Blowback

by Monica James

  When I hear a groan, I don’t hesitate. Stepping inside, I fist Skull Boy’s shirt and slam his back up against the van. He’s slumped forward and his piss-poor attempt to twist free hints that he is hurt real bad, but as long as his tongue isn’t broken, he is of use to me.

  “Can you hear me, you worthless piece of shit?” I demand, ripping off his mask.

  His chin lolls to his chest, so I grip his hair and yank his head upright. His eyes flicker open, and when he’s confronted with the situation in front of him, he realizes he should have been fucking nicer to me.

  “What do you want?” he wheezes, licking the blood from his busted lip.

  “I want you to call Jaws and tell him everything is A-fucking-okay,” I reply. I’m running out of time. Jesús can’t know this is happening.

  When he hesitates, I reach into my back pocket and produce my switchblade. Shame on him for not frisking me first. In one fluid motion, I press my blade up under his left testicle. A terrified yelp escapes him, which has me pressing in deeper.

  “You’ll be singing soprano in three fucking seconds if you don’t get out your phone.”

  He raises one hand in surrender, and with the other, he shakily retrieves his cell from his pocket.

  I nod, hinting now is the time to make the call. “Put him on speaker.”

  “Hi,” he says into the phone when someone picks up without saying hello. “Just calling to let you know we’ve got him. We’re on our way to the drop-off point.”

  “Good,” Jaws says. It’s a knee-jerk reaction for me to force the blade deeper against Skull Boy’s nut.

  He squeaks and attempts to shift away. But I shake my head, angling the blade higher.

  “Once you get to Texas, throw his ass on the plane. Do not let him out of your sight. Got it?”

  Texas? Surely, we weren’t going on a road trip. Thank fuck the van is now bust.

  “Yes, got it,” he replies, his wide eyes flicking to mine. “He’s not fighting, though.”

  “Of course, he’s not,” Jaws confidently states. “I have something he wants. Call me once you get there. I have some calls of my own to make.” No guessing to whom.

  “Oh, and Baz, if you want to rough him up a little or well, a lot, be my guest. Check in tomorrow.”

  And the line goes dead.

  Skull Boy aka Baz shifts, silently hinting I’m to remove the knife from his balls. But I am fucking raging and need to hurt something.

  I have no idea where “there” is, but it makes sense for them to travel by car. Less witnesses and less mess. Flying is quicker, but it’s also risky. Even though Jaws knows I come willingly, he won’t take his chances.

  Removing the knife, I place it back into my pocket while Baz sighs. That relief is short-lived, however, when I grab him around the throat, hinting it’s time to move. He doesn’t struggle and does as he’s told.

  I shove him out the door, and Jesús is waiting, eyes wide. He has no idea what’s going on but doesn’t argue when I hint he’s to throw this sorry sack of shit into the van. Once he’s secured, I walk to the driver’s side and open the door.

  I hunt through the lifeless driver’s pockets until I find his phone. There is a cell and a 9mm in the console, which I’m guessing belongs to the passenger. I take them too.

  Placing the gun at the small of my back, I quickly jog over to the awaiting van and jump inside. Once we’re set, the driver takes off once again, leaving the bloodbath behind.

  Baz is passed out in the seat, but that’s okay. I don’t need him until later. I was once his hostage, but now, he is mine. He will check in with Jaws because as I see it, if we don’t hint that something is wrong, Jaws will think everything is peachy.

  I have every intention of getting on that plane. I just need to make a pit stop first.

  I gesture for Jesús to give me the suit because it’s time I play monkey.

  This monkey suit is the perfect disguise to blend in with the rich and pretentious. When I passed the gold invite to the doorman, he looked at my hand tattoos briefly but then ushered me inside without any problems. Jesús and two other men are invited to this party also. But instead of monkey suits, they’ve donned a different suit, and that’s of the burgundy uniform of the people who work here.

  I dare say they’re my meal ticket, so all I have to do is wait for the signal—peaches, whatever the fuck that means.

