends in this business. There are only people who need you, until the day comes when they don't need you anymore."

  He smiles at that. "Ever the cynical one."

  "More like realistic."

  "It's nice to see you haven't changed," he says, slapping me on the back, hard, making me take a step from the force of it. My hair bristles in respo
nse, my hands clenched into fists in my pockets. If he doesn't stop touching me… "But I still think you and I could be friends… or at least the kind of people who need each other for the long haul. You get me?"

  I get him.

  I get exactly what he's saying.

  He can dress it up in pretty words like ‘friends' but I'm not an idiot.

  He wants me to do something for him.

  I knew it was only a matter of time.

  "I'm of no use to you," I say. "I'm not in the business anymore."

  He laughs yet again as he motions down the alley. "Looks to me like you're still hard at work. Or, wait, is this personal? More quests for revenge? Pray tell, who killed your wife this time?"

  I don't even think about it.

  The second I hear those words, I react.

  I lunge toward him, but he's quick, like he expected this reaction from me. Hell, he probably did. He takes a step back, holding his hands up defensively, as I grab the front of his shirt, yanking him back toward me. In an instant, guns are cocked, all three guys standing guard whipping them out and aiming. Lorenzo stares at me, looking more amused than anything, while I fight to keep from pummeling him in the face.

  "Testy," he says, prying my hands off of him. He straightens his shirt, smoothing the wrinkles from it. He's not dressed like the rest of them. He's dressed like he's nobody. Jeans and a t-shirt. Makes it easier to blend into crowds that way. Casually, Lorenzo motions toward the guys, telling them to lower their guns. They listen to his silent order, no hesitation. "You always did have a bit of a temper, Ignazio."

  "Cut the bullshit," I tell him. "Tell me what you want from me."

  He shrugs, taking a few steps back. "I told you… I just want to be friends, but if you don't want to be my friend, so be it."

  "So, what, you're going to kill me? If that's your end game, Lorenzo, I'm right here. There's no reason to put it off. You got me. But do it now, if you're going to do it, because I'm not playing these games with you."

  He ignores that, turning around to walk back to the car. Pausing by the door, he glances at me, his expression serious for the first time since stepping out of the thing minutes ago. "You told me something a long time ago, something that stuck with me. You said, ‘if you're not standing by my side, you're just standing in my way.' So I stood by your side then, Ignazio, and it'll do you well to remember that."