by Jc Emery
Memories of Becca’s and my childhood and eventual adulthood fly through my brain, hitting me in the gut so hard I have to shut my eyes to keep from sobbing.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Becca just looks at me, her brown eyes filled with tears. She nods. It’s the best I’m going to get right now, and I don’t take it for granted. She’s stuck by me through so much. I wonder when she’ll call it quits and decide to befriend someone a little more stable, a little less inclined to getting herself into trouble.
“I just don’t get it,” she says with a shrug of her shoulders. She’s trying to give off the vibe that it doesn’t matter, but I can see in her eyes that it does matter. “You were so excited. You passed the entrance exams and everything.”
“I don’t know what happened,” I confess.
I hate that conversation. We’ve only had it a hundred times before. Becca and I plan something, and then I screw it up and she ends up going at it alone.
Like when we were kids and I begged her to sign up for Girl Scouts with me. I didn’t want to do it alone, and I thought we could have fun doing it together. Less than a month in, I was done.
A few years later, we begged our parents to let us go to summer camp. It was one of those sleep-away camps that lasted for something like a month. It was my idea to begin with, and I was instrumental in creating our plan of attack for us to be able to go. Unfortunately, a week in, I was so homesick that I manufactured an illness to be able to go home. While I was spending my days lazily on the sofa, watching reruns of classic TV shows and eating my weight in Sno Balls, Becca was swimming off ropes from tree branches into the cool lake water, having her first kiss, and her first heartbreak.
The first thing she did when she came home from summer camp was to throw her arms around me and tell me all the exciting things that happened. Our happy reunion didn’t last long, because the moment she saw the scowl on my face—my apparent jealousy—she ran home and refused to talk to me until school started some weeks later. I was the one who had ditched her, and then I had the audacity to be jealous of all the fun she had. At the time, I thought she was just upset because what’s-his-name had broken her heart, but looking back years later, I can see why she got so upset with me.
Even in high school, when we took our senior trip to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, Becca and I spent three months planning the entire trip from start to finish. We had a long list of everything we wanted to do once we got there. But I was an idiot and imbibing way too much alcohol than I could reasonably handle. I thought I was being cool, and for a little while, I guess I was, but I was too hung over or too drunk the entire trip to do anything on our list, leaving Becca at the mercy of the theater geeks.
I guess the joke was on me, because Becca met her now ex-boyfriend Kyle on that trip. He was one of those theater geeks, eventually going on to study at UCLA’s film school. Last time I checked the internet, he was working as a production assistant on the set of some chick flick titled Marital Bitch. It sounded lame, I mean, how much romance can be in a movie with a title like that? Regardless, it scored the hottest director and had a large budget, so he must be doing something right. To this day, they are still really good friends and see each other whenever he comes back to New Orleans.
The low rumbling sound outside grows louder, alerting me to an approaching vehicle. I clutch my phone tightly in my hand, prepared to call 911 should I need it. But then I remember what kind of trouble calling the police out here could bring. My head shoots up, and my eyes dart around as I search frantically for any sign of an unwanted visitor at the windows and doors. Then I realize my dad was just here a few hours ago and could very well be returning to restock some of the items he said we were low on—like clean sheets.
At the time, his comment seemed innocent enough, but the more I think on it, the more I realize how stupid I was to begin with. My father has been a private investigator for nearly twenty years and has seen everything—from cheating spouses to people with secret, strange proclivities and even complete nutcases who barely knew who they were. Of course he would know what sex looks like. Of course he would be able to tell by the rumpled sheets, my messy hair, and the fact that Chase and I were wearing his pajamas at the time. The very idea that my father knows what I was up to in his cabin makes me blush.
I laugh lightly at my paranoid nature. Here I was freaking out, ready to call 911 or blow someone’s head off. I hadn’t even considered it might be my father bringing me some much-needed linens and pain medication. Just as I set my phone down and let my shoulders slump, the rumbling outside stops and the bright beams turn off. I check myself to make sure I’m decent and turn toward the door just in time to see it being kicked in.
