Twisted Tales of Mayhem

by Sapphire Knight

  “Leave it as a warning!” he’d said.

  Nope, not a soft spot or shred of decency in the entire place. Consider me warned.

  Without looking up from the paper, he says. “Draw the doors shut.”

  The last thing I want is to be locked in a room with you! my mind screams.

  Pissed, I say, “I’m not staying.”

  The steaming cup freezes halfway to his lips. I refuse to give an inch so he switches tactics and says. “You’re going to have to come to terms with this, Angie.”

  “No, Tony!” My skin cools under his condescending smile and I realize I may as well be stomping my foot and throwing a tantrum.

  I take a measured step and lower my voice. “It’s bad enough you told that… man of yours he could have me. Newsflash, the jokes over. Go get the Rolex you planned on giving him and leave me out of it. I’m crying uncle!”

  His dismissive wave is too much.

  Pointing for emphasis, I say, “And it is not cool to send him up to my room! You might as well just tie a big, red bow around my tits! I don’t know who’s the bigger weirdo here. The pervito up there or my own brother who gives him permiso to do so.”

  “Pervito? You’re legal now. It’s all on the up and up,” he says.

  I step back like he hit me. In the sober light of day, he’s still sticking to that damn toast. I look between him and the front door. Maybe I can make a break for it.

  “Let me get you a jacket. It’s cold out.” His simmering smile throws me off guard.

  Puzzled, I look at the sun shining through the bay windows.

  Perfect gentleman that he wants to be, he holds the closet door open. The wide-eyed look of innocence doesn’t fool me. He reaches into the darkest depths and pulls the worst jacket off the hook.

  Not the light sweater I’d envisioned, he snaps the sealskin nightmare into the air and I duck like I’m dodging bullets.

  What’s that thing still doing in there?

  Hideous, the devil himself wouldn’t be caught dead in it. That’s how cruel it is. With every movement, the seams creak with the cries of baby seals.

  “Anthony, no. I’ll scare the children!” I admonish.

  “Good. I want those little beasts to be petrified of this family. Let them think this buttery leather was carved from the hides of children. Just like them.” Anthony purrs.

  There’s a certain smugness about him as he watches me button the coat. It was a gift. From the Thief of Dreams himself.

  When he acts like this, he scares me. This side of my brother cares for no one. Not even family.

  But I am his family. Sometimes he needs to be reminded of that.

  With an indulgent smile, I say, “For my only brother, I’m wearing it. See? But I’m going alone.”

  I turn with an offhanded comment, “Please break the news to Vincent before I get back.”

  “What news?” my brother asks.

  “The news that I won’t be marrying him,” I say.

  “Oh, you will. It’s the only way to protect you from the Sin Eaters,” he says.

  Staring into his blank eyes, sweat breaks out on my brow, yet I smile. “Protection? The only protection I need is from the grizzled dog upstairs. Not from a bunch of surfers that ride motorcycles. What do you think this is, Easy Rider?” I ask.

  He rushes to my side and grabs my arm. “More like Blood In, Blood Out, little girl. Remember that. The last thing I need is one of those perros getting ahold of you.” He looks down at me like I’m still in pigtails. Still needing the protection he’d promised our parents he’d give me when he brought me here all those years ago. Only to use me for collateral now.

  Struggling to break free of his grip, I hiss, “Why’s that Anthony? Because you’ve already promised my future away?”

  His fingers dig in and I know I’ll have something the FBI doesn’t. A perfect set of his fingerprints on my arm by morning. “No, because you’re leverage. After I stole their weapons right out from under their noses, I can only imagine what they’d like to do to me. Imagine what they would do to my beautiful little sister. You might be too good of an offer to pass up.”

  His grip loosens to the point of a caress. “Though I doubt they’d even want you as stubborn as you are. You won’t kill for me, you don’t like my choice of groom. You’re my blood, which means I can’t fuck you. So what good are you?”

  Staring too long into my heartbroken eyes, I’m relieved when all he does is toss me toward the foyer. I refuse to be baited into a fight that will keep me in this house. Straightening my jacket, I toss my hair back. Almost there.

