Shatter

by Lola Taylor

  As she tried to recall the hours before now, she rummaged through her closet; her eyes sifted through the hangers of shirts, skirts, and pants.

  A frown formed, deepening as she looked. “What the…?” She pulled out a blouse with pink polka dots. When had she bought this? It wasn’t like anything she would normally wear.

  Putting it back on the rack, she kept looking. Actually, there were a lot of things here she didn’t recognize. Brightly colored leather pants, sky-high heels she’d never in her life wear, glittery, tight tank tops that would be more appropriate in a lady of the night’s wardrobe. The hangers screeched along the rack faster and faster as she scanned. Her breathing quickened.

  Finally, she made herself stop and turn around. She squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s nothing. You’ve just been so tired lately and so busy that you’re…not remembering a single damn thing you’ve bought. Shit, that sounds bizarre.”

  Was she really so tired she was forgetting things? She used to live to shop for clothes, and she was picky about what she bought. Surely, she would remember making these fashion blunders.

  A dull, familiar ache started at the base of her skull, and she whimpered. “Not again,” she whispered, already going for the pill bottle she kept on her nightstand.

  Her toe caught something, and she nearly went down. When she looked around her feet, she saw a pair of sneakers below her, along with a gigantic hoodie, pants that were way too big for her, and a baseball cap.

  She stared. Where had those come from? They looked…looked…masculine.

  She racked her brain, starting to feel herself coming unglued. No man had been over here since Eric, her gay coworker, had binge-watched American Horror Story with her on Netflix.

  “Hello?” she called, trembling slightly as she walked farther out into her townhome. No one answered. Not satisfied, she checked every room, even the closets. No one was there but her.

  She ran her hands through her hair, clutching strands and trying not to hyperventilate. What the hell was going on? Where did all those clothes that weren’t hers come from?

  She stood in her living room. Her fearful eyes lifted to the pictures situated so lovingly along her shelves.

  “Amy,” she breathed.

  Diving for her purse, which she’d left on the coffee table, along with a pair of aviator sunglasses she didn’t recognize, she sped-dialed Amy’s number. Her voicemail picked up. Dammit, she must have her phone turned off. She tried again and again and again. Still no answer. Her voicemail picked up again, but Becca bit her lip. There was no need to freak Amy out, not when she had enough problems on her plate.

  Becca looked around and hugged herself, suddenly not feeling safe in her own apartment. But where could she go? She didn’t necessarily want to be in a crowd, so strip malls, movie theaters, and coffee shops were out of the question.

  She checked her phone. Dammit, why hadn’t Amy called her back yet?

  Her head throbbed, and she gritted her teeth against the mounting pain.

  Pills. She needed her pills.

  She started up the stairs, when she heard someone test the back door to see whether it was locked. Keys jingled, and a moment later the door opened.

  She frowned in concern. “Zach?”

  The brown-haired boy was tall and thin, clad in a baggy hoodie, torn pants, and high-top sneakers. He froze when he heard her voice and slowly turned around to face her. His face was white, his eyes fearful.

  A little gasp escaped her lips as she rushed toward him. “What’s wrong? Where have you been?”

  His eyebrows furrowed. “You know where I was. You found me at Jaden’s house.”

  “I did? When?”

  “Last night. Remember?”

  Last night? She remembered picking up Amy. Before that…before that…nothing but darkness and murky memories she couldn’t access.

  What had she been doing? Why couldn’t she remember?

  She spotted a fresh bruise on his cheek and reached to cup his face, but he flinched and avoided her. “Why don’t you remember?” He gazed at her with wariness. “You’ve been forgetting things a lot lately.”

  “I know,” she said tiredly. “It’s my headache medication. I think my dosage might be too strong or something.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Keep telling yourself that.” Before she could respond, he rushed past her and headed toward his room. It often remained vacant because he was never home anymore. She followed him and paused in the doorway as he dug through his dresser for fresh clothes, which he placed into the duffel bag on his shoulder.

  She watched him silently from the door. “Zach, why do you always try to run away? Isn’t this place good enough for you?”

