by Elena Monroe
Last night, drunk and high, I was sliding down that slope until I hit a wall when she tensed up in my hands and said “no” more than once. I would have forced my way between her legs if I liked her less. Another reason I don’t mix my reliefs.
Abigail was saving me without knowing it.
Cruel joke number two.
The walk-in closet was filled with comfortable clothes, some suits for Clave shit I couldn’t avoid, and the black tactical gear I wore when killing. It was what the four donned when shit got real, when we made moves together, back when we took these roles.
Now we just did our own things. I never looked at this gear twice now. I had enough means to wear Gucci, get blood on it, and buy a new one tomorrow to take its place. I just wasn’t spoiled enough to throw around my privilege like that. That caused too much attention.
I just wear black anything now—normally jeans with the knees blown out or joggers—depending on how committed I was.
I had been living in sweats when I ripped down a pair of black jeans and left my shirt on, still unsure if it was in fact clean or dirty. It didn’t matter when it was simply a plain shirt that could be replaced easily. Opening the drawer meant for ties or whatever else rich people rolled up neatly, I looked down at my guns.
A killer for hire without a collection couldn’t be a killer that was any good.
I had a different gun for every mood, and the one Abigail was picking up for me was just ordered. A Desert Eagle needed to be added to my collection of handguns, just in case one day I felt flashy.
Tonight was a matte black Glock kind of day.
My daily.
I never let myself wonder what the people did to deserve being at the end of my gun. I used to, and that only swept up emotions I didn’t like—a darker version of me that leaned into my monster and blurred the lines.
I had clear lines between Jason (who never was anymore), Grimm (who I always am now), and my part-time monster (on demand). It helped to keep me sane—as sane as I could be.
No one was sane and living in LA. This was one fucking skewed view of the world.
Getting changed from sweats into my ripped black jeans, I tucked the gun safely against my back until I needed it. I already had an address; that was the thing about the Clave: They were prepared above all else.
I would imagine that was the fun part: the hunting of your prey. Not for me. The fun part was it being over.
Punching in the address for Blake, I tried to relax and get Abigail off my mind, but the zipper of my jeans was pushing against my dick, and every small movement felt unbearable. Impeccable timing when Abigail called me instead of texted, and I pressed the button on my steering wheel to answer it through my sound system.
“Sorry, that took forever. The guy wasn’t even asking me for ID, and I caused a scene at his lack of responsibility. Then to apologize, he gave me a quick lesson. I lost track of time. Want me to head over there now?”
Her voice was the best thing I had ever heard through my speakers. Delicate, but not so delicate you thought you could break her. It was a feminine kind of delicate.
I admired how opposite she was of me: hard on the inside instead of the outside.
“Not home, toots. Bring it over in an hour,” I told her while turning down onto Blake’s road. It wasn’t the valley, and it wasn’t 90210. It was some kind of in between when I pulled onto a suburbia looking road.
“Oh… uh, okay. I’m gonna go home, change, and eat, then I’ll head down.”
“What’s wrong, Abi? Miss me already?”
The disappointment was apparent in her response coming over my speakers.
“No, no. Nothing. I’ll see you later.”
There was a pause before she hung up that was daring me to say something, anything, to give her more of me she didn’t know, like how much I wanted to stretch her pussy out.
Derailing my focus, again, I pressed the end button so I could pay attention to the task at hand. I didn’t need to fuck up the one thing I was good at. I still needed my monster that she was curing me of.
Letting myself in, like I normally did when I killed someone, I looked around with my black latex gloves on, not trying to leave any of me behind. Ghosting ever being here. His place was spotlessly clean, which I appreciated, but there were mechanical parts everywhere. In crates, on newspapers, on the surfaces in every room, like he was in the middle of his best invention.
Maybe that’s what he was—an inventor.
I wouldn’t know. I only got a name and address from 666-66. Comical, I know. Not exactly a divine number.
A non-noble death.
Hearing footsteps upstairs, I walked quietly up the stairs, letting my monster take over. My hearing felt sharper, and my eyes were wide, trying to take in more than was possible. My body went mute even with my footsteps.
The door was open, cracked. Bright lights and bare white walls shouted it was a bathroom. Getting a better look, I saw he was standing at the sink brushing his teeth with vigor. Twisting the silencer onto the end of my gun, I moved closer to the door, waiting for the perfect moment.
One pull of the trigger, the barrel pointed to the back of his head, and a tense stance to withstand it all was all it took to see Blake drop, with his toothbrush making it to the floor before him. Kneeling down, I watched the blood seep from his gunshot wound and fill the space between the tiles where they were connected.
The star patterned wound bullets made at this kind of range looked already swollen and overran with blood, but I never flinched.
Death fascinated me.
I liked hearing the last breath become their swan song. Everyone’s last breath was different. Blake’s was an inhale that shook like a death rattle, rare. Normally it was an exhale, just as shaky, just less impressive.
Standing up, I left Blake where he hit, and I wore the satisfaction my monster was bathing in. It felt warm and like some version of happy, because I was convinced there was only one way to be happy.
There were a million versions, though, and that’s why being happy was so hard to find.
