Pieces Of One, Part 1 (The Dark Life Collection)

by Ricketts, SVC

  You give up–you die. Fight!

  There is a pause in Supak’s attack for what seems like minutes. Time is irrelevant at this point. I’m using it to push back the wall of unconsciousness that is threatening. I hear nothing but the roar of blood rushing through my veins and a high-pitch discord filling my ears. Through the silence, a muffled firecracker goes off. It isn’t a holiday so the noise makes no sense. Dazed and confused, I peer up to see Supak’s body dropping to the sidewalk. Past the supine body, I see Bryson tucking a gun with a weirdly long muzzle into the back of his waistband. It is useless trying to stand, and stumble back to my hands.

  “It’s okay Marvy, I got you. Come on, we gotta go,” he softly coaxes, helping me up. My ability to stand again dissipates, so he lifts me and puts me in his car. I groggily watch as he drags Supak’s body into the alcove and runs around the car, jumping in the driver’s seat. We tear off down the street, seemingly without a destination. My hands shake as I touch the back of my throbbing head. When I pull it back, I stare at my red soaked, sticky fingers. Bryson hands me a handkerchief to wipe them. A trickle of blood navigates down the side of my face so I tuck my hair behind my ear to wipe my temple. My ear is searing hot, but I feel something else that makes my heart race. I pull off my ear cuff to see the crushed jewels, as well as wires spilling out of the micro-camera and mic. My beautiful invention is destroyed. Palming it, I also know I’m on my own now, alone in a car with a man with uncertain intentions. I’m being driven into the unknown without back up. The broken jewels on my ear cuff have sealed my fate and cuts into my tightly fisted hand.

  I DART MY EYES AROUND trying to get my bearings, but my swelling, drooping eyelid hampers my vision. It’s difficult enough trying to ignore the cacophony going off in my head, let alone trying to stay alert and focus on street signs or points of reference.

  A good distance away, Bryson slows to meet the speed limit, but stays silent. From my limited side-view, I catch guarded glances.

  “Is he dead?” I docilely mutter, staring out the passenger window.

  Contrary to everything I was raised to believe, revenge feels good. Mahatma Gandhi said, “An eye for an eye will only make the whole world blind.” I suppose for the petty shit in life, that phrase applies. Either that or I’m not Christian enough to have seen past my rage and now I’m in a car with an unpredictable protector. Or maybe even a bigger predator.

  “He made me break my promise to you.”

  Bryson killed someone for me. Why? His constrained mannerism, devoid of penitence, leads me to believe this was not his first. This nugget should alarm me or strike fear, but it does not. It comforts and kindles a swirling decadence in my gut. In the basest form, it is wrong. The small voice scraping my brain tells me, too.

  Unreadable, he doesn’t say another word till we stop. I wince as I attempt to straighten and peek out the window. We’re in the basement parking floor somewhere when he pulls the car into a reserved spot. There are only a few cars peppered throughout the partially darkened floor. The Hotel Plage De Sable Reserved sign reflects in front of the car’s headlights, disorienting me.

  Did we just drive around the block a few times? Everything is hazy so I must have missed that. We must be on a private parking floor of the hotel, maybe I can get up to the room.

  Bryson steps out of the car, but before closing the door he pokes his head back in. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.” I just stare at him, numb, as he shuts the door.

  Sitting still so I can detect movement if heard, I wait for a few seconds. When the only sound is the whooshing drumbeat in my ears, I reach for the door handle.

  Oh God!

  My body burns with every inch of movement. I try to move my legs after finally opening the passenger door, but the pain singes excruciatingly. It’s useless, I’m going nowhere. I whimper and pant, lift my dangling leg back into the car and with great effort, close the door. I let out a feeble groaning sigh, falling back into the leather seat. Exhausted, I close my eyes. The pain dilutes my thoughts. Escape should be in the forefront of my mind, but I can’t stop its vacillation.

  I’m unaware of how much time passes before the trunk of the car opens. Although startling, I don’t care to lift my head. The car dips as heavy items clatter and are being shoved in. I let gravity loll my head to the side when the driver’s side door opens. No need to even crack my closed eyelids to see Bryson get in, I smell his cologne. An unfettered, yet refined scent wafts in my direction. Initial notes of an unmistakable mint, sweet grapefruit, and blood orange give way to the middle notes of spicy cinnamon, rose, and blond leather. I’ve never smelled anything like it and it inebriates me.

