Wreckless Intentions

by K. Marie

  Nineteen

  C A M R Y

  Descending the last of the short flight of stairs, I found the door to the garage already ajar. As I entered, only the natural light that streamed through the glass portion at the top of the garage doors lit the space. There was a panel of light switches to the left, so I headed over and pressed the first two.

  Two bright overhead lights popped on directly above the first two cars where I stood. I hit the next three buttons, and the same thing happened with the following three vehicles in a row.

  There was a total of seven cars parked inside the ginormous space, with room for three more. This was no standard garage, hell, it was more like a car dealership. The only time I ever really came down was when I was either leaving the house or coming back—and during those times, the cars were always already outside of the garage, or the guys would pick me up at the front door. I honestly never really paid much attention to what was inside. Until now. I hit all the buttons, illuminating the entire space.

  As I strolled past the black Maybach, I looked at it with new eyes, thinking of the countless times that I’d been driven in it. Next to the Maybach sat my red Mercedes S-Class convertible, still shiny and new and neglected. Garland’s convertible Maserati Gran Turismo came next. Out of all of his exorbitantly expensive sports cars, I knew the Maserati to be the least costly and easily his favorite. He drove the beautiful metallic-blue sports car more than any of the others.

  Next, in the all-star sports car lineup was a pewter Aston Martin, and a sleek custom-made Lamborghini Centenario sat next to it. I wasn’t much into cars, but I had to admit, the Lamborghini was a sexy looking machine. All shiny black in color but with a golden yellow undercarriage and trim at the bottom, the car looked like a Bat Mobile. I rode in it once, right after we first married, and didn’t need to ride in it ever again. It felt like I was sitting on the frigging ground, not comfortable at all, in my opinion.

  The Bat Mobile’s neighbor was a silver Koenigsegg Regera, a car that I’d never even heard of. I had never seen Garland drive this one either—nor had I ever been inside of it. But I knew that it was ridiculously expensive—worth over a million dollars. Just the concept alone made my stomach hurt.

  A million-fucking-dollars for a car?

  It was exorbitant and hugely wasteful, but who was I to judge what someone spent their hard-earned money on? My husband was self-made and worked hard to be able to buy whatever-the-hell he wanted. Besides, he was also very charitable and generous; Garland’s money has funded many great causes.

  Moving on, I came to a stop next to the last on the list of overt extravagance. My husband’s newest acquisition; a poetically sleek and beautiful car that even I could envy. The Bugatti Chiron. This baby was the sports car to end-all sport’s cars, according to Garland. It was undoubtedly the most obscenely expensive among them. I had to ask when he showed it to me. I had never heard of the car or seen anything like it, so I knew it was something only absurdly rich folks could ever afford to buy. When Garland told me the cost, I almost fainted right on the spot from sticker shock.

  The Bugatti was shiny-black like the Lamborghini, but with a royal-blue under-carriage and trim at the bottom. The tire rims were also the same custom blue color; as was the trim that ran across the bottom of the door and arched all the way around the window trim to the side view mirror. The car was beautiful, no doubt about it.

  I ran a light hand across the wing on the back of it. I knew that with the push of a button, the wing-wind-thing would rise up from its base to extend about another ten inches. Presumably to help with speed. I just didn’t get it. Good thing it wasn’t for me to understand.

  Having come to the end of my self-guided Auto Show tour, I looked over at the empty spots where I knew the Rovers should be. The cars that I actually came down here to look at. They weren’t always kept in the garage, this I knew. Since they were the most frequently used, a lot of the time they remained outside.

  Walking over to the closest garage door, I pressed the button next to it. The door rolled up smoothly with almost no sound at all, unlike most garage doors that emitted a loud motorized whine when opened. When I stepped out, only one of the Rovers sat on the vast expanse of cement. It was still early in the morning; just a bit past six o’clock, but the sun shone brightly, and it was already hot and humid.

