Bullseye

by Monica James

  My mom and dad were never the same after that. They seemed to hate one another, blaming the other for Damian’s death when, in reality, they should have blamed me. But they didn’t. They did something worse. They forgot I existed.

  But that spurred me on to do what the police didn’t. I would find those assholes and make them pay.

  From the scraps of information I had, they belonged to a gang. So I took to the streets, looking for them. But I was an outsider, a privileged rich kid who was trespassing where I didn’t belong. For months, I searched for them, but no one would talk. It was like they had disappeared into thin air.

  Desperate and so fucking riddled with guilt, I got messed up with drugs, alcohol, girls—anything to numb the pain. I dropped out of school and ran with the wrong crowd of people who were just as fucked up as I was. I covered my body in tattoos and piercings as the pain made me feel something, but I was still dead inside.

  I wanted to expose the sins on my skin, so everyone could see what I had done.

  I moved out, squatting anywhere, not really caring if I lived or died. I was so fucking alone, but I deserved it. Damian would always be alone, so I vowed to be as well.

  For two fucking years, I was barely alive, floating in and out of life as a stranger in my own skin. I hadn’t seen my parents in months, and although they pretended to miss me, it was clear I only served as a reminder of everything they’d lost. When I left, they never asked if I’d be back.

  One night, I went to score some weed when the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I didn’t know why, but when I turned and looked over my shoulder, it was like I came alive for the first time in two years.

  I saw him. The spineless asshole who had a part in taking my brother’s life. I would never forget him—his face was burned onto my very soul. I’d asked him for help, and in return, he ran. He had a chance to redeem himself, but now, he was shit out of luck. He may not have struck my brother, but they all played a part in his death.

  Remembering my promise to kill him and remembering the paramedics prying away my brother’s dead body from my arms, I was animated with a fire I hadn’t felt in so long. I was seventeen, two days shy of becoming an official adult, but I was an adult long before my eighteenth birthday.

  I didn’t know how to make the constant grief go away. I didn’t know how to make it right until I saw him.

  At that moment, I knew what I had to do.

  In my mind, I believed an eye for an eye would make everything better. I’d save my parents’ marriage, and I would avenge my brother’s death. By killing this asshole, I believed that things would go back to the way they were.

  I became obsessed, and I made it my business to know the comings and goings of one of the men who’d killed my brother.

  He worked the night shift at a 7-Eleven, which was perfect. I could carry out my surveillance in the shadows, where I belonged. For two weeks, I stalked him, and when I was ready, I bought a gun off the street, so no one could trace it back to me.

  I wasn’t high or drunk when I lingered in the alleyway behind the store. I was calm. I waited for him to take out the trash as he did every night before 2 a.m. When the back door opened and he walked out carrying the black trash bag over his shoulder, I realized this was my moment, my moment to avenge Damian.

  I stepped from the shadows, pulled the gun from my jacket, and aimed. His nametag read Lachlan. At first, he was confused, but when he saw me, he knew…he knew his day had come.

  The trash bag fell to the ground as he begged for his life. He dropped to his knees, pleading I forgive him for what he did. He said it was an accident, that he didn’t mean to hurt my brother, but it was too late: his apologies meant nothing to me.

  He lived two years that Damian didn’t, and that was two years too long. It was time.

  I asked him where Jaws was, but he denied knowing his whereabouts. That just sped up the inevitable because I knew he was lying. I cocked the gun and placed my finger on the trigger, but when he began to sob and pissed his pants, a voice I hadn’t heard in so long pleaded for me not to do this. It wouldn’t bring him back; it would only make things worse. But what was worse than living this life without my brother?

  But that voice belonged to my brother, and it was like seeing his killer somehow brought him back to life.

  The voice told me to forgive Lachlan because Damian had. He accepted his death, and now it was my turn to do the same.

  Every inch of my body retaliated, desperate for bloodshed and vengeance. But when I looked into Lachlan’s eyes, I realized that I was no better than him if I took his life. I was so fucking lost, but I knew I wasn’t a killer.

