by Emilia Finn
“But he didn’t actually… he didn’t…” I think I’m going to spew. “I’m not hurt.”
“You have stitches in your ribs and a slice along your neck. Your expensive as fuck heels were all scraped up, and he put the fear of death into your eyes. I have no regrets.”
Stumbling back from this… this killer, with a hand over my mouth to stop the surge of vomit that wants to erupt, I check my purse one last time to make sure my files are secure.
I slept in his bed last night.
I allowed him to slide needles through my skin.
He had his fingers inside my body.
And he’s a murderer!
“Don’t follow me.” Turning on my heels, I bolt out the door. Please God, don’t let him follow me.
6
Kane
Follow Her
I slide my truck to a stop up the street from the single-story apartment a billion miles from mine, and watch Jess struggle to push her car door open. Crying, clumsy with her bag and files, the small car literally rocks on the wheels when she tries to get out but fails to open the actual door.
On a cry of disgust, she tries a second time and pushes the door open on squeaky hinges. Like she’s angry at the leather of her five-hundred-dollar bag, she whips it over her shoulder and climbs out of the hatchback onto her twisted ankle.
So unbelievably sad, I watch her limp along the front path in those ridiculously high shoes and hold herself in a way that telegraphs aching ribs.
Her skirt sits off center, her hair messed at the back. She literally walked her ass across town to get her car, slid straight in without ducking into her office first, then came home.
And I followed every move she made.
Because I care that she doesn’t end up dead.
No other cars remain on her street. Everyone’s already at work. With her bloody coat pulled tight around her lean body to hide my shirt from the world, she steps in her front door and slams it shut.
And not once does she notice me just fifty yards away keeping watch.
I shake my head at her carelessness, perform a U-turn, and head toward Infernos.
I have work to do, and probably another beating to take for flaking last night.
I’m Abel’s best soldier.
The strongest. The fastest. The smartest.
But when your strongest, fastest, smartest man ditches work with no good explanation, you task the nine next smartest, fastest, strongest soldiers to take care of business and teach that man a lesson.
The same lesson I was taught two nights ago for dealing with Lance when I was told to stand down.
Eighteen months of working for Abel, and the first time I ever disobeyed an order was two nights ago while a pretty girl was crying out for help.
The second time, last night, when that same pretty girl was falling asleep in my arms and whimpering in pain.
She’s going to get me killed.
That’s not a joke. It’s a damn fact. She will get me killed.
7
Jess
Fraternizing With The Enemy
Six hours after leaving Kane’s apartment, I wake similarly to how I woke this morning; sweating, shaking.
But no grinding.
I walked into my apartment this morning and snagged an oats breakfast bar on my way to my room. I wasn’t hungry, not once I realized I’d slept with a murderer all night – and liked it – but I was going on thirty-six or so hours of no food.
Just because I don’t feel like eating doesn’t mean I can ignore a basic human need.
I have stitches in my body from a man I really don’t know, and a hell of a lot of trust in someone I really shouldn’t.
Does he have AIDS?
Do I have AIDS?
Did he sterilize everything?
Cracking my eyes open to the afternoon sun and shoving sweaty hair off my face, I groan at the clock and the flashing numbers; it’s a little past three.
Pushing my heavy covers away, I peek down at my ribs and pray I’m not pouring blood, but instead of bare skin and stitches, I find a dark shirt and piles of cottony material that stretch further down my legs than any nightgown I own.
I shoot my eyes toward the ceiling and groan.
How did I get myself in this position? How’d I go out thinking to walk into a club I wanted to see the inside of, but instead, I almost get raped, I’m saved by a dark avenger who then admits he murdered my would-be murderer, only to then fall asleep with a fever, and wake to stitches in my body?
Then for my final act, because there must be a final act, I wake with a need deep inside my body that apparently can only be satiated by my avenger-murderer-doctor.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I’m chalking it all up to shock.
Everything that has happened from the moment I met Lance, I’m blaming on shock. The fact I even talked to Kane. The fact I allowed him to bring me back to his apartment. The medical decisions I made. The grinding. The five seconds I allowed his fingers to pleasure me.
Everything.
Every single poor choice I made – I’m blaming on shock and fever.
Pulling the soft shirt up with my eyes scrunched closed in denial, I take deep breaths to prepare myself for the massacre. Or the flesh-eating disease. Or the alien growing off my body.
Instead, when I slit my eyes open, I find a clean bandage. No oozing pus. No neon signs that screech at me to see a real doctor.
For today, I live, and maybe I don’t have AIDS, either.
Looking at the clock with a yawn, I pat Kane’s shirt back down and consider my plans. It’s only three, which means it’s too early to take the bandage off and clean it again – because apparently I’m still taking medical advice from the murderer.
I reach across my bed and drag my handbag closer. Digging inside, I remember the sex toy I found, and the look of pure male satisfaction on his face when I tossed it away.
Dirty pig.
Why would he put that there?
Because he’s a murderer and a sexual deviant.
Taking out my cell phone, I groan at the flashing battery bar, then the one-hundred and seventy-three unread text messages. Not even an exaggeration.
