by Coralee June
I could still remember the day JJ stuck the burning hot metal to my skin, marking me as his property for all eternity. I hadn’t even been high. Johnny Jack did that on purpose. I wasn’t allowed to be numb for that part. He wanted me to feel everything as his initials burned into my skin. If I concentrated enough, I could still smell my burning flesh, feel the drops of blood creating crimson streaks down my back.
Aside from his initials, my summer dress also revealed the track lines down my forearms from where that bastard, Pick, pumped his own special blend of what he liked to call “Cooperation” into my veins. My doctor called it heroin. But it was my comfort, so I’d called it waffles.
I took the long, blonde hair that Pick had loved to pull so much, and I twisted it up in a bun. I didn’t bother with makeup. My thick lashes and plush lips didn’t really need the help. I was a pretty girl, and in some ways, I resented my mother’s genes. It had only made everything worse in the basement. Beautiful girls always got destroyed by powerful men.
I sat down at the vanity in my room and stared at myself in the mirror. I kept all the noise of my captivity buried under my eyes. I couldn’t let it out or it would take over, so I kept it locked there. Sometimes it was a hum, but it was usually a roar. It was deafening, so I muted it. It was the only way I could keep from cringing.
It was like when I was a kid, sitting in my living room, stomach-down on the carpet, pages of homework all around me with cartoons playing on the TV. So long as the TV sound blared, I couldn’t focus. Ma would always come in, catching me while I was distracted. She’d flip the audio over to mute for me, and only then could I finally think enough to finish. That was how I was dealing with reality now. I muted the shit out of my life. But really, it was only a matter of time before the sound turned back on.
My phone pinged, and I looked down to check it.
Unknown: We still on?
I bit my lip. I’d been nervous about this meeting for weeks. I looked down at the track marks on my arms, counting the lines. I let the jagged edges of my fingernails prod and scrape against the marred skin. I used to be smooth and perfect, but now I had scars to show what Johnny Jack and his Macon Mob had done to me. Pick was particularly fond of shooting me up. He’d sink the needle into my skin and then lick the blood that beaded there. He had two different colored eyes and a missing finger on his left hand, and I hated him more than anyone in the entire world.
I tried to stab him in the kidney with a needle the first time he dropped his pants. The high took over me quickly since I was already weakened. But I screamed. A lot. That’s the noise that’s buried inside of me the most. Just a never-ending, blood-curdling scream. It doesn’t break. It doesn’t pause. There is no stopping for air. Just one scream, going on and on and on.
I swiped my finger across my phone with renewed determination. Now wasn’t the time to back down or run away scared.
Rachel: I’ll see you there.
I heard my dad call my name, and I jumped a little, before pocketing my phone in my dress. I must not have been blinking, because my eyes were burning. Moving my gaze from my reflection to the doorway, I saw him standing there.
“Rachel?” Dad said again.
I cocked a blonde brow, waiting.
“I’ve been callin’ you. Breakfast is ready,” he told me. I watched as his eyes ran over my choice of clothes. His lips thinned, and the wrinkle between his brows deepened. “Why don’t you wear something else?”
Instead of answering, I got to my feet and moved toward the door, grabbing a pair of high top sneakers before brushing past him on my way out. He followed on my heels like an anxious Chihuahua, yipping at me all the way back to the kitchen.
I sat down at the wooden table, and even though the waffles on the plate in front of me churned my stomach, I forced myself to cut a piece and take a bite. It tasted like fire and went down like ash. They coalesced in the pit of my stomach to fuel my own hell.
I shoved piece after piece inside while my dad sat beside me in silence, watching me from the corner of his eye and feeding his own fuel.
“I’ll go to the warehouse later, okay?” I said, careful to keep my face impassive. “I was thinking about calling the therapist to talk to her,” I lied while trying to keep my voice steady. Dad could spot an untruth a mile away, but he could also be blinded. I intended to use that to my advantage.