  “We have to make another stop, and then we’ll go to the airport,” he says, starting the car.

  Parting the only eyelid I can, I glance his way. “Airport? I think I need to go to a hospital,” I croak. My throat, dry and tight, form my words, and doesn’t sound like me.

  Bryson sits with the car idling, his hands choke the wheel, and his body is just about to snap in half. I should be concerned by his body language, but my mind is in flux. Impulsively, I reach out to touch his arm, which only makes him lower his head to the steering wheel. He’s shaking too.

  I struggle with a swallow. “What’s wrong? Why can’t we just go to the police? You were protecting me.”

  Leaning back into the seat, he lifts his head at the same time. He takes in a deep breath and releases it. Bryson squeezes my hand still on his arm and turns. “Marvy, we need to leave town. It’s not safe for either of us now. We can’t go to a hospital, they’ll find us. Supak was the contact for one of my businesses in Eastern Europe. He’s part of a syndicate that I had no choice becoming involved with. It was a necessary business partnership and I let it infiltrate my company. My passiveness was my compliance, but when I walked into the bedroom and saw what he did to you that night, I just couldn’t stand by and let it happen again, or worse.”

  Bryson’s voice is uneven so he closes his eyes, trying to compose himself. “It killed me when Supak said he wanted you. The way he talked about you whenever he saw you in the club, the things he said he wanted to do to you. I tried to get him with other girls, but when he saw you dancing that night, he became fixated. I figured if I was in his house with you, I could do something to stop him before he could hurt you.” He has a faraway nuance in the way he speaks, his words spoken through such softened expression. I reach out, touching his cheek—maybe to comfort, maybe to forgive.

  He leans his face into my fingers, and then turns to kiss them. I don’t understand why, but the tightening sensation builds again. Cupping his face, I draw him closer, bringing my lips to his. Maybe it’s compassion, maybe it’s pity I have no idea. What I do know is that his kiss sends flames rushing through my bones. It’s an unfamiliar molten liquid, momentarily burning away the pain. He brushes my hair behind my ear as he tentatively kisses me. His touch is like sparkling electricity rushing through every cell. He breathes an overwhelming pleasure into every dark part of me, making me want to pull him closer. I’m completely heedless and carnal. Unaware I’ve led him to my side of the car, I lean my head against the passenger window as his lips explore my neck. The pain that shoots through me, fuels my passion and I smolder with need. I don’t care about the excruciating red hot pokers tearing at my muscles. I hunger for Bryson. I scream a moan when his head dips to my cleavage. Grabbing the handle above the door, I am desperate for more. Bryson slides his hands to my bare back and lightly moves them lower. This sets off a new wave of greed crashing and painfully settling between my legs. I arch my back and take a deep breath through my mouth. And just like that, he stops and flops back to the driver’s seat, leaving me unrequited.

  Panting with strained knuckles gripping the steering wheel, he drops his head to his chest struggling to breathe. My cheeks heat, confused and flustered. I move back into a regular sitting position in my passenger seat and straighten my dress, not knowing what to do or say. I’m mortified in t
he silence that follows, quickly cooling down my body. The bird’s nest that was a beautiful up-do at the beginning of the night is my only shield. I move it as much as I can to the left side of my flushed cheeks, hiding my embarrassment.

  Finally Bryson speaks, but never lifts his head. “I’m not doing this Marvy; not here. Not now, not like this. You deserve better. I won’t do that to you, treating you like some tramp.”

  Slowly, I blink, stunned by this unanticipated act of chivalry. I’m shocked actually, but the feeling of admiration for his devotion to my virtue is warming. It’s…honorable. Knocked for six, I sit with my deer-in-the-headlights stare. A blissful, yet bashful smile grows. There’s a jubilant thrill weaving its way around me, surging through me. A strong tremor goes through him as if it flows from me to him. I place my hand on his arm. “Okay, we’ll wait,” I tenderly say.