  But I’m stopped short. Because there’s that fucking RED DOT, Vincent blocking the door.

  For one tense moment, neither Vincent or I make a move. That would be looked upon as a concession. Afraid to even breathe, this goon would probably take it as consent. My hands itch to slap the smirk off his face.

  I meet his beady eyes. Loud enough for my brother to hear, I spit out, “Anthony, put a leash on your perro.”

  My brother stands with his hands in his pockets and shrugs.

  Will this be the time that his chokehold snaps my neck?

  Refusing to even consider his choice, it just might be. I’ve got no other moves to make but to stand my ground and wait.

  Anthony gives a barely perceptible nod. Vincent demurely moves to the side, and I know.

  I still have the King’s ear. But for how long?

  Chapter 3

  As if spoiled by the beauty, I drive down the coastal road with blinders on. The captured bits of sunlight that sparkle on the cresting waves feel like a hindrance. Squinting, I yank the visor to the side and block more of the stunning view.

  There are bigger things on my mind than the scenery. Namely all this Vincent shit my brother’s been force-feeding me. Last night was just the sinking of the Titanic, there had been iceberg warnings since my eighteenth birthday.

  “My luck those two will have a Priest tied up and ready to get to the I do’s.” I mutter. It’s true, but hearing it put into words isn’t helping.

  Staring up at the red light, it’s obvious what I need to do. “I just won’t go home. Ever.”

  A revving engine startles me. I look to my left and I’m caught talking to myself by one cocky as fuck biker.

  Aye, guapito, he’s fucking blonde. Just what I need.

  Grinning my way, the wraparound Oakley’s block my view. I wish I could see his eyes. Bet they’re gorgeous.

  He doesn’t mind the look, even tips the brim of his skullcap helmet toward me.

  This is what I need protection from?

  The light changes to green, but neither of us move. I’m looking and he is too. Some old man is bitching and honking behind me, but I’ve got something to do. As a big fuck you to my brother, I pucker up and plant a big wet one on the window between us.

  Dimples! He’s got dimples!

  Giggling, I floor it and leave him back at the light.

  Why can’t Anthony pick someone like him? At the very least, someone my own age. Because facts are facts. My brother’s word is his bond and my pleas only seem to fortify it.

  I’m jarred out of my own head when something darts from between the boulders. I catch a glimpse of a black blur right in front of my car! Ohmygod.

  Was that a kid?

  I mash down so hard on the brake that my heels leave skid marks in the carpet, but the car’s still rolling. The most I can do is yank the steering wheel towards the shoulder and pray. There’s a bone-jarring thump before the car jerks to a stop.

  Please don’t be a kid.

  Shaking, I reach for the beaded rosary hanging from the rearview and the damn airbag explodes right in my face.

  Choking on chemicals, it’s the clatter of rocks which announce your arrival. At first, all I can make out is the silhouette of a good Samaritan etched against the brilliance of a fiery sun. I can’t see you but I’d bet money, you’re staring at my coat. Wondering how I could wear such a thin
g.

  Before the automatic window is down, I say. “I think I hit something. Could you check?”

  I shield my eyes and stare up expectantly. You’re still not moving and I need you to.

  “I don’t even eat meat. Can you just check for me?” I plead and wave towards the hood.

  After an eternity, you turn and drop down in front of my car.

  Minutes feel like hours, it must be really bad.

  If my brother were here, he’d say go around. Or better yet, hit the fucker. One less freeloader in the world.

  Eyes squeezed shut, the wait feels like agony. Steering wheel clenched in my hands, I yell out the window. “Did I kill it?”

  “It was dead long before you.” You say with a chuckle.

  I open my eyes and there you are.

  Staring at me through the windshield, eyes cutting through the chemical haze like a search party. Tattered black bag in hand, you look at me like I’m a few links short of a chain wallet and add. “Front axle’s shot though.”

  “Rest in Plastic,” I murmur.

  I’m not shy about staring.