He gave me a speculative stare, and I prayed that I wasn’t laying it on too thick. I held my breath, waiting to see what he’d say. I needed him out of the house if I was going to have any hope of sneaking away.
“Fine,” he finally said, “but I’ll send a car to pick you up as soon as you’re done.”
“I don’t need a ride. I can drive there myself.”
He was already shaking his head before I could even finish speaking. “No. You don’t go anywhere without an escort.”
“You can’t keep me locked in this house forever.”
His steely gray eyes lifted up to mine. “I can, and I will. Until our enemies are in the ground, you’ll be watched over. I won’t risk them taking you again.”
“It could happen even with your guys babysitting me,” I pointed out. “Hell, they took me while I was with you. I won’t be safe until they’re dead.”
“Then tell me their names, goddammit!” he yelled, slamming his fist on the table and making me flinch. “Tell me who hurt you, so I can end this. I’ll put them all in the fucking ground. I just need you to tell me, Rachel,” he said, his steely eyes shining.
I pinched my lips closed, refusing to give him what he wanted. I couldn’t even if he wanted me to. I didn’t have names. Not real ones, anyway. I had pain. I had Pick’s cruelty coated on my skin and wedged in my mind.
“I really do need to talk to Dr. Taffy,” I said. Yep. My therapist-but-maybe-not-a-legit-therapist was named after candy.
Dad looked down at the floor like he was hoping our enemies would be there, ready for him to step over. I wasn’t going to get him to leave without me unless I really sold this, so I was forced to grab my phone and call Dr. Taffy.
She answered on the third ring. “Hello,” she said in her singsong voice.
“Hey, Doc,” I answered reluctantly. I didn’t actually like my therapist. Her talks with me were tedious and stagnant, but she was proving to be useful right now at least.
“I’m surprised you called, sugar,” she said. “Everything alright?”
“One sec.” I eyed Dad pointedly, and he sighed in frustration and ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair.
“Fine. Just call me when you’re done with her. I’ll send a car to bring you to the warehouse later,” he said before turning around and leaving.
I shoved another piece of waffle in my mouth before nodding, too afraid that the truth would accidentally pour from my lips if I spoke.
“Rachel? Did you need something?” I heard Dr. Taffy ask.
I swallowed down my bite and wiped syrup from my lips. “Yeah, I needed Dad off my back, but he’s gone now,” I answered honestly.
She knew that our relationship was strained. She had even offered to act as a buffer between us and do some father-daughter counseling session. But I had a feeling that what she really wanted to buff was her body all over my dad’s. The image was a bit gag-inducing.
She laughed into the receiver, and the noise sounded like annoying bells. Dr. Taffy was eccentric and self-serving. I couldn’t tell what it was, but something was definitely off about her. The only reason I spoke with her at all was because Dad all but duct taped me to a chair and forced me to spew out some of the venom that was trapped in my belly. “Well, since I have you on the line, I have another challenge for you.”
I frowned. These challenges were really starting to get on my last damn nerve. Dr. Taffy started off small, challenging me to do something like eat breakfast with my father or go for a drive. Then they escalated to going to the place where I was taken. Every damn week, it was something new, and every damn week, I wa
sn’t sure if I could complete the dare. Dr. Taffy saw the competitive gleam in my eyes and used it to her advantage. Most of the time, our visits were in person. However, our phone calls were the only way I found her to be tolerable. She wasn’t the most professional, and once again, I found myself debating on demanding to see her license. There was no way a legitimate doctor would do some of the things she’d tried out on me. “I’m not really in the mood for another challenge. Test out your Google Academy theories on someone else, Taffy,” I deadpanned.
“Too bad. Or maybe I should just call your father and let him know that he should spend the day with you, hmm?”
I imagined her smiling on the other end of the line, patting herself on the back like she was so fucking clever.
Manipulative bitch.
“Fine,” I bit out. “What is it?” I asked into the receiver.
“I want you to flirt with someone,” she replied simply.
I blanched. “What?”
Of all the things I thought she was going to tell me, that was the last thing I’d expected.
