by M. Leighton
Arguing with her is exhausting.
“You called one of them a ‘fixer upper.’ What is that if not a cause? You want to fix these bad boys, Olivia. You want to change them, make them into something you can live with. But that’s never going to happen. Boys like that don’t ever change. And certainly not for a girl.”
“Some of them can.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it. When one of them proves his love to you, I’ll never argue the point again. But until then…”
Until them, I’m just the dumbass that keeps falling in the same trap, over and over and over again.
“Do me one favor,” she says, reaching across the island to lay her hand on mine, a very rare show of affection and support.
“What’s that?”
“Take my car. Go to school. Prove to me that you’re strong enough to do this, strong enough to take on this kind of man and not buckle. Not give in and let him ruin your life. It would make me feel so much better.”
Her expression is actually sincere. Maybe even a little worried and desperate. Does she seriously think that I’m so fragile and impressionable that I’ll follow any ol’ loser right over the cliff?
If I can do this one thing to prove to her I’m not the weakling she thinks I am, then why not? Maybe it would help things between us, and between her and Cash when she meets him.
When she meets him, I repeat in my head, hanging on to the thought that such a day will come.
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay. I’ll take your car. I’ll prove to you that I’m stronger than what you think. That I’m smarter than what you think.”
She smiles, but it’s more satisfied and smug than pleased and proud. It reminds me that, no matter what I do, there’s probably little chance of ever pleasing her. Yet I feel compelled to try.
“I won’t even fuss about what you’re wearing, but I do want you to turn your shirt right side out first.”
“I will. Give me a few minutes. I need to brush my teeth and clean up a little better.”
“That’s fine. I’ll get you the keys and you can leave whenever you want.”
I nod and smile, trying not to think about how furious Gavin will be when he finds out I ditched him. It’s not like it’s a big deal, though. I mean, I’ll be at school, surrounded by hundreds of witnesses. The only way I could be any safer is if I was hiding a ninja bodyguard up my butt.
Mom brings me the keys then turns to the toaster and a bag of wheat bread lying to its left. Without so much as a word to me, she starts making toast, the same thing she’s had for breakfast every day for the last thousand years.
Quietly, I slip off the stool and make my way back upstairs. Sometimes I wonder why I even care what she thinks.
I pause on the steps when I realize that what I’m doing has very little to do with what Mom thinks of me, or changing it. Things have been this way between us for years. No, this has everything to do with her trusting my judgment enough to see that Cash is a good guy, that I’ve finally found someone that’s worthy in her eyes. I want her to see that. Not for my sake, but for Cash’s. He doesn’t deserve her bias. It has nothing to do with him and everything to do with my mistakes, her mistakes and her inability to forgive or forget either.
My determination grows with my epiphany. Yes, I’ll do this. And I’ll show her that finding and dating Mr. Wrongs doesn’t mean I’m incapable of finding Mr. Right. It simply means that I’ve had lots of practice learning to work my bullshit detector. If anything, I think that makes me a professional.
I snicker at my logic. And at the use of the term “professional.” Mom would die if she could hear my thoughts. She’d swear I’m a prostitute.
I’m looking at all this as a good thing. And the fact that I’m thinking of a future with Cash has to be a good sign. That means he’ll get through this just fine and we’ll have a chance to see where life takes our relationship. To me, it’s worth exploring. Cash is worth any risk.
As I pass the guest bathroom, I hear the shower kick on. Gavin is just getting started. Quickly, I hurry to my room, grab my bag and head for the second guest bath. I squirt toothpaste on my toothbrush, stick it in my mouth and strip down before turning on the shower. I hate going anywhere without a shower. I can be in and out in a flash. If I dress at the speed of light, I can take my bag with me and put on some mascara and lipgloss on the way. I know that’s frowned upon, but the roads should be fairly empty at this hour.
Blasting through a hurried hair wash, scrubbing my teeth as I rinse then hitting the high spots with my washcloth and a bar of Mom’s expensive soap, I’m hopping out of the shower and toweling off before you can say spit.
I hurry to give my armpits a swipe with deodorant, give my neck a spray of perfume and dress in the same clothes I wore for ten seconds this morning, only this time putting them on right side out.
“Can’t be embarrassing my tight-assed mother, now can I?” I mumble to the mirror.
I push my feet into my shoes, throw my bag over my shoulder and drag my fingers through the tangles in my hair as I tiptoe past the guest bath.
I pause to listen and can still hear the water running. I resist the urge to pump my fist. I’m not sure why, but I feel like I’ve just won some sort of competition worthy of headlines.
“Ovaries beat out testicles in speed shower match.”
I roll my eyes at my inane train of thought. I think my mother must’ve taken drugs when I was in utero. That’s surely the only explanation.
I hit the stairs and don’t stop until I’m pulling out of the driveway in my mother’s Escalade. Less than thirty minutes later, I’m pulling into a parking spot outside the hall my first class is in. I don’t want to go in too early, mainly because I’m not sure what time they open the lecture halls in the morning. I decide to break over and call Ginger. I haven’t talked to her since everything sort of…exploded.
Her voice sounds scratchy and groggy when she answers. “There better be a strip-o-gram on its way to me for a call this early. What the hell?”