One. Seven. Three.
Because my best friends are psychos.
Before I open their chat – because that’s a Pandora’s box I’m not sure I can handle right this second – I open the next chat below and find a message from Jules asking how I’m feeling.
Good lord.
Scrolling up, I find the chat I don’t recall ever having.
Slut shoes. Alex’s back scratchers. Sick day. No pot. Drink lots of water.
At least he didn’t mention butt plugs or AIDS.
Scrolling back to the bottom, I reply that I’m fine, that I just woke up, and that I need more water.
Keep on topic. Pretend it was me texting last night and not the maybe-Mafioso, definite-murderer, possible-gun-runner Kane.
Jules came into my office months ago, easily more than six or seven, and said my main focus until the case against Abel Hayes was closed would be Kane Bishop.
To take Abel down and get him out of our town – which is Alex’s job – we first need Kane.
My job.
Half a year of sixteen-hour days didn’t net me nearly as much as Kane’s simple confession this morning. A murder confession, just that easy, is enough for me to take to Jules. To Alex.
But if I do that, then how do I explain why I was there? How do I explain his shirt on me right now? How do I explain the stitches in my side?
And they’ll know. Jules has a magical touch in getting people to admit things they really shouldn’t.
I need that confession again. But I need it not in his apartment, and not while I’m wearing his clothes.
I need to go back to Infernos.
Opening my still flashing chat with the girls, I sigh as the replies come in strong. One after the other after the other.
Jesus, d
o they ever take a break?
Britt: SHE LIVES! I see you, Jess! I see you opened our messages. Finally!
Me: Shush. I’m reading. Stop replying.
I scroll… and scroll, and scroll, and scroll. I read every third message or so. Not once were any of them actually concerned for my life. There’s just talk of Britt’s husband’s sexual appetite; awesome. And the fact Laine’s boyfriend is away for work this week; also awesome. Kari remains appropriately silent on her boyfriend’s sexual appetite; because Laine and I will kill her if she shares about our brother.
Each message that passes, even the mundane ‘Guess what I’m doing right now?’ then Britt’s reply ‘You’re pooping’ makes me smile. It’s all so every day, work, home, babies, toddlers. It’s just life.
Until it’s not.
Stopping halfway down, my stomach threatens to explode.
My thumbs shake when I stop at three paragraphs of laughing emojis.
Me: Brittany Hope Turner! How could you?
Britt: Ruh-roh. What exactly are you referring to? I do loads of bad shit, so you need to narrow it down for me.
Me: You put a butt plug in my handbag! Wtf is the matter with you? I found it this morning and thought some dirty perv was playing tricks on me.
In reply, Britt sends another three paragraphs of laughing emojis. Then Laine does the same. Then my screen is filled with mocking laughter as Kari joins in.
Me: You’re a bunch of jerks!!
Oh my God. And I blamed Kane for it. And I threw it across his apartment. He thinks I left my butt plug behind!
Kari: We had a team meeting. We decided you work too much and needed to… loosen up.
Britt: Loosen up! Do you get it?
Laine: I didn’t do it. But I also didn’t tell them to stop when I held your bag open.
Me: I’m mortified, guys! Someone saw it! I saw it! Then I blamed that someone else for putting it there! I can never step into public again!
Britt: 1) That’s a lot of !!!!s. I teach my students not to do that. It takes away their power. 2) Sure you can. People will forget soon. And 3) Who were you with when handling a butt plug? Did it feel good? I always wondered…
Me: OMG! Stop! Shut up. It didn’t feel good!
Kari: I told you guys we should’ve gotten the smaller one.
Me: No! I didn’t try it! Jesus. You’re a bunch of freaks!
And they’re all married or cohabitating.
Then there’s me, a butt plug, a criminal, and a tendency to abuse exclamation points when I’m overwhelmed.
Fuck.
Britt: You’ll be fine. If you don’t want it, bring it back. That shit was expensive. Give it back. ‘Someone’ else will put it to good use.
Me: Britt! Jesus. Stop.
Britt: I’m working, anyway. I’ve gotta go. The kids have almost chewed through the walls.
Laine: Come to my classroom, B. Bring the desk vodka. I need a damn drink.
Kari: No drinking straight spirits on school grounds, ladies. We’ve had this discussion before.
Kari: And don’t let the kids drink, either. That’s not a gray area. That’s illegal!
A message pops through from Jules that says she’ll be by after the office to check on me. Sighing with exhaustion despite the fact I slept all day, I toss my phone down before the girls can talk me into returning to Kane’s apartment to collect the expensive sex toy.
Throwing the covers off my feet, I scrunch my face in expectation of pain, but none comes. In fact, my ribs feel pretty decent.
It’s time for a shower. And to bend weird.
Digging through my bag, I take out the antibiotic ointment and shove it under my pillow, then take the wrinkled manila folders with shaking hands and flip the top one open, coming eye-to-eye with Kane Bishop.
I hate that he’s sexy.
I hate that he’s a murderer.
I hate that he seems to have a soft spot for me, because that creates a soft spot in me for him. That weakness makes me wish I could ignore the criminal things he does.