  Long and lean, when you stand it’s the opposite of origami. Wiping dust from your hands, silver skull rings glitter like hood ornaments. Narrow hips, thick belt, bare chest full of tattoos under a black leather vest. I’m pretty sure you’re flexing when you walk up to my open window. “Did you hear what I said?” You ask.

  “Nah, too busy enjoying the show.” I say. Sometimes my mouth opens and I have no idea what’s going to walk out of it.

  But you’re not offended. If anything you take it as a compliment. Blushing, you hold the vest open like an invite. Ripped abs, tight little waist. “Where do I RSVP?” I ask.

  You shake your head and that’s when I see your dimples up close. Wow.

  If my brother were here, he’d give me one of his patented steely looks and say. ‘Of course he’s smiling. Diablo always gives good lip service right before he bends you over and fucks you up the ass.’

  Fuck you Hermano. There’s nothing about this guy that even registers on my pervometer.

  One more confident smile and my mind rests easy. Maybe I should tip him? I think I have some cash in my purse. I’m wondering how much it will take to buy you when my door is opened. What a gentleman.

  Standing I hold a hand out. A mere formality since I’ve already decided to keep you.

  “Thanks, I’m Angie.”

  But you don’t take my hand. Instead, you press up against me. Using traffic as an excuse, all you say is, “Watch out.” You should have given me more warning than that. Sandwiched between my car and a wall of you, my cheek pressed to your chest, I just hope I’m not drooling. As you wave traffic by, my hand molded to your abs begins to explore. I just can’t help myself.

  To the passing cars we must look like a couple. Only we just met.

  “Alright, alright,” I say and barely push your chest.

  Which you way overexaggerate. Arms pinwheeling, you act like it’s cute to back right into your suicide.

  I see the oncoming car before you do.

  “Watch out!” I yell and reach for your vest but instead get your belt. You step close enough that I see what I’m holding in the palm of my hand. As cars pass, you press close and the cold metal digs into my skin. Eyes closed, I try to imagine the imprint it’s leaving. A sinister skull jeering from the eye of a tornado.

  To make sure, I peek at the steely chrome chopper pulled over behind my wrecked Jag. My brother’s worst nightmare, you’re a Sin Eater.

  I feel faint. The accident, the heat, this jacket…you.

  “I’m Rafe,” you say.

  “I need air,” I say and wiggle out of your embrace and this jacket.

  “May it burn in hell,” I say and drop it on the side of the road.

  Unfazed, you keep an eye on me and direct traffic. Disgruntled motorists might as well have their noses pressed to the glass. Gawking at me like I’m America’s Most Wanted. Eyes filled with condemnation for the Latina who must have jacked this expensive car and taken it for a joyride.

  Assumptions already made beforehand, I get that a lot. No matter how far I try to distance myself from my brother’s misdeeds, it always come down to trial by audience.

  Checking out my Fendi thigh-highs like there might be DNA on the soles. Eyeing my Prada like I didn’t pay for it. Taking in the bejeweled bangles clanking on my wrist. Dying to know if those diamonds are real.

  Obstinately, I stare back.

  Of course they’re real. It all is. Wouldn’t do to have a representative of the Braga family walking around looking busted. I get the same speech as all the other goons, only I get wrapped in a nicer package.

  Stop with the stare-down and get back in the car. Anthony is going to have…

  Hedging, you ask. “Is there someone you want to call?” Maybe a boyfriend or a…husband?”

  Distracted, I ask, “What?”

  “Help? Do you have someone to call?” he asks plainly.

  Unless you count the guy who thinks rape is part of the tow package then no, I can’t think of a single one. Dejected that I’ve got no person, I sag against my car and whisper. “No.”

  Steeling myself, I wait for the question in your eyes to form into words. Don’t you belong to the Braga family?

  Instead you surprise me. “Lucky for you, I’m your man.”

  And you acted like it too. One call and a tow truck was in route. Wouldn’t even let me try to help push the car off the boulder. Then it got awkward.