CHAPTER 18
Shelby
And it’s because I killed him.
THE DOOR SHATTERS in a barrage of wooden splinters that explode in every direction. I practically fly up in my seat and hit the roof. The gunman barges in, and immediately I look at his face. I don’t know him. He’s wearing what I like to call the standard criminal uniform—black pants, black leather jacket, and black boots. Before he notices, I grab the gun from under the sofa and hold it against my side. If I shoot, it’s just going to cause a firefight, and I would like to wait if I can. Not that I’m such a good shot anyway. Considering my lack of ability with a firearm, I keep the gun out of sight.
For once, I’m trying to think before acting, and right now, all I can think of is Chase. He’s outside somewhere, doing God only knows what. An imaginary weight sinks to the very depths of my stomach and settles in, making me nauseous. Chase has to be okay. Tears spring to my eyes at the thought. I just barely got him and cannot bear to think of a future without him. Without Chase, I may as well just give myself up to Victor.
The man, with his eyes trained on me, smirks at what I assume is my deer-in-the-headlights expression. I know what I must look like, a girl alone in a cabin in the woods, terrified and without resource. What this goon doesn’t know can only help.
The man turns his head to the side and yells out the front door, “She’s in here!” Then he spins back towards me. From his side, he raises the gun and points it at my head.
I wish I could say that after the last couple of days having a gun pointed at me doesn’t still send me into a panic, but it does.
“Please don’t hurt me!” I say the words as if I'm begging.
I want him to focus on my surrender and for him to not even consider I might not be here alone. While I’m feeling I have the situation here in the cabin fairly under control, I know that’s not the case, and any moment Chase will hopefully be in here to rescue me. Where is he? I can only pray that whoever this guy was speaking to outside hasn’t found Chase and hurt him. And just in case Chase and the other guy are about to get into it, I want to keep things fair, and that means keeping him distracted.
I slip the gun into the waistband of my pajama pants only to realize they’re too loose to hold it up anyway. Instead, I opt for having the gun settle behind my back. I don’t know what I’ll do if and when he asks me to stand up. I only know that for right now I have to keep this gun hidden.
“Whatever you do, don’t even think about moving.” The guy smirks like this has been the easiest capture that’s ever happened.
A loud boom sounds outside from the back of the cabin, alerting Victor’s guy to what I was afraid of—that I’m not alone. I try to calm the panic rising in my chest and tell myself I have firsthand knowledge of Chase’s wonderfully built physique. The last thing I need right now is to fall into a panic attack before I know anything.
The man with the gun stalks across the room, keeping his eyes on me and his gun aimed steadily at my temple. I know at the very least he won’t shoot me. Victor feels like he’s been wronged and rejected. Whatever awful humiliation and torture he has in store for me, he’s going to want to save it for himself. Victor will not outsource my punishment. I’d also be willing to bet that since Chase complicated his pl
an and what I’m sure in Victor’s eyes looks like essentially stealing his girl, Victor has ordered them to bring Chase, and I doubt he cares that Chase carries a badge.
A guttural scream, full of anguish, rings out from the back behind the cabin. My heart thrums in my chest. I’m terrified it might be Chase. But something inside me can’t bring myself to believe it. It doesn’t sound like Chase. Even if I don’t really know for certain, I just can’t imagine he would sound that way screaming in pain.
Through the closed side door, I hear screams, cursing, and a “he’s getting away!” The voice sounds pained and slightly panicked. And I let out a sigh of relief because it’s not Chase.
My heart lifts, and I nearly forget the gun pointed at my head. What little confidence I had about this situation has returned. There are a lot of things I don’t know about Chase just yet, and there’s so much to learn, but I know this—I know that more than just being a good guy, Chase is noble and takes his responsibilities to protect and serve very seriously. And while he might not love me yet, he cares for me—I have no doubt about that—and he would never leave me like a sitting duck.