I can’t be objective about my job. About him.
And that scares me more than Lance did.
Three hours after showering, contorting, washing my oily hair, and blow drying it to straight perfection; after applying the ointment and, for the first time ever, truly studying the stitches he used to tie my body back together, I step into my kitchen with my own shirt on and Kane’s hidden under my pillow with the ointment.
A knock at the front door draws my eyes, but I don’t bother answering. It seems just about everyone in town has a key. Instead, I take a pitcher of sweet tea from the fridge and move to the cabinets for a drinking glass.
“Aww, hey, Lainie.” Wrapping his strong arm around my neck, my – biological – brother pulls me in for a rough hug, unintentionally grazing his belt against my ribs. “How are you doing? Word’s spreading that you’re not feeling well.”
I push him off and turn back to my tea before he realizes he hurt me. “Of course word is spreading. No one in this town knows how to mind their own business.” I swing my arm out and smack his stomach as an afterthought. “And don’t call me Lainie, jerkoff. You know my name.”
Luc pours his own tea and follows me to the living room in his work uniform – navy blue pants, navy blue button up shirt. ‘Lenaghan’ on the breast pocket above the plastic ID card that states his credentials as emergency services and his employment by the state. “You’re really not feeling well, huh? You were the sister with the least attitude, and now look at you; hitting and being mean. We all know you lash out when you don’t feel good. But I even mentioned it to Bear; I said you were pale.”
Shrugging, I sit on the couch that I know my brother and Kari do dirty things on, and lift my aching ankle to the coffee table. “Just a weird cold. No big deal.”
Sitting down beside me, he throws his arm over my shoulder in a pretend hug; pretend, because what he’s actually doing is wrapping his arm around until his palm rests on my forehead.
Lucky for me, my sort-of-doctor overdosed me on hydrogen peroxide, so I’m confident of my infection free status.
“You’re not warm.” He lays his palm on my cheek. “But you’re still pale. You shouldn’t work so much, Jess. You’re always inside, always buried under a pile of paper. Sunlight is good for you. Vitamin D is important. You make me worry.”
I close my eyes and lean back into his embrace. He’s not really hugging me, but I take the comfort, anyway, because I haven’t stopped shaking since the first moment Lance’s calloused hands touched my skin two nights ago. “I didn’t eat much the last day or so,” I admit. “Make me a big dinner, then I’ll get a full night’s rest. After that, I should be back to normal.”
The front door swings wide. One of my best friends in the whole world, with a face covered in innocence and freckles, Kari walks in in scrubs and wild hair, and stops with a kind smile when she notices us. Dropping her bag to the side table, she wordlessly moves to the couch and drops into my brother’s lap like she’s been doing it all her life.
Their relationship is still somewhat new – to the rest of us. But I think it’s been going on in secret for a hell of a lot longer than any of us knew.
“Don’t mind me,” I huff and scoot aside when her leg slams against mine. “I don’t mind. I wasn’t sitting there.”
Grinning, she wraps her arm around Luc’s neck and presses a tender kiss to his temple. While he’s busy with his eyes closed and his arms wrapping around her waist, her spare hand comes to my forehead, then my cheek. “You’re so pale, Jess. You’re not feeling so well? You catch mono or something?”
Luc’s eyes snap open. “Who’ve you been kissing, Jessica?”
A criminal. “Just a bug, but don’t worry, I won’t die today.” Because of the criminal I maybe kissed a tiny bit. “What are you guys doing tonight?”
“We just got off shift,” Kari says easily. “I’m sleeping for sixteen hours straight, then I’m starting a week of nights.
”
Luc nods. “What she said. Sixteen hours down, grub, work.”
Scoffing, I lean forward and grab the TV remote for something to watch other than my brother’s relationship. Flicking it on for distraction, since I don’t want to focus on my stitches, either, I turn to the news channel and groan at the sight of Abel Hayes.
The media know that he’s no good. The police know. Everyone knows. But no one can catch him, since he’s squeaky clean on paper. Flicking over to the cartoon channel, Kim Possible repeats come on and take me way back to middle school. The sounds of normalcy, the voices of my childhood relax me enough that I toss the remote down and lay my head back with a grunt.
The tickle of my shirt on sensitized skin, the coarse rub of my bandage covering, the knowledge I have a mark that will scar, leaves me with an odd tingling in my belly.
I’ve been marked.
And I don’t know why it leaves me with butterflies, instead of nausea.
Turning with a frown at the soft giggles beside me, I watch my best friend’s tongue dart out to tap my brother’s lip.
There’s that nausea I was missing.
“How’d you guys get your work schedules lined up so perfectly?” I slap Kari’s leg when they ignore me. I’m three seconds from going back to bed. I wouldn’t mind sixteen hours down, either. “Your boss knows you guys are together, right? How’d you convince them to line you up?”
“We save lives together,” Luc responds without pause. “We make magic when we can communicate and get shit done without speaking.” He flashes a smile that looks just like my daddy’s. “We’re more valuable together than apart. We didn’t have to convince anyone of anything. They know it. We know it. And now we get to make out in the supply closet during our breaks.”