  I couldn’t sleep, had probably snatched only a couple of hours at most. But I was compelled to come down here and see the evidence for myself. To perhaps satisfy or confirm that what happened actually happened. I wasn’t sure.

  Treading over to the Rover, I just stood staring. Flashbacks from last night assaulted me at once, the noise from guns being fired—the sound of bullets pelting the car, the screech of tires squealing. I wrapped my arms around myself protectively and shook my head to rid it of the images. I still couldn’t believe it happened. Not that I was in denial, I literally could not comprehend that someone had actually been frigging shooting at us. Wanted to kill us. After all, that is the sole goal when shooting at a person, to kill them.

  “What are you doing out here?” Garland’s voice said from behind, causing me to jump with fright.

  “Jesus, don’t sneak up on me like that!” I snapped.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, sweetheart. Why are you out here this early?” he asked, coming to stand next to me.

  Security had alerted him, there were cameras out here—all around the property.

  I sighed tiredly. I was exhausted, and my nerves were on edge. Neither of us had gotten much rest. Garland laid in bed consoling me until I’d fallen asleep last night but wasn’t there when I awoke an hour later. I would swear Garland never even went to sleep.

  “I wanted to see it for myself, I guess,” I said, waving a hand towards the car.

  It was riddled with bullet holes. The back-passenger window on our side was splintered, and the rear window looked to be shattered on the outside only. None of the bullets had actually penetrated into the inside of the car. As Garland said, they wouldn’t.

  “I can’t believe I’ve been riding around in a bulletproof car this entire time…that shit just isn’t normal,” I muttered, shaking my head. “Are they all armored?” I asked, turning to Garland.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “Mine as well?” I questioned.

  “Yes, sweetheart, especially yours.”

  “But it’s a convertible,” I rebutted, stating the obvious.

  “Which is why it’s infrequently used. But when the top is up, it’s as impenetrable as the rest of the car,” he stated.

  I gave him an accusing look. “Why would you buy me a car that you knew wouldn’t be used?” I questioned.

  “Because you asked for it,” Garland answered, tone suggesting I’d asked the obvious.

  I stared at him in exasperation before blowing out a resigned breath and moving on.

  “Why would anyone want us dead?” I asked bluntly.

  “No one wants you dead, Camry,” Garland answered.

  He didn’t deny someone wanting him dead. Why was he always so damn calm and logical about shit that defied logic for the average person?

  “I-…” I started to speak but snapped my mouth back shut.

  What in the hell am I doing? I asked myself cynically. Was I seriously going to stand here acting as if I had anything resembling a normal life? Or that I’d married an ordinary man?

  For better or for worse…those vows had taken on a whole new meaning.

  I looked at Garland; whose emerald eyes stared back at me uncertainly. He was the same gorgeous man that I’d met, fallen madly in love with, married, and had given birth to his son—all in under one year. The same man that I never truly knew, yet, had entrusted with my heart, my daughter, with our lives. None of that had changed. Garland has given me zero reasons to believe he was undeserving of that same trust. Yet, he had also never really trusted me, I realized.

  Omissions weren’t blatant lies, but they were still d
eceptive in nature. Perhaps he wasn’t wholly at blame for that. Maybe, I should’ve led more with my head instead of my heart. Maybe, I should’ve asked more questions in the beginning. But it was too late for all of that, this was not a fucking drill—this reality was now my life, my children’s life. It was time for some hard truths…and some unwanted admissions.

  Pressing closer to Garland, I put both my palms to his stubble darkened jaw as I stood on my toes to kiss him. I poured all of my heart and soul into it because I needed him to feel it, to know that I loved him no matter what. To know that he could trust me no matter what. To know that his secrets were my secrets—as mine were his. I needed Garland to understand that no matter what he revealed to me, I would still be here. Always.