The gunman pokes his head out of the cabin, and redirects his gun out the door at what I presume is an approaching Chase.
Now’s my chance, I think. I take the safety off the gun and raise it in the air. I train it at the man’s head and shoot. I’m not a great shot, unfortunately, and I miss him by couple of inches. This gets his attention, and he spins around quickly, ready to fire.
I stand from my position on the couch, gun in hand, and point it at his head, backing towards the front door. My hands are shaking, my heart is about to jump out of my chest, and I can feel the panic settling in. I need Chase here. He has to be a better shot than I am. He has to know what to do here.
The man rushes at me with the force of a hurricane. Panic seizes me and I freeze in place. The gun drops to level with his abdomen as he flies at me, his gun still pointed at my head.
“You stupid bitch,” he says, practically spitting at me.
Less than three feet away, I begin to doubt whether or not this man gives a crap if Victor told him not to hurt me. I decide I’m not up for testing his loyalty to Victor today.
I scrunch my eyes closed and pull the trigger. My body ricochets, and I nearly trip on the splinters of wood shards that once were the front door.
His body jerks as if he’s been hit in the gut by a baseball bat and then he stiffens. Taking one more step forward, he coughs, and his unfocused eyes roll back in his head. His right arm shakes, and the gun falls to the floor.
Once the gun is out of his hand, I say a silent prayer and a little thank you to whoever may be watching.
But then it happens—he falls forward, blood dripping from his mouth, and right on top of me. His weight is too much for me to take, and we fall to the floor.
I scream out for Chase, praying he’s in good enough condition to come. I can’t even consider that the man on top of me is now dead and how he got to be that way. Youthful indiscretions are one thing, but being a murderer is completely different.
I’m unable to hold back the consuming thought that I just killed a man. I cry out, but not from pain, though my wounded leg is throbbing and my head is killing me and everything in between feels like it’s been through a food processor. He’s a bad guy, I know that. But this man had to have had a family, or at least a mother. Maybe even a sister or a brother. He could’ve had kids, a wife. He could’ve had an entire life set up, and this could’ve just been a job for him. Kind of like me, only he was too scared or too stupid or just couldn’t find a way out. Whoever he is, whatever his name is, he’s gone. And it’s because I killed him.
In a matter of seconds, Chase to run into the cabin, his clothes a dirty mess and blood dripping out of the corner of his mouth. Leaning down and pulling the guy off me, he rolls him over. My chest is coated in his blood. The man’s eyes are open wide, and fearful. I know that the last thing he saw before he died was my face—the face of the woman who killed him.
Looking into his eyes, I start screaming all over again. Sobs rack my body with such an intensity that I can’t process anything else. Breathing ragged and limbs shaking uncontrollably, the unbelievable realization of what I’ve done consumes me. Soon, the strain from my cries weighs on my lungs, making it near impossible to breathe. In between frightened screams, my lungs take in breath after insufficient breath.
Chase pulls me into his arms and holds me, telling me it will be okay, but it doesn’t feel okay. His promises feel empty and standard. I don’t know how he could have liked me before, but I’m quite certain that once we’re out of here, he won’t anymore.
The shame of everything I’ve done up until now pales in comparison to this. I’ve never let myself consider the idea that Becca may not make it out alive, and so even though she may hate me forever for what happened, I still have the potential to right that wrong. But this—I have no way to make this better. Dead is dead.
Chase checks me over, making sure I didn't get hurt. I want to tell him not to bother, that I’m not worth the effort, but I know he won’t listen. That’s just who he is. He’s helpful to a fault.
Minutes pass, and my panicked tears calm to quiet whimpers. Chase keeps asking me if I’m okay, but I don’t answer him. How can I say anything? I killed a man.
“Shel, he was going to kill you. Or if he wasn’t going to kill you, he was going to serve you up to Victor. Don’t forget he still has Becca and the potential to harm her. He was a bad guy, baby. Don’t mourn his loss. Just be grateful you’re making it out of here on two feet and not in a body bag.”