I grin. “Wake up, sleepy head. It’s me.”
That perks her up some. “Liv?”
“It’s alive! It’s alive!” I tease.
“If you promise not to like it too much, I’m gonna spank the shit out of you next time I see you. What time is it?”
“Too early for you to be up. Sorry, but I don’t have much choice.”
“It’s never too early for you, my sweet.” She partially covers her yawn. “Who’s phone are you calling from? Did you find a third penis to add to the mix?”
“Oh God, no! Ginger!”
“What? I was just gonna congratulate you on your mad fornication skills. That’s all.”
“Uh-huh. Sure you were.”
“Who am I to judge how you get your freak on? Just as long as you get it on.”
“I don’t have a freak to get on, Ginger.”
“And that’s a damn shame. One of those twins ought to be able to introduce you to your freak. Of course, if they need teachin’, don’t forget my number.”
“Speaking of the twins…”
“Please, God, tell me that segue means you’re about to give me details!”
“Um, no. But I do have something I’d like to run by you.”
“Is it about dildo selection? Because those things can be tricky if you’ve never bought one before.”
I sigh. “No, it’s not about dildos. Do you always wake up this way?”
“Of course! Why wouldn’t I? This is how I go to sleep. It just makes sense that I’d wake up this way. Awesome doesn’t take a break, Liv. And it never sleeps.”
I grin at that. “And neither does humility, evidently.”
“Hey, I just tell it like it is.”
“Then turn your brutal honesty this way for a minute.”
“Okay. Wha’cha got?”
I would never want to lie to Ginger, so I carefully avoid mentioning anything that might inspi
re her curiosity, especially about the whole twin thing. That could get ugly pretty fast.
I give her the short version (or should I say shortER version) of the phone conversation between Cash and me. When I tell her what he said, her only response is really nothing more than a noise, but it still alarms me.
“Ahhh.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? ‘Ahhh’.”
“Nothing. Not really. To me, it sounds like he was wussing out just as much as you did. It’s not an outright declaration, but it’s very provocative.”
“Provocative?”
“Yes, provocative. As in to provoke. You know I’m a student of both provoking and being provoked, so I know.”
“So I shouldn’t take it as him telling me he loves me?”
“Just to be safe, I wouldn’t. Besides, you don’t want him telling you in that kind of situation anyway. It makes it sound like he’s just reflecting your sentiment. Surely a guy that hot can be a little more original.”
“Oh he’s original all right.”
“Damn you! Don’t tease me like that unless you’re bringing one of those bits of candy to my house right this minute.”
“That would be difficult on a number of levels.”
“Difficult? Difficult is breaking and entering. But for a piece of dick like that, I’d break so he could enter. I’d commit a felony and two misdemeanors for an hour with something like that.”
“Just one felony? I think you’re gonna have to up your game a little for these guys, Ginger.”
A loud, dramatic sigh. “Fine. Three felonies, no misdemeanors, but that’s my final offer.”
“Sold!”
We both laugh, but then Ginger sobers. “Seriously though, Liv, if you love him, I say take the risk, but I want you to be sure. He could tear your heart into a thousand tiny pieces if you let him.”
“I know.”
“But if he’s the one, it would be worth it to try.”
“I know that, too. And I think he is.”
“And you should warn him that if he hurts you, I will scissor kick him in the nuts. Tell him, okay? You tell him that. Because I mean it. I’ll go all kinds of Bruce Lee on his tasty ass.”
“I hope you won’t have any reason to.”
“Me, too, babe. Me, too.”
“Well, it’s—”
A knock on my window startles me and cuts off my next thought. My heart leaps into my throat for a second until what I’m looking at really sinks in. It’s just a student. A young-looking guy wearing a Yankees ball cap and a white t-shirt with his back pack slung over one shoulder. He’s smiling shyly so I roll down my window to see what he wants.
“Can I help—”
Before I can even finish the sentence, a smelly rag is held tight over my nose and mouth. I struggle, but it makes no difference. Within seconds, the face in front of me swims sickeningly right before the world goes dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO- Cash
I’m standing in the parking lot of an old abandoned warehouse in the hell-if-I’d-be-caught-here-after-dark part of Atlanta. My instructions were to come alone to this address after I retrieved the ledgers from the bank. So I did.
Earlier, I made a show of leaving my apartment and going to a bank that I’m familiar with across town. I went back to where the safe deposit boxes are located. The anteroom isn’t visible from the rest of the bank, so I knew I could pull off my ruse from there.
There was a young, too-eager guy manning the desk outside that room. I talked to him about the rates for renting the boxes and how secure they are, shit like that to waste some time. I have no doubt they sent someone to follow me, so I was making it look good. I left the bank after about fifteen minutes, still carrying the bag I walked in with. When I got in the car, I slipped the fake ledgers into it, just in case someone got the wise idea of hijacking me on the way. But they didn’t, which encourages me that they really might be willing to play ball.
Now, as I wait for…whatever to happen, my mind is on the empty ledgers in the car. Nash has the real ones. He’s parked on the motorcycle behind an old generator a couple hundred feet away, watching.