  Under the pretense of waiting on your friends, you stare down the road, but it’s me you keep looking at. It feels like wheels are turning behind those blackout shades. Maybe that buddy of yours tipped you as to who I am. Wouldn’t my brother love that.

  Fears turn to betrayal when you read a text on your phone. Frowning you punch in numbers and I’m sure my goose is cooked. I’ll be married before sundown. Hand on my hip, I demand to know. “Who in the hell are you calling?”

  Surprised, you hold up a finger. Fine take a minute.

  “Jenna, it’s me. Who else would it be? Listen, I can’t fuck with you no more. Lose my number,” you say and hang up.

  What the?

  Shocked I ask, “Who was that?”

  “My past,” you say. All sure of yourself and shit.

  “Oh really? And what exactly am I?” I ask.

  “My future.”

  “Good answer,” I say and my smile only gets wider when I see the “cavalry.” Two guys dressed for surfing riding choppers. A shirtless driver tips his hat to me after he parks.

  They see me standing next to you and don’t give it another thought. As you talk to them, there are looks of commiseration tossed my way. But no looks at my cleavage. Who would have thought that the brother’s boogeymen would turn out to be perfect gentlemen?

  My car looks lonely on the lift.

  “Meet you back at the house, Rafe?” The driver asks.

  Searching my face with the precision of a surgeon, you say, “Hopefully I’ll be tied up.” You say and search my face with the precision of a surgeon.

  The amount of hope in your voice makes me blush when you ask me, “I can give you a ride home or…”

  If I pull up on the back of a motorcycle, my brother will flat out shank me. That’s a straight up fact. “Or,” I say softly and walk towards his bike.

  Only when you’re buckling the helmet under my chin do you ask, “Where we going?”

  “The Boardwalk,” I say.

  “Good choice.” It’s hard not to stare when you kickstart the machine. I feel awkward as fuck and don’t know how to sit. Lucky for me, it’s a short drive because I end up clutching the seat between my outstretched legs.

  Chapter 4

  The Boardwalk is packed. Looks like I’ve missed the dedication, but the way my brother breaks the law. I’m sure there will be others.

  The air smells catch of the day fresh. We walk through the rows of vendors and I like the w
ay you move aside for the mom’s with strollers. Going about their day, mesh bags full of organic produce, they don’t even notice the nod you give as they pass.

  But I do. It’s um, chivalrous. Don’t see much of that anymore.

  There are kids everywhere and I find myself bobbing and weaving the closer we get to the games.

  I can see the new building from here. It looks nice, but not fifty-thousand nice. We’re almost there when a man behind the shooting booth eyes me like he knows me. Without a word, he holds the butt of a replica shotgun over the counter toward me.

  Confused, you look from the carnival barker back to me. “Do you know him, Ang?”

  I like when you call me that. With a sad smile, I say, “Better than you know.”

  Interested, you watch close when I lay a twenty on the makeshift counter.

  Pocketing the twenty, the waves extravagantly toward an array of stuffed animals. “Got some new ones in,” he says.

  I look up. Tucked into the rusted metal frame of the awning are the same threadbare animals I always play for. Confused, I ask, “What gives, Neil?”

  His smile falters. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s the same raggedy shit you always have,” I say.

  With a wink, Neil says, “Yeah. But I dusted them. Just for you. My best client.”

  Shaking my head, I say, “I told you if you want them to last, just rotate them. Get them out of the sun. Set me up.”

  Clutching the toy gun like a lifeline, I watch Neil pull a clothesline across the back of the booth and attach it to the other side of the tarp. Paper targets with red stars in the middle flutter on the line.

  In preparation, I remove the ponytail and grip it between my teeth. Shaking my hair out, I set my feet.

  You watch my whole routine with an amused look.

  But this isn’t playtime. Solemnly, I say, “Welcome to therapy. You can watch but keep a respectable distance please.”

  And I bump you with my hip.

  You bump back and then snap-off a legit army salute that makes the chains on your wallet jingle and say, “I’ll watch your six while you work out your shit.”