  If I did this, there would be no turning back and no tomorrow. Once again, Damian’s words of wisdom saved me.

  Just as I eased my finger off the trigger, Lachlan put his hand into his pocket with a grin. Instantly, visions of blood, Damian’s warm, thick blood swarmed me, and my paranoid mind saw myself in a grave right next to my brother’s. I wouldn’t hesitate again.

  Aiming the gun, I fired once with no emotion. It was the first time I shot a gun, a perfect bull’s-eye straight through the middle of his chest. Lachlan blinked once before falling forward with a thud. His outstretched hand held a black velvet box, a box which I later discovered held an engagement ring.

  I shot him because I thought he was reaching for a gun, but in reality, he wanted to thank me for sparing his life because he had a whole life planned with someone special. But I ruined that the moment I shot him in cold blood.

  That night was the first and only time I heard Damian’s voice, a sure sign he no longer called me brother. So, on that night, Cody Bishop also died, and Bullseye was born.

  Bull

  I hadn’t slept, and after reliving a nightmare I wish I could forget, I got up in the middle of the night and ran five miles. I felt remotely better, but no matter how tired I was, I knew insomnia had her grip on me and wouldn’t let go.

  I didn’t sleep much in prison, and when I did, it was always with one eye open. Seems not much has changed. But I can’t let Franca Brown be aware of this fact because if she doesn’t see a change, or smells a hint of depravity on me, she’ll have no issues throwing my ass back into prison. And I can’t let that happen because I have work to do.

  Fourteen years ago, I promised to kill those fuckers. And they’re already dead. They just don’t know it yet.

  The only intel I got in prison was that Jaws was the kingpin of this town and a feared motherfucker. The other two were just his lackeys, meaning they’re the weakest links. I will find them, and they will lead me to him.

  Jaws’s specialty was guns and drugs, and he had a thing for strippers, which is why I couldn’t believe my luck when I stumbled across The Pink Oyster and was offered a job. I have eyes on the inside now. If his itch needs to be scratched, I’ll happily scratch it with a sawed-off shotgun.

  For twelve years, I lived and breathed only one thing, and that was revenge, and now it’s coming to fruition. The plan is simple—find those fuckers and don’t get caught. Like I said, there is no way I’m going back inside. Once it’s done, and I’ve avenged my brother, I’ll lay beside him where I belong.

  However, Franca, my parole officer, cannot know of this plan, so I put on my game face as I have a date with destiny in fifteen minutes.

  Once I showered, shaved, and looked like a Boy Scout in a cheap white shirt, black trousers, and suspenders, I caught the bus downtown. Franca wanted to meet at some diner. The thought of mingling with civilians is as painful as it sounds, but I don’t want to hint that anything is amiss.

  I need to convince Franca that I’m embracing my freedom by hugging grandmas and petting puppies and other shit like that. I don’t want her to know that I’m plotting ways to kill and kill slowly. Although I don’t have much of a clue on where to start, I do know that I need money to change that.

  It’s amazing the shit people will do for some green. I have nothing to lose and every
thing to gain, and I intend on digging deep until I find a lead. But in this town, money talks, which is why The Pink Oyster has been my saving grace—the perfect cover to earn some bank and get the ball rolling.

  Even though Andre is a fucking tool, and Tawny can’t take a hint, working there is tolerable. Lotus and the other girls are cool, but as for Tiger…my cheeks billow as I exhale in frustration. I’m still undecided about her. She confuses me. Two nights ago, when I saw her dance, I almost lost my shit. She pushes all my buttons, and the dirty fucker inside me wants to push hers…so fucking hard.

  A frustrated grunt leaves me as I rub both hands over my skull, wanting to punch my own sorry ass. This needs to stop. The last time I obsessed over a girl, things didn’t end well for anyone. And I have a feeling now would be no different.

  Shoving open the door to the diner, I groan because Franca is already here. She’s early. Sitting in a red booth in the back, she looks over the menu, pursing her pink lips from side to side. The guys in the booth across from her make it no secret that they’re checking her out. If they only knew they were eye fucking the devil incarnate.