GRIMM
I didn’t even feel any of the blowback until I stood in front of the mirror of my bathroom, kicking off my shoes and already clawing at my shirt to come off.
I was covered in blood. Not really shocking, since from the neck up, injuries splatter and spray.
Undoing the button on my pants, I heard a bell—a sound that didn’t trigger anything, but made me wonder if that was my doorbell. In order to push the round button next to my door, you would have to be on the wrong side of my gate, and that meant having the key.
Kills always put me on edge. I grabbed my gun, keeping it low and headed for the front door downstairs. The iPad built into the wall with the camera feeds was downstairs in the hallway leading to the door anyways. Not that I needed the extra protection, but being me came with a certain level of paranoia.
Unavoidable.
Unmedicated.
Paranoia.
Abigail was on the camera feed, with her arms crossed, waiting for me to come to the door. I unlocked it and yanked it open, walking away with all my paranoia and anxiety building up in my veins causing blockages in thinking straight. “I could have just killed you!”
“Wouldn’t really be the first time…” Her eyebrows shot up, mocking my anger.
Lifting my arms, making it clear I had a gun in my hand, I gave her a look of both unsolicited anger and residual actions dead set on shooting whoever was at my door. It wasn’t easy to switch gears like it didn’t happen. Abigail was my kind of Xanax, but she wasn’t an eraser.
“Christ, Grimm! Why do you have a gun out? You knew I was— Oh my God! What happened to you?” She rushed to me with her hands inspecting my bare chest sprinkled with blood that seeped through my shirt.
I was so blinded by the paranoia I forgot how covered in blood I was.
“I’m… I’m fine. It’s not mine.” My voice fell like a ton of bricks when she looked up at m
e horrified.
“What? What do… What do you mean?” With a shaky voice, she tripped over her words, asking me for the truth but showing how much it truly scared her.
Holding her wrists, I stopped her hands from touching any part of the blood dried on my skin—too tightly by the wincing expression now firmly collapsing her features.
“Transparency or boundaries, toots?”
The tears in her eyes looked like fear, but she nodded her head asking for the truth anyways. I knew I had to play it safe and say as little as possible. Ease her into everything carefully, or otherwise that fear would be pointed at me.
“It’s not mine. I promise.”
After looking at me sternly for longer than I was truly comfortable with anyone looking at me, she disappeared behind me examining my back for some imaginary wound even after my confession.
“That’s not possible. This is… a lot of blood, Grimm. How do you know for sure?”
Turning around, with my hands on her shoulders, I stopped her from examining me again. Holding her still and moving to face her. “Abigail, it’s not my blood. He was unarmed. It’s just blowback.”
“Blowback?” Her lips trembled, and now I knew exactly what Bo meant. It hit me. This isn't a normal concern or at least not the normal type of concern I was used to.
The bedroom eyes we were making at each other mixed with the concern in an almost perfect way.
It was heavy, but not heavy enough that we couldn’t bear the weight.
My hands slid down her arms, loosening my grip, unable to look away and break eye contact. “When you shoot someone at point blank range, there’s blowback.” As soon as I said it, I wished I hadn’t.
I was watching Abigail’s tears formulate and become too much to hold back in real time.
“I don’t understand. What are you talking about? This isn’t possible.”
Regret felt heavier when she pulled out of my hands and wrapped her arms around herself like she was no longer safe. My monster was laughing inside my head. Jason was weeping somewhere deep inside the same place still looking for someone to love all three versions of me I created under the distress of my life.
“I need to shower. Leave the gun on the counter.”
I left my gun on the counter without really thinking about it. I guess I did it to make her feel safer, because the expression on her face right now wasn’t one I liked. I went back upstairs, giving her an even wider safety net.
I wanted to leave before she got to shouting what I already knew… I was a monster.
I heard the unmistakable sound of the glass jar’s lid pop and the chomping of a cookie—one of the few things I kept in my house that were edible. I hadn’t ever even turned on the oven; everything spotless still. Every piece of glassware and cutlery was stocked by my mother, and I wasn’t interested enough to know where the cups were.
Looking over my shoulder, I saw Abigail on my heels holding the gun in her hand, a jar of stacked Oreos under her arm, and a look that had gone a long way from nearly crying. Waving the gun my direction, she waved me on to keep going silently.
She was taking me fucking hostage.
Me.
She had balls.
“Are you eating my Oreos?”
“I just saw you covered in blood, and you admitted you killed someone, since it’s not your blood. So… Pretty sure we’re in this together now. What’s yours is now mine.” Popping an Oreo into her mouth, she was mocking this whole ordeal, and I wasn’t a fan.
“No, what’s mine is mine. All this is Clave.”
In the harsh light of the bathroom, she still followed me inside, no longer afraid. I decided to ignore her. I knew her mind was racing with panic, paranoia, all the out of control feelings I learned to tame.
“Who stacks their Oreos like this? Fucking LA weirdo.”
She saw me in blood and confessing things I knew better to keep to myself. If I knew her at all, she was thinking she was an accessory to murder, in the line of fire now or whatever fucking crime dramas boil down to when you hold onto information you know of obstructing justice.