I’ve been here for six minutes and haven’t seen a soul. There’s one rusty door to the right of the big hangar style doors of the warehouse, but I haven’t checked it. I’m not going into that building. They’re bat-shit crazy if they think I’m dumb enough to do that. They can bring Marissa out to me.
I hear the crunch of gravel behind me and I turn to see a white painter’s van driving toward me.
Good God, could they be any more cliché?
It rolls to a stop near the building and a fat, balding guy in a track suit gets out of the driver’s side.
Apparently, the answer is yes, they can be more cliché.
His back is to me, but I have no doubt that under the jacket of his black leisure suit is a wife beater tank top and at least one gold chain around his neck. Evidently, the classic mobster look is no longer reserved for followers of The Godfather or Goodfellas.
I watch him walk across the gravel lot toward me. “Do you have the books?” he asks when he stops in front of me. His Russian accent is thick. Do you have zee books? It would be no surprise to anyone who knows organized crime that he’s Bratva. Russian mafia.
“I’m sure you know I do.”
Up close, I can see how this guy differs from movie mobsters. It’s not his face. It’s scarred, but not too grotesquely. It’s not his size. His heft is intimidating, but not overly much since I’m the same height and obviously in much better shape. It’s not his words. They’re direct and innocuous enough.
No, it’s his eyes that make my palms sweat. They’re cold and dead. If I ever had to describe to someone what the eyes of a killer look like, I’d describe these. Not the color or the shape, but what they say. They say he doesn’t mind doing his job and that he probably never has. They’re the eyes of someone who’s never had a soul, someone who was probably born into this world doing horrible things to innocent people inside his head until he was old enough to do it in reality.
I pray to God these eyes never touch Olivia. Not even from a distance.
“Give them to me and I give you the girl.”
“Let me see her first. I’m not giving you anything until I know she’s okay.”
Those eyes watch me for the longest ten seconds of my life before he speaks. Without fully taking his gaze off me, he turns his head and yells something in Russian. Seconds later, one of the van doors slides open and Marissa is pushed out of the van. Her hands and ankles are bound, as is her mouth, and she’s blindfolded. She falls lifelessly to the ground, landing on her side. I hear her moan of pain and see her draw her legs up toward her chest as if in pain. Around the gag and blindfold, I can see that her face is bruised, as is her shoulder, which is bared by the camisole she’s wearing. It looks like the top to some pajamas I’ve seen her wear before. I hope it is and that they haven’t done anything worse to her than just bruise her. Whether or not I really like Marissa or respect her as a person, I wouldn’t wish what has happened to her—and certainly nothing worse—on my worst enemy.
“Now, give me books.”
“Have them put her in my car.”
“Show me books first.”
I had sort of figured it might go like this, so I feel prepared when I turn and walk to the car, retrieving the blank ledgers. I leave the driver’s side door open, which will hopefully save me valuable seconds if I need to get away quickly. I walk the books back to the big guy, stopping short of where I stood before. The more distance between us, the better.
I hold up the books briefly then drop them back to my side. “Now, have them put her in my car.”
The guy smiles the most chilling smile I’ve ever seen. It makes me wonder if I’m somehow playing right into his hands. I don’t know how I could be, but I’m smart enough to know that underestimating people like this is a fatal error.
So I don’t. I do my best not to underestimate him
.
He calls behind him again, to whoever is in the van. “Duffy, put her in car.”
I watch a smaller, more American-looking version of the guy in front of me step out of the van, scoop Marissa up, throw her roughly over his shoulder and carry her to the BMW. He opens the back passenger door and flings her onto the back seat. Through the still-open driver’s side, I can hear her muffled sobs. I don’t know if they’re sobs of pain or relief.
“Now, give me books,” he repeats, like I’m an obstinate child he’s running out of patience with.
My heart tries to hammer its way past my ribs as I hand him the blank ledgers. As I suspected, he flips through them. When he raises his cold eyes to me, if possible, they’re even colder.
“I thought you’d be smarter than this. Your father, not so smart. Look what happened to him.” He pauses meaningfully. “And to his family.”
Fire races along my veins at his reference to my mother and her horrific death. “Things are going to be different this time. You’re going to let us leave here with the books and you’re going to assure me, on behalf of you and your boss and all your shitbag associates, that no one will ever come near me, my family or my friends again. Because if you do, the books will be the least of your worries.”
“What makes you think I do that?”
“Because we have video. Very damning video of the trigger man at the dock that day seven years ago. A man that can be directly linked to Slava.” Slava is the leader of the Bratva cell in the South. “Now I can promise you that, as long as everyone I’ve ever known or met remains safe, this video will never see the light of day. But if—”
The cell phone in my pocket rings. My heart skips a beat. There’s a problem. A big one. Everyone was clear on when to use this number—only if something has gone terribly wrong.
My stomach squeezes into a tight knot.
Olivia.
“Hold that thought. This must be my contact for getting you a preview of the video.”
It’s a bluff. Only Nash has seen the video and it’s only on his phone, not mine. He made a copy onto a flash drive, but it’s not with him. It’s in a safe place, according to him. But it buys me a couple of minutes, which I apparently need.