  “When we no longer have people trying to kill us, I’d like for you to drive me to some remote location in your Bugatti, and I’d like to have sex with you inside of it. So that you get some use out of it. In the meantime, let’s go grab some coffee, then you can tell me all about my mobster father-in-law,” I said, intertwining my fingers with his. “And please, have one of the guys move that Rover, I don’t want to have to explain its condition to dad and Lilly.”

  “What’s on your mind, sweet pea, I know you didn’t ask me down here for exercise,” dad said hours later, as we made our way down to the dock. I’d asked him to take a walk with me, to get away from the house for some privacy.

  “Why do you say that? It’s not like you can’t use some, old man,” I returned.

  My father was an energetic and physically fit sixty-four-year-old, he still had a full head of salt and pepper hair, a trim waistline, and a lean six-foot frame. He looked damn good for his age, but I loved teasing him anyway.

  “I could run circles around you, young lady, but I’d hate to embarrass you.”

  Smiling up at him—I was instantly transported back to when I was younger. My dad has always been my hero. For most young girls, it was some macho character on television or some jock that they were crushing on; but for me, it was always my cop father. In my young mind, there was nothing my dad couldn’t do and no problem he couldn’t solve. I was his baby, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for me. My dad’s always been my constant, and I knew that my marrying Garland and moving away was hard for him. Even though the tough guy would never admit it.

  “I love you, dad, thank you for always being there for me. I didn’t realize until this very moment, I’ve probably never told you that,” I said, surprising him with a hug.

  We’d stopped walking, having reached the slip where Garland’s speedboat was docked.

  “You’ve got a rich husband now, sweet pea, you no longer need to soften me up before begging,” dad said in typical fashion.

  Living in a house with three hormonal females, I believe he had to use humor as a way to keep his own sanity. When we had melt-downs, he’d always find a humorous antidote to diffuse the situation. Let’s face it, men have no clue what to do with a weepy, emotional female. And until he’d married Lilly, my father was all on his own with both me and Lauren.

  “You’re really funny, dad, but you’re just going to have to stand here and deal with my emotional outpourings because I needed to say it,” I told him sincerely.

  His eyes sobered instantly. “What’s wrong, Camry, do I need to go back to the house and deal with my son-in-law? It’ll be a challenge, but I think I can manage it.”

  “My hero, always ready to slay dragons in my honor,” I sang, a hand clutched to my heart. “Nothing’s wrong, dad, I just wanted to spend some quality time with you before you guys left tomorrow, that’s all,” I lied. Well, sort of.

  I did want to spend time with him—to absorb and enjoy his normalcy. Also, to thank him for not being the head of a mafia crime family—or some other crazy shit like that. This was seriously now my frigging life. Today was a day for some harsh realities; a little too much reality.

  “So, this is the famous, Darth, Autumn has told me all about this speed machine,” dad said, eyeing Garland’s pride and joy.

  “Autumn loves this boat as much as Garland, the two of them go out on it and come back all windblown and happy. I much prefer the yacht—it’s a whole lot bigger and safer, maybe I can get Garland to take us out on it before you go,” I said, before thinking better of it.

  That idea was probably a no-go considering someone had just used us for target practice just hours ago. Shaking off the thought, I quickly moved on to the other reason I’d asked dad down here.

  “I overheard some of your conversation with Garland when I returned from the mall the other day. You called him a cold-hearted bastard, why would you say that?” I asked.

  Dad gave me the same look that he used to give me when I was a teenager—the one that said I’d done something wrong and he knew it. Like eavesdropping. And, just like when I was a teenager, I fidgeted uncomfortably under his gaze, guilty as charged.

  “I’m not sure what you think you overheard, Camry. But, as much as I love my little girl, I’d rather not share with you, private conversations that I have with your husband. If you want answers, I’d prefer you went to him,” dad told me.

  I gave him an incredulous look. Traitor. He apparently wanted to steer clear of creating any problems between Garland and me; I guess I could somewhat understand it.

  “Okay, but tell me just one thing, dad, are the two of you getting along?” I asked. It would kill me to have the two most important men in my life at odds.