“I . . . killed . . . a man.” I cry into Chase’s chest.
My focus has been all over the place since meeting Chase. He distracted me, and it put us in a very bad situation. I can’t let that happen again. I’m back to business now, and I won’t be letting whatever this is between me and Chase cloud my judgment anymore. He’s just a cop, and I’m just a stupid girl who got herself caught up in a disaster. And that’s it.
CHAPTER 19
Chase
I’m too smart to think he’ll let me live.
SHELBY IS A mess. She’s all tears and hiccups and strangled sobs. I’ve never killed a guy before, so I can’t relate to what she’s going through. If she were a cop, the department would make her take some time off and undergo a psychiatric evaluation. When she was able to return to work, she’d be on desk duty and would continue talking through the shooting with the department’s nut doctor. But she’s not a cop—she’s a waitress. And she hasn’t been trained for this.
The guy outside is just knocked out, but I did use his shoe strings to tie him up as best I could. He’ll have a good amount of pain and confusion over that hit he took to his skull, but at least he’ll be breathing. And aside from the few scratches and dirt I got on me, I’m fine. But Shelby—she may be fine physically, but I’m not sure if she’s going to be fine emotionally for a while, if ever.
“I killed a man,” is all she says. Again and again. It grates on my ears. I don’t want her seeing herself this way—as a killer. But nothing I say is getting through.
Eventually, she says, “That run I made? All I had to do was to drop off a sealed manila envelope at this lady’s house at a certain time. It seemed like such an easy thing to do. It was like being a mail carrier. And that handbag I bought with the run money—it’s a gorgeous brown leather with vintage detailing. It was on special at Dillard’s. I just . . . didn’t have the cash for it, and I didn’t want to let Victor buy it for me—and he was going to buy it for me. He was always doing stuff like that. But I wanted it, so I. . . earned the money.
“When I got to the store, there was only one of them left, and I grabbed one strap while some lady grabbed the other. I really wanted that purse. So I didn’t let go, and she didn’t let go. I tugged and she tugged, but then she fell backwards and into a watch display.” She levels a flat look at me and continues as though she�
��s on autopilot. “She told the store security that I made her fall. And I didn’t, but I should have just let go of the purse. Now I can see how stupid that was. It was just a purse. It shouldn’t have mattered.”
She does a pretty good job at trying to come across as a hard-ass, but I’m beginning to figure her out. She’s not a hard-ass at all—she’s just trying to follow through on her choices no matter how awful things may become. It’s an admirable quality, but I want her to know that in this particular case, she doesn’t have to follow through. And she has to stop blaming herself for everything that’s happened. The only person to blame for Becca’s kidnapping is Victor. Shelby was just trying to do what’s right by breaking it off with him.
I want to tell her all of this. I even try to lie to her and tell her it’ll all be okay. But I can’t. I can’t lie to her, so I don’t say anything. Like Becca, I was accidentally dragged into this situation, and now I’m as much a target as Shelby. Victor’s attention may be on getting Shelby back—and that diamond, though I have no idea what that has to do with any of this—but that doesn’t mean he has or will forget about me entirely. I’m too smart to think he’ll let me live. So now, even if I wasn’t falling hard and fast for the girl in my arms, her problems are my problems. If she doesn’t survive, neither do I.
I take a deep breath and try to clear my head. Victor knows where we are. We should be getting up right now and running the fuck out of here, but I can’t bring myself to move her just yet. Though the tortured sobs are calming down somewhat, she’s still a mess. I give her a few more moments while I figure out what the fuck we’re going to do now.
I look around for my phone, about to call Sarge, and realize it’s across the room. I think I slept through the part of training that covered a situation like this. I have no idea what I’m doing here. I don’t feel comfortable leaving Shelby just yet. She’s still in that dark place, and the only thing that I can do is to hold her and tell her that it will be all right, even if the rational part of my brain knows that is all bullshit.