  Franca is in her thirties. She’s busty, blonde, and gave the guys at Kinkora some spank bank material, guards included. But her good looks haven’t duped me. She is a wiseass with no filter and doesn’t have time to fuck around.

  Beneath that black blazer, I know she’s packing heat, and she will have no issues beating me to death if I don’t answer her questions adequately. She may look soft and cuddly, but she’s the fucking ice queen, which is why she’s been assigned to me.

  Taking a seat across the table from her, I eye the guys near me, suggesting it’s time they roll their tongues back into their mouths. They must be able to smell the felon on me because they soon return to whatever bullshit they were discussing over their coffee and OJ. Such trivial nonsense will never make sense to me. Who has time for chitchat?

  Franca clearly does not. She doesn’t even look up to greet me, though she knows I’m here.

  I sit tall, waiting for her to speak because this is all a power play to her. Even though I’m no longer inside, she wants to ensure I still know who’s boss. Like I could ever forget. I may be out, but I’ll never be a free man.

  After two minutes, she lowers her menu and smiles. It’s not a welcoming sight.

  “Hello, Cody.”

  “Sup,” I reply. She knows I don’t go by that name anymore, which is why she used it. That person died the night my brother did. Cody would never have the balls to do what I’ve done or what I intend to do. Cody was young and weak, but Bull, he’s filled with bloodlust and hate.

  If this were an Oprah moment, I’m sure she’d say Cody Bishop was still locked deep inside. But this is real life, and all I am is Bull—the cold-blooded murderer out for revenge.

  “Staying out of trouble?”

  “Sure.”

  Franca pushes her black-rimmed glasses up her nose, thoroughly enjoying this game. “You got a place to live?”

  “Not yet. I’m staying at Hudson’s Motel.” Before she has a chance to ask if someone can vouch for me, I reach into my pocket and slide Venus’s card across the table. “Call her and check.”

  She takes the business card and slides it in the inner pocket of her blazer. While doing so, I see her shoulder holster. “What about work?”

  I nod, coolly folding my fingers over my stomach as I lean back into the booth. “Working at The Pink Oyster.”

  She cocks a brow. “The strip club?”

  “Oh, you know of it?” I smirk.

  She licks her top lip. “I do. I just didn’t think you’d be shaking your ass so soon after prison. I thought you’d be happy to give it a rest.”

  Inhaling, I don’t let her comment get to me. I think of the bigger picture. “I’m working as a bouncer,” I clarify. “And I’m helping to fix the place up.”

  “No surprise, that place is a shithole,” she states, reaching for her peppermint tea.

  A waitress comes by the table and fills my cup with coffee and then disappears as quickly as she came. I envy her as I wish I could do the same.

  Once Franca is done sipping her tea, she reaches for the brown paper bag near her and slides it toward me.

  I eye it suspiciously.

  “I need a piss sample,” she explains flippantly. “Got to make sure you aren’t getting into any trouble, and that you’re clean. Being around pussy, alcohol, and drugs is not ideal, but you’re working, so I’ll cut you some slack.”

  If she’s expecting me to thank her, she’ll be waiting until her home, hell, freezes over.

  When I grasp the top of the bag, she places her fingers over mine. Every part of me tenses. Franca merely grins, humored by my discomfort. “Don’t fuck this up, Bull. You got a lighter sentence because of your circumstances and age. And the fact you took the plea deal. I mean, the first time you fired a gun, you killed someone,” she bluntly reminds me.

  I don’t need a reminder. I got caught because an off-duty cop was inside the 7-Eleven, buying his dollar pepperoni pizza and Pepsi. When he heard the shot, he came running into the alley and caught me standing there startled with the smoking gun in my hand. I stupidly shared with him the fact I popped my gun cherry by killing a guy, which is the reason I got a lighter sentence. Whether a blessing or curse, I’ve yet to decide.

  “But don’t for one second,” Franca continues, interrupting my reminiscing, “think I’ll be going easy on you. Never forget who holds your balls.”

