by Amarie Avant
I own her, she’s mine, and her killer mentality will be sculpted, molded into the perfect image.
My princess. My queen. My hitwoman! My everything.
My tone is curved with lust and desire. “Mikayla, open up for me. I promise you’ll love it. Beautiful, open up for daddy…”
She glances at me. Mascara and tears running down her cheeks.
My breath catches. We are living the best time of our lives. Why cry?
“Uthando lwami, once we leave here I’m going to eat your pussy until you cry a happy elated cry. Just open up for me… baby. Let me in.”
The lock clicks. I open the door and scoop her into my arms. “I’m going to eat you happy. I’ll drink that sweet Malva between your thighs, and lick it all up, until there’s glittery happy tears stream down your cheeks.”
Wow, that was poetic. I’m a man with a craving, and by any means, I will get it.
“Jagger, I’m not going to shoot him.” She murmurs against my chest. “That’s why you didn’t finish William. You intended to have me do it.”
I place her onto her own two feet. Voice heavy with sarcasm, I utter, “You are sophisticated, Kayla.”
“You’re being mean!” She presses a finger against my chest. “You can’t make me do it.”
A soft wind rustled sending her chocolate brown tresses into her face. I push them away. “I can, and I have the means of forcing you to do anything that I request, Mikayla. Remember what it means to disobey me.”
Her head moves left to right, adamantly denying me. With the gun in my palm, I grab her with both hands and kiss her harshly, reminding her of the beast I am. The last hour hasn’t penetrated, yet. She bites my lip so hard I bleed. I lick away the blood, and then place the gun into her hands. “We have all night, Kayla.”
“What happened to only the great Jagger Johansson is permitted to pull the trigger! Huh, Jag? Huh?” She points the gun at me. “What happened to if I shoot your gun, the bullet will project in my direction. That I’ll be blown to smithereens!”
I just stand there as she baits me. It’s evident Mikayla doesn’t need an answer. She squeezes the trigger a few feet away from my left shoulder. The power of my revolver slams her wrist back and sends her stumbling.
My ear rings.
“I wish with all of my might that you’d budge, be scared for once!” Mikayla presses the gun against my chest.
I almost laugh at the comment, getting myself into real trouble. She has the ability to torture me. Albeit, hitting, slapping, or shooting at me are none of her forms of defense.
“So, how are we dumping them?” Mikayla asks, while leaning against the side of our rental.
I reach inside and pop the trunk. She huffs, craning her neck to look inside.
“His and hers shovels. Trick dropped them off at the car while you were dressing.” I grit my teeth. The motherfucker even had the audacity to bring a gift. He wanted to offer Mikayla her first gun for free.
“Will I ever grow accustomed to the weird friendship between the two of you?”
I hold out the shovel, Mikayla doesn’t take it. “Just makes the process longer, Kayla.”
“Pfst! Sounds like you’ve got a personal problem?” She folds her arms.
With my jaw set, I chose a spot near the front of the cars to maximize the high beam light of both rentals, and I start digging. I’m knee deep into the ditch when Mikayla whispers my name. Freedman must’ve awaken. This is her chance! I cock a grin, grip the ledge and pull up.
Mikayla runs into my arms at top speed almost sending us both falling back.
Freedman groans in the backseat of his car. “Help… help…” His moans hardly reach above a whisper.
“Do something,” Mikayla looks up at me.
I reach into my back pocket and grab my Magnum, again.
“No!” She seethes in a harsh whisper as I hold it out.
“Take it. Finish him, Kayla.” I growl as William falls to the ground on the opposite side of the Cadillac.
“Do you know how much I abhor you when you call me Kayla? Trust me, you don’t want me taking that revolver right now.”
My eyelid twitches. The mark has crawled about five yards. “Alright, I’ll handle him this time. But the sooner you become accustomed to murder, the smoother it will go in the future.”
“I never will!” she shouts toward me.
At the opposite side of the Cadillac, I bite my tongue. No need arguing further.