  He cranes his head, my words get his attention. “Wait? What? You…wait?”

  I cringe. Shit.

  These aren’t words Marvy would say in her selfish smart-ass way. I was so caught up in whatever that was, I forgot I’m supposed to be Marvy. Again, I can’t come up with anything to say so I close my eyes, and lean my temple on the passenger window. After a few more seconds of awkward, uncomfortable silence, Bryson focuses forward and starts to navigate out of the underground parking garage.

  My heart begins to slow and something else beats a hefty cadence. The antipathy of the moments prior, almost a revulsion. It is guilt.

  URBAN STREETS BEGIN to fade under my sluggish eyelids. Sand lines the road and reeds of beach weed poke up between shadowed dunes. The waning moon reflects below, sparkling the ocean’s surface with glittered winks. There is a house on the bluff, though it isn’t just a house. Standing solitary, it’s the only house on the bluff. The next house is more than a mile away. It’s the size of a three-story condominium built out of glass. Panoramic windows, where a person could view the entire beachfront from, are warmly shielded by a lowered drawn cream colored window shade. Three wrapping balconies hug the exterior; the two below have staircases leading to the next level.

  “The house is on timers for the lights and shades so it looks like someone lives there all the time. We should be safe here for a little while, but we can’t stay too long. They’ll check the hotel first, and then the restaurant. Even though not many know I own this, it’ll potentially be a place where they’ll come looking.”

  “Wow, I live in a house. This place could house a small village in some countries.”

  He chuckles at my childlike goggling. “Yeah, it’s a bit excessive for one person. I bought it after my first start-up went public. Now, it’s just a tax deduction. I don’t come up here that often anymore since I’m traveling so much.”

  His mention of travel has my head swimming. I can’t leave. I have family that will worry. Jones will tell Mom everything. Kitta will freak. I can’t leave school or Mr. P. hanging. Besides, I don’t have a passport. Heck, I don’t even have my I.D.

  The thoughts swirl, and then it dawns on me. Alex. I didn’t even think of him. I sure as shit wasn’t thinking of him when I was pawing at Bryson. That’s messed up. What’s wrong with me? I’m letting this guy Bryson get in my head. I can’t let him confuse me.

  As we pull into the garage, Bryson quickly hits the button to shut the world out with the heavy door closing behind us, barely missing the moving car in the process.

  My brittle fingers struggle to open the door when the latch pulls away and Bryson opens it for me. Blood flows back into my limbs and my legs burn, even with Bryson’s help. With one arm around his neck, his around my waist, I’m unable to stand from the car. His other arm goes under my legs and he lifts, cradling me in his arms. The warmth of his body and the curvature of his muscles send my stomach into somersaults. I breathe heavily through my mouth to calm my heartbeat, and the building tightness. Thankfully, Bryson just thinks I’m working through the pain based on the looks of concern, but I’m not focused on controlling that at all.

  When we get to the massive living room, he lays me gently on the couch. His face is an inch from mine, and my eyes roll back, releasing an exaggerated breath through gritted teeth.

  “Do you want a drink? Are you hungry? I don’t know what I have, maybe soup. You can smoke if you want to,” he coddles. “How’s the pain? We should get your head checked.”

  Yes, I should have my head checked.

  Bryson moves behind me, making me sit up. I grimace, but it isn’t because of bruised muscles.

  His fingers part my hair, inspecting my head wound. “I should have taken you to the hospital. You could have a concussion, or you may need stitches.”

  My body vibrates with his gentle touch brushing my neck as he pushes my hair to the side. “Does that hurt? I’m sorry. Let me get some aspirin.” He bolts up running to, what I suppose is, the bathroom.

  “Bluaaahhhh!” I blurt, trying to shake off the spasm in my stomach and squelch the pulsing between my legs. I rattle my brain and look around the room, scanning for a phone. Since the clutch purse is so small, I guess Marvy didn’t bring my phone to the club. She probably figured she’d be under surveillance, so what would be the point? I’m glad Marvy left my phone at home. It would have been going off non-stop in front of Bryson with Kitta’s number popping up or worse yet, my home number from Jones or my mom calling.