  He paused. “It was,” he said quietly and then finished packing. Re-situating the strap on his shoulder, he brushed past her and headed back downstairs toward the door he’d come through.

  She followed at his heels. “Will you at least tell me what I’ve done wrong? Is it me?” When he didn’t answer, she reached for him. The second her fingers touched his arm, he thrashed as if he’d been burned, whirled around, and stared wide-eyed at her with the same fear as before.

  She stared back in horror and confusion. “Jesus, Zach, what’s the matter?”

  Her brother searched her face; tears formed in his eyes. “Just leave me alone,” he choked out before he rushed out the door and slammed it behind him.

  “Zach!” She started after him, when her head gave a violent throb. Her body veered toward the wall as a gasp was torn from her throat and stars burst before her eyes. Dizziness and nausea set in, as they always did with her migraines. Swearing, she stared a moment longer at the back door before she forced herself up the stairs.

  Just get your pills. Your pills make everything better.

  She was halfway up the stairs when the doorbell rang, followed by persistent knocking. Thanks to the migraine, it sounded as if a gong was going off inside her head.

  Maybe they’ll go away, she thought, waiting.

  No such luck. The doorbell buzzed again, and she winced.

  “Coming!” she called, hoping it would make them stop ringing the doorbell.

  Her head hurt so much, she completely forgot to check the peephole to see who was at her door. When she opened it, she wished she had. “What are you doing here?” she breathed, staring in horror.

  Nathan stood there, hands tucked in his jeans pockets and an easy smile on his handsome face. He gave her a funny look and walked past her.

  “Hey!” she said. “You can’t come in here!”

  Another “what the hell?” look. “You told me to come by, like, last night, remember?”

  “I…I did what?”

  It was as though a switch had been flipped inside her brain, triggered by his words and the very sound of his voice. Sucking in a tight breath as her brain literally switched gears, she squeezed her eyes shut. It felt as if her internal wiring were being reprogrammed, but it only lasted a split second. When she opened her eyes, she felt like a brand-new her.

  A very dangerous her.

  Smiling seductively, she said in a lower voice, “Sorry, I forgot. Long day.” She sat on the chair and crossed her legs. “So, how’d it go?”

  Nathan eyed her another long second but didn’t comment on her strange behavior. “I did what you asked.” He reached into his pocket and tossed the knife on the coffee table. “Now, I believe you owe me.”

  Her eyes flicked to the knife. “Not so fast. How do I know you actually followed through?”

  He shrugged. “Call her. She’s pretty freaked.”

  Good. Aroused by the power she held over this man, to command him to do her bidding, she stood and sauntered over to him. She placed a nail on his chest and dragged it up over his lips, leaving a faint scratch mark. “You always were obedient. Did you also leave the anonymous tip at that gossip magazine?”

  “Yeah.” He grinned as he wrapped his arms around her waist. He frowned. “You sure this will work?�
�

  “Relax, lover. It won’t be long before we draw her closer. When the press comes knocking on her door, who do you think she’ll run to?”

  He inclined his head to her.

  “Exactly. Her best friend—her only friend.”

  It was brilliant timing on her part, convincing Amy to move so far from her family. Things were tense enough with them back home, considering her mother’s nerves and inability to handle stressful situations. There was already a rift forming between Amy and her family. It was all she had left, since she’d stopped talking to most of her friends out of embarrassment over what happened and a refusal to answer difficult questions. Her silence was a “way for her to forget and move on.” That had been Becca’s idea, too, ditching the rest of her friends. All she’d had to remove was Amy’s family, and she would be completely dependent on her. Convincing her to move so far away to complete her ostracizing was simple enough. She almost snorted. “Amy 2.0” indeed.

  Nathan’s eyes glimmered in anticipation. “And when you draw her in…”

  “I’ll hand her over to you, just like we planned.”

  Her cell phone chirped. It was Amy calling her back, finally.

  Becca winked at Nathan. “One second, lover. I’ve gotta take this.” Pitching her voice higher, she answered cheerily, “Ames, hi!”