“You look so disappointed, Jagger.” She continues to goad me.
Once again, I’m wishing we were on a motorcycle, so I can tune her out.
“Why…. Why?” William grits out, crawling on the ground like a snake. Burgundy liquid has smeared against the ground. “What have I done to you, Jace?”
“Jace was my father’s name.” I reach down and grab the back of his neck. I yank on the serpent. He reaches out and is unable to get ahold of my trousers as I move him around the car to where Mikayla is. She starts for the door of the rental. I remove the keys from my trousers and lock it. Then I jiggle the key for her.
Her eyes narrow.
There are so many minute details she needs to learn.
Freedman stops struggling to get away and asks, “Okay… okay, what do you people want? Money?”
My knee slams into his mouth.
“Jagger!” Mikayla screams.
“Sweetheart, I’ve heard it a thousand times. You’ll grow tired of it soon enough.”
“Fuck you!” William spits out blood. He’s already a pale color from the drain of blood of his leg wound. But he musters all his energy to beg Mikayla instead. “Alisha, whatever you fucking want to be called, save me! I’ll make you richer than your wildest dreams.”
His statement gets a rise out of Mikayla. She argues, “Humph, how about you write a check to the little old ladies who were comfortable in the homes they grew up in. Tiny little homes that don’t mean shit to you. Promise me that, and yeah, I’ll save you.”
Her fucking mouth. It’s almost priceless. The look on Freedman’s face though, even staring death in the face, he doesn’t have the heart to empathize with the demographic that he’s displaced.
Mikayla offers an award-winning response to his lack of give-a-fuck. “Sounds like I can’t help you.”
Aware that his time is up, Freedman begins to shout, “No–”
Without glancing in his direction, I squeeze the trigger. The bullet tears through his skull right in the center of his eyes. The gun spins around my trigger finger before I re-holster it.
Mikayla
What the hell have I gotten myself into? This asshole was in euphoric bliss during the entire process of not only murdering but with burying the dead bodies. We then transported Williams’s car to yet another location. The heat as Jagger started an explosion still burns my skin.
I’m Queen Petty when angry. I will argue and debate.
I’m Queen of Silence while livid.
Jagger and I are now in our rental traveling toward the hotel. I’m driving, and he’s playing with his phone. He’d mentioned something about re-activating the GPS and every so often he makes “small talk” if you count missions that we should complete.
“Are we not talking?” He pushes his cell phone in his pocket.
“I’m not in the mood. But if you like the sound of your own voice…”
An hour later, we’ve left the keys with the valet at The Aria and returned to our suite.
I reach for the zipper at the back of my dress, and my fingers graze Jagger’s.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
The sound of my zipper descending sends tiny ripples of desire through my body landing at the center of my nether regions. Jagger slides the material from my frame, brushing his fingers over the curve of my hips.
My toes move one step forward over the heap of silk material. Jagger snakes a hand around my waist, pausing my movement. He presses his hard body against my back and is ever so gentle as he kisses my ne
ck. Each time his strong, yet gentle mouth landed at the nape of my neck, my anger dies a little. My knees are almost jelly, but with a final bit of resolve, I move away.
“Mikayla,” he huffs.
“Good night, Jagger.” I turn around, glancing up at him through my eyelashes so he can’t see how my eyes are burning, tears at the brink.
He bites his thumb. “I’m a killer, Kayla. That was evident from day one, right? I’m learning to be real with you.”
I nod.
The discomfort vibrating from him toward me is so brand new. This man who has only ever shown a confident, cocky invincible side is searching my gaze for reciprocity. And I can see an image of myself conforming to him and his murdering ways.
I should be unpacking in my dorm room and preparing myself for crunch time. I should be learning about the other side of the line.
Saving patients in the emergency room. Undoing catastrophes caused by rage, revenge, accidents, genetics... murderers like Jagger Johansson.
“We’ll discuss Nivean and Zihula tomorrow.” He lingers at the door.
I step inside of the bedroom and start to close the door behind me when Jagger places his hand against the center of the door, stopping my retreat.