“I want you to flirt with someone. Just some easy smiles or playful banter, nothing too crazy.”
“Why?” I asked warily.
I heard her let out a small breath over the phone. “Because, Rachel. Your control was taken from you, and you now associate sexual experiences with pain and fear. So part of this healing journey is moving past that,” she said, sounding like a real therapist for the very first time. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
“The other part is accepting that it’s okay to still feel sexual. It’s okay to make connections with people. Becoming aroused, desiring people sexually…you want to be able to have those things and develop healthy relationships. So I want you to try really, really hard to talk to someone. Have fun with it, and see that your sensuality is not tied to what happened to you. The more you do it, the easier it will be.”
“How do you expect me to do that? Even if it wouldn’t like...trigger me or something, Dad never lets me leave the house.”
She clicked her tongue at me, and I had to pull my phone away from my ear to stop the stupid sound from pounding my eardrum. When I put the phone back, she was speaking again. “I heard he wanted you to go to the warehouse today. Go. And when the opportunity arises, flirt with someone.”
“They all see me as the broken daughter of their boss,” I scoffed. “No way in hell they’d be receptive to flirting with me.”
Dr. Taffy laughed. “You’d be surprised, sugar. Men like projects. They like fixing broken things, especially if they look like you. Just try, okay? Like I said, you can start out small. A smile and eye contact can be as far as you take it. The point is it’s up to you to initiate it. Let me know how it goes.”
“Fine,” I replied, and then took the phone off my ear and hung up.
But I was just telling her what she wanted to hear. There was no way I was ready to flirt with someone. I wasn’t ready to fucking heal.
“She’s crazier than I am,” I mumbled grumpily under my breath as I stared down at the screen of my phone.
But the idea of flirting harmlessly with someone again put butterflies in my stomach. I used to like doing it. It used to be easy to smile at someone on the sidewalk and put an extra sway in my hips. Now? I wasn’t sure if I could do it.
I shoved Taffy’s assignment out of my mind, deciding I’d handle her later. Maybe I’d lie and tell her I did it, just to get her off my back. There was only one thing I could concentrate on right now anyway, and it was way more important than flirting. I was my father’s daughter after all, and at the end of the day, we both wanted the same thing. Revenge.
But it wasn’t his to have. It was mine. And I was going to get it my way without his interference.
Which was why I was meeting the only person that could make this clawing pain in my chest go away. I was going to meet with the one person who could give me what I needed.
I was meeting a hit man.
Chapter Three
Rachel
My body involuntarily shook at the crowd. I breathed in the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and gripped the edge of my sweater like it was the only thing keeping my feet on the ground. This was the first time I’d been out on my own in public, and every loud boom of laughter, stream of conversation, clank of the cups, or scrape of silverware made me cringe.
I’d been so used to suppressing my own inner noise, that to hear so much of it on the outside was jarring. But once I got used to it again, it almost felt...nice. It was a welcome distraction, and it allowed me to fade into the background a bit. I was finally somewhere on my own where I didn’t have one of my dad’s men breathing down my back. I wasn’t being followed, I wasn’t being looked at with pity. I was just a regular girl in a coffee shop, and it was freeing.
Admittedly, it was a little weird that Forty-One wanted to meet me in such a busy, public place. When I’d searched the dark web for a hit man, I wasn’t expecting it to be so easy, but a quick search connected us, and within the week, we were setting up a meeting. He required a deposit of five grand just to speak with me, so I had part of my college savings wired to him last night. He made me promise not to use names and told me to meet him at this crowded coffee shop in Savannah. It was a bit unconventional, but what the hell did I know about hiring hit men?
I ordered a chai latte and sat in a corner booth, away from everyone else, choosing the seat that allowed me to watch the door. I knew it was a huge risk coming here. Aside from the hit man not being legitimate, I could be caught by my dad, or worse, captured by the Macon Mob again. I wasn’t sure who had taken charge now that JJ was dead, and I didn’t care. But I promised myself that I wouldn’t let them take me again. Not alive. Which is why I had a switchblade stuffed into the side of my sneaker. I’d slit my own throat before I went back to that basement.