  “As long as you are safe and happy, your husband and I have no problems,” he assured me.

  Safe…I guess right now wouldn’t be a good time to mention having recently been shot at.

  Twenty

  G A R L A N D

  Most people might wonder why a twelve-year-old boy would require hand-to-hand combat training, or even weapons training, for that matter. Those people were not Romanovich.

  At an age that most pubescent boys were playing video games, roughing it up with their buddies or developing their first crush on a girl, I was being groomed to be a soldier. Not a military soldier, but a soldier nonetheless. I had a hell of a teacher too, a hard-ass Israeli by the name of Ari; a former Mossad assassin who’d worked for my father. Ari was a scary looking son-of-a-bitch with a six-inch long scar that ran vertically down the left side of his face, and who never smiled. His eyes were dark and flat like no soul lived behind them, but were forever watchful. Ari was great at what he did—better than great. Actually, he was the best. Though, I didn’t come to appreciate that fact for some while.

  By the end of our first week of training, I was black and blue with bruises and had a sprained finger on my right hand.

  “ubit' ili byt' ubitym!” Ari would repeatedly drill in Russian. Kill or be killed.

  He didn’t give a shit that I was just a boy, he took entirely no mercy on me. What fucking war I was at risk of being killed in, was beyond me.

  For what seemed months on end, I suffered many more bruises and injuries. My mother had despaired and railed against my father, but to no avail.

  “Life isn’t always convenient, moya lyubov', a man must learn to defend himself without a weapon, if ever he finds himself in such a predicament.”

  “He’s a boy, Liev, not a man!”

  I heard that same argument from on the other side of my parent’s bedroom door many times that first year. However, by the time I turned thirteen, the bruises were less frequent and the injuries nearly zilch. I had become quite skilled in both defensive and offensive combat. But, I would learn that there was still much more to be taught.

  That summer, I got myself an audience of one to come and watch me in action.

  “Go away, malen'kiy run!” I’d yell at Viktor, whenever he ventured into the exercise room to pester me during practice.

  The little runt. That’s what I called him back then.

  I was tall for my age—standing at almost six feet by the end of that summer. Viktor was four years younger than me and scrawny. He became m
y constant shadow. His father—and my uncle, Luka, had come to work for Romanovich after years of the two brothers being at odds. Which, was no wonder, because Luka was the king of all assholes. He was a loose cannon with a chip on his shoulder. My father was the oldest of his siblings and had made his own way in the world since age fourteen. So, his tolerance for excuses and screw-ups was damn near nonexistent. Nevertheless, Luka had a wife and kids to feed, and my father was nothing if not loyal to family.

  Because of the estrangement between the two brothers, I hadn’t spent a lot of time around Luka nor Viktor before then. But my uncle must have thought his new job came with babysitting because he’d drop Viktor off at the house almost daily. The little runt was annoying as hell, but I felt sorry for him because Luka was a complete disaster. Not to mention, a terrible father. He was abusive and often slapped Viktor around for any real or perceived reason. I would later find out that he was also a wife abuser.

  “What about Malen'kiy run?” I asked Ari one day during exercises. “He’s so tiny, he must learn to defend himself.” I’d taunted, grinning at Viktor.

  Ari had grunted and waved Viktor over. “This one needs to eat first, then we teach.” He’d said, looking Viktor over with a critical eye.

  Ari had taken no mercy on me, but he was apparently afraid of breaking Viktor. Or, fearful of me breaking Viktor.

  By that fall, I had myself a new sparring partner. Though, it was mostly me teaching Viktor while trying to avoid killing him. But he was tougher than he looked, and impressed both Ari and me by coming back day after day to learn. My uncle was a dick and often behaved like a macho prick, so he’d both approved and encouraged his son to be a man. That next summer, Viktor shot-up in height about four inches and gained more of an advantage. The little runt had a lot of heart, but it would be at least a year before he was finally able to take me down to the mat.