He pulls out his cell phone. “It’s untraceable regardless of the duration of the call.” I take the phone from his reluctant hand as he adds, “Call your parents.”
I’ve read about Amanda Smart, watched the documentary, listened to her speak. And this is my moment. I could blurt my location regardless of his mention about his phone not being traceable.
I sit down at the lounger next to the vanity table. Jagger walks away from the bathroom, offering me an even greater opportunity to … what… I don’t know… be saved from him. Or more like this future he’s thrusting me into.
I dial home. With each tone the phone makes while connecting, I’m uncertain. I used to have nightmares of my past. My mom took me to the front of the church, they laid hands on me, and then—
“Hello,” Earl, my father, says.
My eyes close. His voice is one of comfort. He taught me to be strong through the night terrors until they eventually stopped in my adolescent years. “Dad,” my voice cracks.
“Mikayla, Kayla, Kayla, baby,” he stumbles at his words in shock. “Kayla, tell us where you are? Are you okay?”
My mother’s in the background, parroting his words, in a sobbing tone. “I’m here, Kayla,” she’s closer to the phone now, her tone is slightly muffled.
“I’m okay,” I respond, with more confidence than I feel.
“Are you safe?” Dad asks.
“Yes, I’m safe. I just don’t know where I am.” The lie flows easy enough.
There’s another unfamiliar authoritative masculine voice on the phone, “Mikayla, this is Special Agent Cartwright, we do not have much time. Have you gotten away from your abductor?”
“No. He left me… here… I don’t know how long.” My voice breaks with a sob. Crap, if anything I sound more convincing instead of guilty as I cry about my friends and family. “How’s Cree?”
“He’s stable, Mikayla,” The agent replies, with a note of sincerity before returning to a rigid, precise tone. “Time is of the utmost importance. Can you identify where you are? Anything that rings a bell, the sound of a train nearby. Smells, anything?” the man asks.
Chest tight, I start to see an image of Jagger in handcuffs flash before my eyes. Half of me is begging to do the logical thing, the half attached to my brain. The other continues to weave a tale with, “I’m in a padded room. I can’t hear anything at all. I’m sorry.”
My mother speaks up, “Don’t be sorry, beautiful. We will find you, just keep praying.”
“Oh, I’m not hurt, I’m safe, mom,” My voice begins to crack, My eyes are blurred with tears. I can’t lie—
The phone is taken from my hands, and Jagger hangs up. “You will see your parents again, Mikayla.”
We stare at each other in silence. His demeanor is one of contentment, as if the transference between us is normal.
“You tell me the first thing in your mind, huh?” I rub the tears away, hating Jagger for controlling me. My body craves him. And I just did the stupidest thing anyone could ever do. “Tomorrow, you’ll take me to Prince Fari. So, I’ll tell him how you stole me, Jagger. I’ll tell him, and you say my nation is depleted. Pft! The information on him shows a different story. His army, warriors, whatever they’re called, they’ll get you. I’ll become a Queen, and I’ll marry him with my parents there!”
This is exactly what I do not want.
I will not marry a man I have not had a decent conversation with. And you say I haven’t had one with Jagger. Hell, I’d refuse to marry his psychotic ass as well. Now, sex, that’s another subject entirely. I just have to stop giving him the most important piece of myself.
Jagger hardly glances my way. He isn’t reluctant like before. There’s no desire to continue the conversation and clear the air. He’s emotionless. I watch the broad muscles in his back as he walks out of the bathroom.
The door acts as barrier to everything I never thought I’d ever want. I turn around and lay my head onto the marble vanity countertop, weeping.
My cry turns into a curdled moan. My hormones were in a frenzy from when I argued with Jagger. He just made me feel so damn small. He didn’t claim me or deny that tomorrow our worlds would part ways. What an idiot I just was on the phone.
Jagger Johansson is breaking me. Shredding me down bit by bit, and he hasn’t a care in the world about it.