  The driver waits with Baz; he was given strict instructions to break both his kneecaps if he tried to escape.

  The gala starts in a few, so I work the venue discreetly, counting the number of exits and verifying how much muscle mans each of them. There is a roped-off area up the carpeted stairs. That’s where I need to be.

  Breathing in, I remind myself that I’ve come this far. I can wait.

  When the masses are herded into the main ballroom, I wait in line, observing the glitzy venue. It’s right on the river, offering romantic and impressive views to most, but to me, all I see is a watery grave at my disposal.

  I can barely contain my excitement.

  When I finally get to the maître d’ and he asks for my name, I give him the one on the invite. “Chuck Bancroft.”

  I did a quick Google search and discovered he was some low-key banker from LA. José didn’t choose someone who would be recognized among the crowd.

  The maître d’ scrolls through his iPad and when he finds my name, he looks up at me with a furrowed brow. “Where is your plus one?”

  “My what?” I bark, ready to give him a plus one black eye if he doesn’t let me in.

  He clears his throat. “It says you’re bringing a Ms. Hayley Cribbs?”

  Goddammit.

  “She has a migraine,” I reply, not hiding my irritation.

  “Oh. I will have to let my manager know.”

  “That she has a migraine?” I sarcastically ask.

  He loosens his collar with one finger. “No, that you’re alone. For security reasons, we—”

  But his bullshit fades into the background when I am tackled from behind by a scent I associate with coming home.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  Slowly turning my chin, I see the most beautiful woman standing by my side. Her peacock-colored ballgown draws out the green in her eyes. Twisted into an elegant knot, her hair is fastened with a diamond clip that matches her jewelry.

  She once told me she wasn’t a princess, but fuck me dead, that’s exactly what she is. Graceful, regal, and mine.

  “Hi,” she says with a small smile when I continue staring at her like a gaping goldfish.

  “You’re Ms. Cribbs?” the maître d’ asks.

  “Yes,” Tiger replies without missing a beat.

  “Excellent,” he says, doing something on his device while I can’t take my eyes off Tiger.

  She has always left me with this heavy weight pressing against my chest, but this is different. I feel like I can breathe again. She is my oxygen, my sustenance to stay alive.

  “Someone will lead you to your table.”

  Tiger nods, reaching for my hand. She presses something into my palm. When I feel the cool metal, a sense of completeness overcomes me. Linking her arm through mine, she gently coaxes me to move toward the door. I get my head back into the game and follow the waiter who escorts us through the large room. I would be impressed with the fancy setting, but it pales in comparison to Tiger on my arm.

  We’re sitting in the nosebleed seats, but that’s what I wanted. To be as far away from the stage as possible. I can’t risk Scrooge seeing me. I know Jaws would have called him with the update that I’m currently detained, but surprise, asshole, I’m here, ready to rain on your parade.

  We take our seats in silence.

  I quickly put my necklace on, the one Tiger slipped into my palm, and tuck it under my shirt. Tiger fiddles with her silverware while I wonder why I’m suddenly so tongue-tied. I’ve seen her naked and done dark and delicious things to her body, but I suddenly feel giddy, like a teenage boy.


  I reach for the bottle of red and fill up her glass.

  “You’re not drinking?” she asks, breaking the silence.

  I shake my head.

  She soon understands why that is and reaches for the wine with a trembling hand. “What happened?” she whispers from behind the rim of the glass.

  She has every right to ask. Me being here means Jordy is at risk. So leaning in close, I inhale her scent, before revealing, “It’s under control. He still thinks the deal is on, and it is. This is just a detour.”

  She sips her wine, but her wide eyes reveal her fear.

  Needing to comfort her, I place my hand on her leg and squeeze lightly. “He’s coming home. I promise.”

  “And what about you?” she asks, suppressing her sniffle.

  I don’t reply because I don’t know where I’ll be once this is over. All I know is that it’s time for this to be done. The table begins to fill with people, so Tiger and I keep quiet, but I never remove my hand from her thigh.