  “Hey.” Amy sounded a bit frazzled. “Um, sorry it took me so long to call. I saw you called a bunch—”

  “You know what, it’s okay.” Becca smiled at Nathan. “It’s totally no big deal, and I’ve got it all taken care of now.”

  “Oh. Okay. Um, if you’re sure…”

  “Yeah,” Becca sang. “But thanks for calling me back! Sorry to worry you! Gotta go!”

  She killed the call as Amy was saying goodbye and then tossed the phone onto the sofa.

  Reaching down, she grasped the hem of her T-shirt and slowly pulled it over her head to expose her bare breasts. Nathan hungrily took her in.

  “As you were saying”—she shimmied out of her sweatpants—“I believe I owe you my gratitude.”

  Nathan didn’t wait. He seized her and crushed her to him as their lips met.

  Becca kissed him back, forcing her tongue past his lips and into his mouth. He growled, picking her up and tossing her onto the sofa. Nathan ravished her, kissing her throat, her breasts, her stomach.

  He was far too distracted to notice Becca’s hand had found the knife, lying so close by on the coffee table. Flipping it open, she rammed the point into Nathan’s back.

  He gasped, rearing up, his eyes wide and terrified as they searched her face. “What are you doing?” he rasped.

  She smiled. “Making sure you never hurt my Amy again.”

  Jerking the knife out, she buried it to the hilt in his throat.

  SCOTT COULDN’T BELIEVE what he was seeing. It was like the Ghost of Fights Past had come to haunt him.

  Jeremy hadn’t changed much in the year and a half since Scott had last seen him. He looked a little more scarred, maybe. His knuckles were covered in thick calluses from countless nights spent beating the living hell out of people in the ring. The Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt he wore fit small on purpose; it showed off just how ripped he was—and how deadly.

  Add to that the fact he was over seven feet tall, and you had one scary son of a bitch. He wasn’t called the Destroyer for nothing. Many men’s faces, limbs, and, in one case that haunted Jeremy to this day, lives had been destroyed. Scott believed him. The shock on Jeremy’s face when he realized his opponent would never get back up again was evidence it had been an accident. Jeremy might have been good at kicking ass, but he wasn’t a killer.

  All the same, Scott was thankful Jeremy fought under the same employer and he never had to face him in the ring. He’d look a whole lot more fucked up today than he did if he ever had to face Jeremy.

  Jeremy raised one of his thick black brows. His father was straight-off-the-boat Italian, and Jeremy had inherited the olive skin and curly black hair of his old man.

  “You gonna stare at me all day or invite me in, asshole?” Jeremy asked with a slight smirk.

  Scott shook his head. “Sorry, man.” He stepped forward and embraced Jeremy in a tight man-hug. “Just shocked to see you, that’s all. I thought you’d gone dark after that fight with Mickey.”

  The deep regret and pain of killing the legendary fighter flashed in Jeremy’s eyes briefly as Scott let him in and shut the door. “Yeah,” he said quietly, looking around. “I did.”

  “As in, not anymore?” He went to grab two beers, figuring they could both use an icebreaker.

  “Thanks, man.” Jeremy took the beer and sat on the couch when Scott gestured. Scott sat back in his recliner and popped the cap off his bottle before he took a healthy swig. Jeremy looked troubled. Scott had seen a lot of troubled people in his life, so he’d learned to recognize it fairly easily. They carried a heaviness about them that was missing from happy people.

  He waited for Jeremy to speak on his own; the both of them sipped on their beers in silence. “Ghost sent me,” Jeremy finally said, forcing his gaze to Scott’s.

  “Shit. I figured as much. You’re not back in the ring, are you?”

  Jeremy’s silence was answer enough.

  Scott’s brows furrowed. “What happened? When did he approach you? How did he find you?”

  Jeremy chuckled, a broken, brittle sound. “Where do I start? You know once Ghost lets you go, or says he is, anyway, that he’s lying. ‘Just because he loosens the leash doesn’t mean he’s taking off the collar.’”

  A chill ran through Scott. Ghost had said exactly the same thing to him back at the inn. Swallowing hard, he waited for Jeremy to continue.