I had a notepad in front of me and a pen in my fidgeting hand. It felt like I was waiting for some fucked up job interview, and I was giddy with anticipation. Dad would kill me if he knew what I was doing. He’d been begging me to give him names, appearances, locations, anything. But the truth was, I didn’t know much, and aside from that, I didn’t want to tell him. I wanted to be the one in control of my own revenge. If I gave my dad what he wanted, then he’d take over and do it his way. He already got to kill Johnny Jack. I wanted Pick for myself.
My shoulders stiffened when I saw a large man in a trench coat walk inside the cafe. He looked the part. Deep wrinkles covered his face, and he had a rugged stare that gave him the menacing energy of a killer. I sat up in my seat and watched him go up to the counter and order a black coffee. No cream or sugar. It was definitely him.
“That guy sure looks like a hit man, huh?” a light voice said, making me nearly jump out of the booth as I spilled my chai over my fingers.
A man in his mid-twenties slid into the bench across from me, and I swallowed thickly while taking in his appearance. The first thing I noticed was how nice he was dressed. The suit he wore was properly tailored, and he wore a bright purple bowtie to finish off his look. The second thing I noticed was that he had a dusting of blue eyeshadow on his lids, complementing the green hue of his irises. But the most striking feature of his face was the bright red lipstick he wore. It framed his pout perfectly, and the presence of that mixed with the sharp suit he wore made him an enigma. His Rolex shimmered in the sunlight coming in from the windows as he drank deeply from the pink Frappuccino in his hand.
I couldn’t take my eyes off of him, because everywhere I looked, there was something unexpected to see, right down to the martini-shaped cufflinks at his wrists. If I would’ve just glanced at him as we passed by on the street, I would’ve guessed he was an actor—the kind that does it for the art rather than the fame. Maybe on Broadway, performing a musical, or in some indie film that would gain a cult following. When my eyes finally made it back to his eyes, they were crinkled at the sides and full of amusement.
“I love it when peop
le meet me for the first time,” he said in a smooth-as-honey voice while taking in every aspect of me. “I’m not usually what people expect. It’s entertaining to see their responses.”
I observed him some more, caught somewhere between being impressed and disbelieving. Never in a million years would I pick this guy to be a hit man. But I guess that was what was so brilliant about it. He had a strong posture, and when his eyes flicked over to glance at the door, it was done with a practiced calmness that meant Forty-One was used to watching a room without looking like he was watching a room. His arms were strong, the corded muscles straining against the fabric of his high-quality suit jacket, and he wore a solitaire diamond ring on his pinky finger. When I leaned over the edge of the table to check out his shiny shoes (white laces instead of black), I noticed the outline of a handgun was holstered to his ankle. Yep. This was definitely my guy.
“Mr. Trench Coat over there has nothing on you,” I finally said, nodding at the other man. “You look much better than I imagined,” I admitted before settling back in my seat.
“You look much younger and prettier than I imagined,” he replied before taking another drink, his stained lips wrapped around the straw. I blushed from the sight. For some reason, the move was oddly erotic. Not because he did anything in a sleazy way, but because he just oozed sexuality and appeal. I hadn’t told him my age, but the encrypted dark web messaging system was tricky, and even though I’d played around with it for years, I was by no means a pro. Which is why I was careful. I hadn’t wanted to divulge too much information in case the man I wanted dead would somehow stumble across it, or it turned out to be fake, or the police picked it up.
“I don’t kill cheating boyfriends if that’s what you’re after. I can, however, make you forget all about him,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. He bit his lip suggestively for added effect, and I was thoroughly impressed that his red lipstick didn’t smear. I felt his eyes travel the curve of my breasts before flickering back to my gaze. I half expected the feeling of panic to creep in at his obvious flirting, but I was relieved when it didn’t. For some reason, Forty-One didn’t weird me out. In fact, I felt oddly comfortable with him.