  I wonder how she knew I was here? Was she planning on taking down Scrooge herself?

  The crowd is big, suggesting Scrooge has a lot of people fooled. He’s conned his way into these people’s lives, making them believe he is the good guy when, in reality, he’s the big bad. But it ends tonight.

  Once everyone is seated, the waiters zip around the room, serving appetizers. Pushing the shrimp in a glass away from me, I instead scour the room, looking for Jesús, but he is nowhere to be found.

  The crowd is chatting happily, none the wiser that a murderer is about to scam them into giving away their life savings. I have no doubt Scrooge benefits from this. There is no way he does this out of the goodness of his heart, and that’s because he doesn’t have one. I wouldn’t be surprised if he pocketed the majority of the takings and donated just enough to keep someone from asking questions.

  Water is a poor substitute for what I want, but my mouth is dry. As I begin filling my glass, a woman in a tight white dress walks onto the stage and stands behind the lectern. She taps the microphone once, quieting the room with its echo.

  “Hi, everyone. I’m Martha York, one of the coordinators of this very important event.” Martha then launches into a spiel about child abuse and how prevalent it is in today’s world. It takes all my willpower not to scoff and call bullshit because the guest of honor is the biggest child abuser of them all.

  She has the crowd eating from the palm of her hand five minutes later when she hollers. “So, please, put your hands together for the brilliant man, who just happens to be my husband, Benjamin Solomon.”

  The applause is deafening, but all I can hear are the words, “My husband.”

  Martha York is collateral.

  But that can wait because when the blue curtains parts and out strolls a man I made a promise to fourteen years ago, nothing else matters. The huge TV screen mounted above the stage allows me to see him, proving true evil exists.

  Memories of that night instantly assault me, and I curl my hands into fists under the table. I remember his laughter, the way he had no conscience when he stole from my brother. Sickened, I turn my cheek, unable to look at his smiling face because I know what ugliness lies beneath the mask.

  Tiger places her hand over my fist and squeezes softly. She wants to comfort me, but she can’t. The only comfort I’ll have is when I’m coated in this motherfucker’s blood.

  Taking a steady breath, I return my attention to the screen. Scrooge casually grips the lectern, showcasing his pride and joy—Damian’s championship ring. Seeing it after so long is surreal. A small part of me wants to believe this isn’t his ring. Maybe it’s just one like it. But I’m a realist, and I’m really going to kill this fucker. Tonight.

  Scrooge waits for the crowd to quiet before he begins his bullshit speech. “Wow, what an introduction, but can we get another round of applause for the real hero here, and that’s my beautiful wife.” He is the first to clap, looking at his wife with nothing but love.

  The crowd follows suit, totally fooled.

  I don’t know how long I can sit here. The rage burning inside me has been left to fester, and sooner or later, it’ll explode.

  Martha blows him a kiss from the side of the stage, gushing over her husband, the murderer.

  Once Scrooge is satisfied, he hushes the crowd with his hands, and they quickly obey. “Thank you for being here,” he begins, looking into the crowd. “Children are gifts from God, and Martha and I have been blessed three times. Being a father changed my life in ways I never thought possible, and I knew I would do anything to protect my children.”

  I can’t do this.

  I take three deep breaths, but nothing helps. I cannot find my Zen because there is no harmony until this asshole takes his last breath.

  Tiger is aware of my murderous urges, but she can’t offer me any solace. No one can.

  As Scrooge continues his speech, I pan over the memories that have never left me.

  “Thanks for my ring.”

  “I like your jacket. I always wanted to be quarterback. But they said I was too small. Not so small now, am I, asshole?”

  All I can hear as Scrooge talks are those vile words he spoke to my brother as though he was nothing. I can hear the crack of Damian’s wrist and his winded grunts as they kicked and punched him until he was just a bloody heap.

  I remember being sick all over myself when the paramedics took my brother away. The rotten smell, the decay of my life crumbling away. I remember it all. Yet, I’m the monster for wanting this asshole dead.