  From the leather couch I discern he has no phone in this room. One wall is entirely made of an alabaster marble with a long, end-to-end black glass-encased gas fireplace at the bottom. Firewood that in no way could be real waits patiently for the pilot light to ignite and engulf them in licks of flame. If there were occupants here during the winter, that fireplace would be on 24/7 with these fifty-foot ceilings. Other than the marble and glass wall, there are no others. The rest is an open floorplan and two sets of staircases on opposite sides of the room.

  Bryson comes back with a bottle of aspirin and goes to the open kitchen for a glass of water. He returns with a bag of ice wrapped in a towel as well. Handing me two aspirins and the glass of water, he repositions himself behind me and gingerly presses the bag of ice to my head. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “Okay, stop. This is getting annoying. Sit,” I command, pointing to a chair across from me. I can’t have this guy too close to me. He scrambles my brain and I cannot get two coherent thoughts to string together.

  Reluctantly, he leaves and sits in the high-back armchair, leaning forward. With elbows on his knees, and his hands clasped, he intently watches as I take the aspirins and chug the water. “What?” I ask, reapplying the towel-wrapped bag of ice to the back of my head.

  He shakes his head. “Nothing. You’re just…different.”

  Shit. Here we go. Damn it. I screwed up the Marvy-bit one too many times. The familiar statement treads on dangerous ground…again. “Different how?”

  “Well for one thing, you’re not smoking as much. And when you do, you smoke with your left hand.”

  Geez this guy is observant. Marvy must smoke with her right. Of course he noticed, he’s got a thing for her. Maybe we could double date? Ewwww! I crinkle my noise at the stupid thought.

  My heart begins to pick up its pace when he walks over to the couch. My inhalations are choppy through my nose when he bends a knee to come level with me. I keep my gaze low, habitually brushing my thumbnail back and forth along my lower lip.

  Careful not to sit where he would hurt me, he moves my hand and leans in, gently caressing his lips across mine. Bryson’s eyes remain open as if to challenge my image to disappear under his watch. The flirtation teases the burning tightness I’m struggling to quash. The warmth of his breath heats my neck as his lips hover like a butterfly with skimming grazes over my skin. Prickles breakout, excited tingling hairs rise over my body. Every second is a tango slowly escalating my anticipation.

  “Sei così bella. Voglio fare l'amore con te, posso continuare?” he whispers as his lips reach the bottom of my ear.

&n
bsp; “Oh si, si prega di fare!” I euphorically murmur back to fulfill his invitation.

  He’s asking for permission? Oh god, YES!

  Still hovering behind my ear, he deeply inhales; I brace myself for his touch.

  “Marvy doesn’t speak Italian, Trista,” he whispers.

  I freeze, my eyes wide with attention. Slowly Bryson raises his head, peering into my full moon eyes that stare aghast.

  I push him up with my hands to his chest. “What?”

  His handsome face is embroiled with bewilderment and dejection. The creases forming emphasize his fatigue and age. He pulls away, eyes lowered and forlorn.

  Bryson leaves me cold and lumbers to the picture window wall gazing out to the tumultuous sea. “I know who you are. When I went back to the house that night,” he pauses as if remembering the bloody scene that flashes in my memory. “Marvy was gone, so I sent one of my men to wait at the club. Marvy’s car was in the valet lot; I knew she’d be back to get it. I told one of my guys to follow her home so that I knew she’d be safe. When I dropped off the flowers on Thursday, I heard a guy, assumingly your brother, call out to a ‘Trista’ telling her she had a phone call.”

  Questions fill his eyes as he turns his broad shoulders toward me. “You’re her twin, aren’t you? Where is Marvy?” he asks, emotionlessly at the window. His scrutinizing gaze falls on an unresponsive girl with legs drawn to her chest, again rubbing her lower lip with the back of her thumbnail.

  I’m so screwed. And now Bryson thinks I’m Marvy’s twin. Ha! That might actually work.

  Silence stretches between us as I weed through a gamut of thoughts. Crunching ice behind my head fills it when I sink down into the couch. I am so tired. My thoughts are as chaotic as the ocean below, crashing thoughts of the investigation, the danger I’m in, and how to escape.