Unzipping my pants further, I pushed them down my hips and let them stay where I stepped out of them. Only in my underwear, I saw myself in the mirror.
Tattoos.
Dried blood on my chest and abs.
A scar through my eyebrow that made me look harder than I really was.
I looked like a real living, breathing monster. He wasn’t just in my head anymore. This was very much real.
I hated my reflection almost as much as I hated myself. With one swift fist, I punched the glass, causing it to shatter and spider web my face into broken pieces, just like me.
Her whole body flinched with the glass jar of Oreos still clutched under her arm and the gun in her hand. Thankfully, the safety was on, and she didn’t have an overreacting trigger finger.
“Grimm?”
With my fists pushing into the countertop, my head dipped, trying to hide any emotion visible.
The truth and being transparent didn’t apply to my emotions. That fell under personal and off limits.
“Abigail…” I didn’t look up.
“It’s just a lot to take in. I don’t know what to say…”
“You don’t need to explain, Abigail. I’m a monster. Full transparency.”
I felt her move closer, even though I wasn’t giving into looking up. “Being a monster and acting like one are two different things.”
Letting her pull my eyes towards her, I found my hands on her hips and my own pinning her against the countertop. Abigail wasn’t a cure for the kind of person I was… She was the placebo helping me survive it.
“What if it isn’t two different things?”
Watching her unbutton her shirt, I felt my thumbs making circles, like I could rub away the fabric between us. “You aren’t a very good actor, even with your method approach.”
I watched her hands move to the button on her jeans, but I grabbed her hands, stilling her once again. “Let me wash this off.”
“Don’t.” She bit her lip, looking at me hungry again—at me, covered in blood.
Leaning into her, I pulled her shirt down only enough to expose her shoulders and simple white bra. No lace or frills or even a bow in the middle. This was practical and very Abigail, making even a bra only be purposeful instead of a pleasing view.
Whispering against her neck, making sure my breath against her skin felt brutal, I asked, “Find yourself a kink?”
The shirt fell to her elbows, restraining her the way that aroused me, even though I didn’t need any pain when it came to Abigail. I wasn’t offering much relief when her hands touched my blood covered chest. She drove her hands right into my ugly, and this time, she didn’t stumble.
“Maybe… it’s more like the kink is you. I can’t explain it. You don’t treat me like everyone else. You want nothing from me. You don’t sugarcoat anything.”
“Do you need a safeword?” The words melted off my lips right onto her smooth shoulder. I needed a definitive answer this time, as the nervousness I hadn’t felt in years pumped through my veins and made my hands shake.
I felt her tense up in my hands, still holding onto her hips, when I questioned if she was even really here.
I didn’t know if it was my meds or the new habit of drinking at the worst times possible, but reality had been breaking just like the mirror behind her. Cracking, sharp at the edges, and altering everything in this twisted way that made me question if I even liked what was staring back at me.
Divulging information wasn’t my strong suit, and admitting you are hallucinating to your brothers or family wasn’t really an option without being put down. Broken toys, broken people, broken things… They only had one place, and you were sent there with a bullet between the eyes.
Abigail had to be real. I could feel her, smell her, taste her on my lips, but I had sworn at the estate, it felt just as real. Now I was questioning everything, even what I didn
’t ever want to: her.
“Like sprinkles or caramel fudge tracks? What kind of flavor are we talking about? I’m normally vanilla…”
And just like that Abigail shows up in ways my brain can’t make up enough to make me feel safe. This wasn’t artificial; it was real.
Dipping my hand into her undone jeans, I licked her neck before I spoke, creating a sensation I knew would give her goosebumps. “Tell me what I can’t do, Abigail. Tell me you won’t enjoy whatever I choose to do to you… that’s how hungry you look right now.”
My fingers slid down between her legs easily when I found out exactly how wet she was. Using the pads of my fingers, I found her bud when she sunk down onto my hand, already taking what she wanted.
Using my other hand, I tore the cup of her bra down, exposing her hard nipples pushing through the material. Her shirt was still at her elbows and jeans were flapping open. I got even harder for her in this contorted position still chasing my fingers.
Another wave of nerves hit me, pushing me to the edge and reflecting the web of broken glass, when I heard her whine into my chest as I took my hand back. Pulling down the shirt off her arms, I took in every stray freckle complimenting her bronzed complexion with the few shades darker on her perfect California tan.
Her chin tilted up, and I felt her almond eyes follow my hands as I tugged on her hips letting them crash into me. Her already swollen lips looked too perfect when she whispered between our still bodies, “What’s wrong?”
“You’ll think I’m crazy…” Her hands were tight on my forearms; she kept me close, like she knew I would pull away.
“Only now? Grimm you are crazy. Crazy is my new favorite kink.” Lifting up on the balls of her feet, her lips pressed against mine in a nipping way, daring me to kiss her the way that wasn’t teasing anymore.
Pushing my hands into the back pocket of her jeans I held her to me. “Tell me you’re really here.”
Abigail liked a challenge.
Shimmying out of her bra, I watched her closely as she exposed her breasts for me without any shame. She had the most perfect tear-drop breasts I had ever seen to match her round ass I could feel in my hands when I squeezed.