PART TWO:
A queen on her own…
Makayla
The night terrors that once plague my mind for the first few years of life with my adoptive parents come roaring back as if no time has passed. In each instance, the dream consumed my mind. My voice, shouting, pleading, screaming, was a quiet echo in the background. I give a useless attempt to stir myself awake, silently murmuring to ‘wake up,’ but I don’t have the ability to lucid dream. No, this one takes hold of me, sets roots and kills me from the inside out until tears wet my pillow, and I’m stuck playing out the past…
I was just about five years old. A Nivean woman, in a formal golden ball gown, with a iqhiya (head scarf), covered her thick, long dreadlocks which rattled as she moved. My tiny hand was in her tight clutches as she tugged me along. Her rich brown gaze glossed with tears.
“Your malume (uncle) is coming, baby,” she spoke, her Xhosa clicks in rapid succession, while pulling me along. “Listen to me, Mikayla,” she said, “your uncle Qaaim is not to be trusted.”
The dream world began to set around us. We were running – or she was attempting to run and dragged me along a corridor with gold embellishments. I stumbled, my feet tripping over my own beautiful dark purple dress, as we headed up a never-ending staircase.
More and more steps surrounded us, and the windows were high up, but I could see a blanket of stars from my position. I could hardly breathe, as she tugged me, offering a smile that should have been encouragement instead of one laced with anxiety and fear. We continued to go up, toward a plunging chandelier.
“Umama…” I uttered, as I realized, even though I was dreaming, the beautiful woman beside me was indeed my mother. She was attempting to keep me safe.
The palace was never a quiet place. But the sound of my heartbeat drummed out every other sound in my ears. Where were the servants and the guards?
“No matter what, Mikayla, you will not listen to anything Qaaim says.” Her voice was heavy, she had more to say, but with her urgency and my toddler legs, we were having difficulty running… running from Uncle Qaaim.
Finally, we weren’t scurrying through a gilded staircase any longer, but now heading down a long corridor. Along the walls were tapestries with Nivean Kings and Queens. Some photographed, some painted. My mother was Nivean royalty.
“Makuachukwa,” a manly voice called out my mother by her first name.
Her spine stiffen
ed. My tiny feet tripped over each other, as we stopped moving with a jolt. I gasped for air.
“Ubhuti (Brother), you are still my mntakwabo (baby brother),” she spoke with authority, “you will allow me to put her–”
“You cannot hide my niece,” Qaaim said.
I gulped, slowly turning around with her. As the dream unfolded, I realized that nobody ever cut off my mother. She taught me to be polite, although my umama, and my utata, instilled certain notions in me, at even such a young age. Up until recently, Lulami enforced their wise teachings, now, she assisted MamNacozo with divinations and healing.
I glanced up at Qaaim. He had the same rich dark skin as my mother. His muscles filled out a tailored suit, a leopard skin hanging over his shoulder. My Utata’s leopard skin! Even at my age, I knew that no matter how generous my parents were, my baby brother, growing so very slowly in my umama’s belly was the only one who would receive my father’s leopard skin.
“Utata,” I murmured, father.
My mother’s lips trembled as she held her head high.
“You will not hide my niece, her royal highness, the princess from me, my udade ohle (beautiful sister),” Qaaim spat the words. “I am to become her keeper when you die, right?”
“Kill us both!” She ordered, pressing me behind her. “No need becoming regent, just kill your blood, Qaaim! Murder your sister and your niece just like you did with…” Her voice broke. “That belongs to my husband! You… you can kill us in the same manner that you just murdered my…”
Goosebumps rose along my satiny flesh. What did she mean? Her voice had cracked, and gone cold, quiet. Lulami always praised me on being a smart child, but I simply didn’t understand. Unable to comprehend what my Umama meant, I peeked around her. Before Lulami left me, a half a year ago to work with MamNcozo, she told me to open up. That I could feel the spirits. That I was a princess, and one day I’d become a very powerful queen if I continued to embrace my ancestors. They would keep me safe.