by B. B. Hamel
“Just be careful,” he said. “Consider the girl a gift as much as a test.”
“You’ve got a funny idea about presents,” I said. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with her?”
“No clue,” Dean said, tapping his finger on the gearshift. “Good luck though. I’ll check in tomorrow.”
Tara got out and came around. She stood next to me on the sidewalk, and Dean waved as he pulled out and drove off.
We stood side by side in the gloom of the weak street lights. There were no stars in the sky—there never were in the city. Too much light pollution. Too much regular pollution too, I’d bet.
Passyunk was a popular street, but at around one in the morning it was mostly clearing out. Bars closed at two, and beyond that, the place turned into a ghost town. Tara looked around and I could practically read her mind.
She wondered how she could get away.
“Try screaming again,” I said, shaking my head. “Go ahead, I won’t stop you. Hell, run away, if you want. I won’t chase.”
She narrowed her eyes, then looked over my shoulder, probably judging the best route. “Why?” she asked without moving.
“Because then you wouldn’t be my problem anymore. The Don would send someone to kill you, and I’d wash my hands of the whole thing.”
She went stiff. I pretended like I wasn’t watching her, but studied her in my peripheral vision. She was thin and pretty, and that hair made my heart race. If I’d met her under different circumstances, she would’ve been my type.
Unfortunately, she was the cousin of my enemy, and I had no use for her. I didn’t hurt women, and I definitely didn’t use them as some kind of sex toy, the way Dean probably thought I might.
She wasn’t a gift then. She was a pain in my ass.
“You’re bluffing,” she said.
“You heard him back there,” I said. “He had orders to kill you if I didn’t take you. If you want to die, you can run away. Maybe you’ll make it, but I doubt you’ll get far. No money, no ID, no nothing. You could go to the cops, but eventually they’d let you out, and you really think we don’t have people in the police?”
She narrowed her eyes. Maybe that last bit was a little too far, but it was actually true. The Valentino family played the long game, and some of the younger distant cousins had joined the police force a few years ago. They weren’t powerful or important, but they were on the inside.
“I don’t believe you,” she said defiantly.
I sighed. My right knee hurt from kicking down the door, and I wanted to try to scrub as much blood from the soles of my shoes as I could before I went to bed. I didn’t have time to stand around and argue.
“Do what you want,” I said. “But if you run, you’re dead.” I started walking then, and truly didn’t give a shit what she did. I almost wished she’d try to make a break for it—at least then she wouldn’t be my problem anymore. The Don would be angry that she got away, but he’d get over that.
Unfortunately, she followed. I did my best not to look at her as we made our way to my apartment. I unlocked the unmarked metal door that was tucked in an alcove next to the Mexican place’s entrance, and walked up the creaking steps. I opened another door, and stepped into my place.
Tara followed me inside. I shut and locked the door behind me.
“Welcome home,” I said, and tossed my keys in a little plate on a side table next to the door, beneath the intercom.
She lingered, looking around, and said nothing as I took off my shoes and got a scrub brush from the kitchen. I stood over the sink, water running, and went to town. The blood came off in pink rivulets.
My place was spacious. I had the whole second floor to myself. There were two bedrooms, a full bathroom, a nice sized living room with pretty bay windows overlooking a park across the street, and a decent kitchen with new appliances. I had good furniture, shit from this local artisan guy that charged way too much money, but I had more cash than I could ever spend. Art hung on the walls, mostly stuff I’d bought from local street guys that sold their stuff on the sidewalk during flea markets. It was a mishmash of styles, from cartoons of Star Wars characters to more serious realistic portraits of women I’d never met before. I had plants blooming from large clay pots, and decorative vases, and colorful throw pillows, and nice, heavy rugs, and the place was really fucking cozy.
I was a killer, but I liked comfort.
“What am I supposed to do?” Tara asked, standing in the little doorway. The kitchen was separated from the living room by a long counter, and she leaned against it, chewing her lip.
“I’ve got a spare room,” I said. “Go sleep in there. I’ll get you some clothes. Beyond that, I don’t know. We’ll figure it out.”
She stood there slumped over the counter, and her full pink lips started trembling. Her eyes filled with tears, and I looked away, because, fuck, I didn’t want to see her cry.
“Go to the first room on the right if you’re going to do that,” I said through clenched teeth.
I’d seen plenty of women cry in my life. I didn’t want to see it again.
She left without a word. I heard the door slam.
I finished scrubbing my shoes. Her dad’s blood came out mostly. They weren’t ruined, at least.
I stopped near a control panel for my alarm system next to the front door. I flipped it open, typed in my passcode, and armed it. Now if she left the apartment, the thing would start blaring.
I hurried into my bedroom and shut the door before it fully activated.
The space was gloomy and small, dominated by a big bed. I leaned up against the door and shut my eyes, squeezing them hard.
I couldn’t remember the last time I lived with a woman. Probably not since I was a teenager, stuck in my father’s house. There were always women around my father’s house, so many women, cycling in and out. Few stayed for very long, except for my mother. She lasted the longest, but even she went sooner or later.
Now I had Tara, my test and my gift.
Some fucking gift. She was gorgeous, I could admit to that, but I didn’t want her, and had no clue what the hell I’d do with her now.
That was a problem for tomorrow. I stripped off my clothes and got into bed. Downstairs, the sound of laughing people eating good enchiladas and drinking copious inexpensive Coronas drifted up through my floorboards, and lulled me to sleep.
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Also by BB Hamel
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