  Jeremy leaned forward. The half-empty beer bottle dangled from his fingers. His gaze grew distant, saddened. For the first time Scott could remember, the insurmountable man looked…broken.

  “I knew he was having me followed about two months into ‘disappearing.’ I’d catch guys watching me in the park, a restaurant, on the bus, everywhere, always pretending to be fellow pedestrians. Then Ghost himself showed.

  “I had just picked my little girl up from preschool.” His voice trembled, making Scott tense. He didn’t blink—hell, he didn’t even breathe—as he listened. “The doorbell rang. Figuring it was my wife with the groceries, I answered it. There stood Ghost instead, flanked by two goons. I couldn’t refuse him. I had to let him in. You know Ghost isn’t the type of man to stop trying to get to you simply because a door is slammed in his face. So I let him in. He said he just wanted to talk, to catch up, but I knew better. There’s always a motive with Ghost—and there was. He’d come for me, to get me back in the ring. Said he’d had some business ventures go sour and needed me to help him out.” He chuckled darkly. “‘Help.’ Like I had a choice.

  “When I refused, he didn’t take it so well. Said he’d find a way to make me change my mind. People always had things that could be used for leverage.” His face paled, and his voice lowered to a haunted whisper. “I saw him glance at my daughter, and I knew exactly what kind of leverage he intended to use. I wasn’t about to give him that chance. After he left, I packed a bag as quickly as I could, with all the things me, my wife, and my kid would need, and we hightailed it out of there.

  “Sharon dialed me just as I was about to call her, and I told her the plan. We never went back. For six whole months, we bounced around from state to state, changing our names, changing our occupations, staying in extended-stay hotels. It sucked. My dream was to save up enough money to buy our way out of the country and into a brand-new life, free of Ghost, but that was wishful thinking. One night, the night before we were about to move again, I needed to make a grocery store run. I called Sharon to tell her where we were heading, but she never picked up. I didn’t think anything of it, at first. When she was out and about, my wife never really answered her phone. Too damn busy, she said. But as the night went on, and I never heard from her, I grew worried. We lived out in t
he boondocks. More privacy. Since Sharon wasn’t returning my calls, I decided to stop somewhere closer to town in case I needed to go back for her. I’d just filled up the tank with gas and stepped into the gas station to get my little girl some water. I was gone maybe thirty seconds. When I got back in the car, one of Ghost’s thugs was in the backseat, with a gun pointed at my little girl’s head.” He formed a gun with his thumb and forefinger and pointed it at his temple.

  “He told me to drive.” His voice got lower and lower, evaporating into a whisper, those deadened eyes staring at nothing. “We went back to the cabin, where Sharon was tied up in the living room. It took me a second to recognize her; they’d beaten her to a pulp. Ghost said I needed to be taught a lesson. He made me choose—my wife or my kid. My wife looked at me with understanding and nodded. Before I could do anything to stop it, they killed her. Right in front of me and my little girl. All because I tried to get away from Ghost. Because I told him no.” His hand shook, threatening to drop the bottle.

  Scott’s mouth was pressed in a hard, thin line, his eyes grave as Jeremy looked at him.

  “Do you understand where I’m going with this?” Jeremy rasped.

  “Yeah.” Scott glanced at the wall, where he knew Amy was sleeping just on the other side. “I think I do. And I’ve already told Ghost yes. I’ll fight for him.”

  “Wise move.” Jeremy nodded and finished off his beer before he set it on the coffee table with a thud. A moment of heavy silence passed before he finally stood and walked toward the door. “You don’t need me then, to bore you with more of my sad tales.”

  Scott noticed the glint of gold around Jeremy’s ring finger. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  Jeremy froze as he ran his thumb along the ring. “You’re a lot smarter than I was.” He looked back with sadness in his eyes, as if it was the last time he’d ever see him again. “Take care, man.” He started to open the door but paused. “A word of advice? Cut your lady friend loose.”

  Scott wasn’t surprised he knew about Amy. Ghost had probably informed him of the stakes. “Jeremy—”