  All the terms of my parole are about to be forgotten if she doesn’t take her fucking hands off me.

  “You don’t follow the rules, I will fuck you up. We clear?” The stare she levels me with reveals she is serious.

  “Oh, we’re clear,” I reply, not intimated by her. “Now, would you so kindly… fucking remove your hand from mine. Please?”

  I’m not asking. I’m warning her. She may be in charge, but I’ll be damned if I cower in fear like a chump. She won’t stand in my way.

  It’s the ultimate stare off, but she eventually concedes.

  Without wasting a second, I stand, taking the bag with me. Making my way to the bathroom, I realize that I have a problem—a big problem—and that problem is Franca Brown.

  Thankfully, Franca didn’t linger once I gave her my word and piss. She said she’d be seeing me soon. I don’t like the sound of that, but as long as I keep her in the dark, she has nothing on me.

  Frustrated and feeling the need to break something, I decided to get pierced. Before I got locked up, I was pierced all over. Deciding to start small, I got a hoop in my left nostril. I don’t do things in halves, which is why I got my tragus, forward helix, outer conch, and rook pierced on both ears.

  I ran out of time because I was due in at work, but I promised the piercer I’d be back for both nipples, my tongue, and of course, my cock. That pain was unlike anything I’d felt before, which is why I want to do it again.

  Seeing Franca today has left me fucking restless. Holy shit, I need to blow off some fucking steam before I explode. When I open the door and walk straight into Tiger, my feelings of exploding are amplified tenfold.

  Instantly, I reach out, holding her upper arms so she doesn’t fall on her ass. I don’t fail to notice the goose bumps prickling her soft skin. She peers up at me from under her long lashes.

  “Th-thanks,” she stutters, eyes locked on mine.

  “No problem,” I reply, still holding her tightly.

  This should be the moment I let her go, but I physically can’t. I would rather cut off my hands than stop touching her, which I don’t fail to understand the importance of. “What are you doing in today? You’re not supposed to be working.”

  When her mouth parts, displaying her surprise that I’m aware of her hours, I quickly let her go. I feel like a fucking stalker, so I go to turn, but she stops me when she rockets forward and grips my wrist.

  Clenching my jaw, I suppress the voices in my head to hurt her. �
��I like your piercings,” she says on a rushed breath. “And your suspenders.”

  I open, but soon close my mouth because I have no idea what to say. Is she trying to make small talk? Or worse yet—chitchat?

  In response, I grunt and nod, subtly moving my wrist out from under her hand. She appears angered all of a sudden, her cheeks flashing a deep red. Her eyes transform from green to pissed off in a nanosecond.

  Lotus walks over to us, interrupting an exchange that probably would have ended badly for…me. Tiger tests me with those pursed lips as she stares a hole straight through me. My cock instantly twitches because hot damn, she isn’t afraid of me…but she should be.

  “Oh, good, you’re here. I wanted to call your cell, but then realized I don’t have your number,” Lotus says, either oblivious or ignoring the weird vibe between Tiger and me.

  “I don’t have one,” I reply, keeping my eyes trained on Tiger. In response, she puffs out her chest and plants her hands on her small hips, challenging me.

  Sweet fuck, why is she baiting me?

  “You don’t have a cell or number?” Lotus asks in case she’s had a lapse in hearing.

  Her question has me quickly putting an end to this stare off because I don’t want Tiger knowing the reason I don’t have a cell. Lotus knows I was locked up, but I don’t want everyone knowing my business. The less people know about me, the better.

  “Both,” I coolly reply with a shrug, focusing on Lotus. I can feel Tiger’s eyes all over me.

  She is walking a very dangerous line.

  “Not a slave to technology. I like that. But I need my staff, especially my muscle, to be accessible. I have an old cell in my office you can have.”

  Although that’s awfully generous, I shake my head. I don’t like taking things because strings are almost always attached. And I don’t want any strings. “Thank you, but no. If that’s the case, then I will buy one with my next paycheck.”