  No matter how many breaths I take, it’s not enough.

  Lowering my chin to my chest, I inhale deeply and close my eyes. I need one fucking second to…what? When my eyes grow wet, I realize what that something is—I need to grieve for my brother. I’ve been so hellbent on revenge and now that it literally stands just a few feet away, a monumental sadness overcomes me. It overtakes the rage.

  Once I end Scrooge’s miserable existence, will that make this emptiness, this heaviness go away? I know it won’t bring Damian back, but will it appease the demons inside me? When all of this is finally done with, when Damian’s killers are dead, what happens then?

  There is no magical potion to make all of this pain, all of this sorrow eating away at me go away, but I thought I would feel victorious once this moment arrived. But I don’t. I just feel fucking heartbroken.

  That is…until someone who has always held my heart without me even knowing it gently tips my chin up to meet her beautiful green eyes. I am so lost, but when Tiger nods once, then leans in to press her lips to mine, I realize I am no longer alone.

  At the motel, I’m pretty sure she was going to tell me she loved me, but I didn’t want her to say it. I didn’t want the dire situation to influence her decision. But the way she kisses me, and the gentle way she holds my cheek, I don’t need to hear it. I can feel it and have felt it so many times before. I was just too stupid to realize what it was.

  The only person who ever really loved me is dead. I wasn’t worthy of love until now because this incredible, brave woman loves me, and I…I…love her in return.

  When she pulls away, she rubs her nose against mine.

  Unable to help myself, I wrap her in my arms and hug her tight. I am engulfed with cherry blossoms and love. “You’ve got this,” she whispers, nestling into my neck.

  And she’s right. I fucking do.

  “So, please, dig deep and save a child’s life. Every life matters. Thank you.”

  Every life but his…

  And with that send-off, everything comes full circle, and it’s time.

  The crowd stands, applauding this murdering asshole while he waves like he is Jesus Christ himself. Every time the lights catch the shimmer of green from his ring, I envision the ways I am going to make him pay for what he’s done.

  He saunters off stage, his wife in tow, while everyone takes a seat and begin taking out their checkbooks. From the loud and lively chatter, it
’s clear he’s totally brainwashed the crowd. The waiters begin to scatter around the room, hands filled with plates.

  The main course is about to be served.

  Looking over my shoulder, I see that the table behind me has been served beef or chicken, but there’s no fucking sign of peaches. Tiger also looks around the room, her straight white teeth tugging at her bottom lip. I notice she’s wearing an elastic band around her wrist.

  I hate that she feels the need to hurt herself, but I get it. We both get off on pain.

  “Excuse me. The filet mignon with green beans.” The blonde waitress places a plate down in front of Tiger. “And for you, sir, the stuffed chicken breast with asparagus.” She does the same for me while I visually search my plate for peaches.

  But nothing is peachy because there are no damn peaches.

  Just as I’m about to tell her to give the plate to someone else, her name tag catches my eye.

  It reads Peaches.

  Holy motherfucking shit.

  I was looking for peaches, the food, not Peaches, the person. Kudos to José.

  “I might use the restroom before I eat.” I come to a casual stand. Tiger peers up and notices the name tag as well.

  “Let me show you where it is, sir,” Peaches says with a friendly smile. She deserves an Emmy. She looks like the girl next door. No one would question her motives. The occupants at the table are none the wiser that I’m about to slit their hero’s throat.

  Just as I’m about to leave, Tiger grips my wrist. She can’t express what she really wants to say, but she doesn’t need to speak. Her worried expression says it all.

  Nodding, I place my hand over hers and squeeze softly. “I’ll be back soon.”

  I’ve never had anyone worry about me before. Well, adult me that is. It’s a weird thing to digest.

  Pressing a quick kiss to Tiger’s forehead, I grab my jacket from the back of the chair and follow Peaches through the crowded room. I don’t ask questions. The less I know, the better.