I don’t want to blow this man’s head off. Not in front of his wife. I haven’t killed a man in over five years. Decisions, decisions…
Another step and Mike has the barrel of my gun pressed to the middle of his forehead and he doesn’t even flinch. This isn’t his first time in this situation. He must have the same assumption a lot of men with his wiry muscles do. That, ‘the bigger they are the harder they fall.’ But what he doesn’t realize is I never fall. Ever.
“I have an idea, lover man; you put that gun down and I’ll let you fuck my ass before I fuck you. If not, I will take that gun with force if necessary and you’ll be the one who’s my bitch when my dick is shoved up your asshole and I rip its virginity apart. Your choice.” He’s calmer than anybody I’ve ever met in this situation. His voice is level, unfluctuating, face blank except for a dark smirk. Eyes glisten with the craziness I knew he had somewhere but haven’t gotten the chance to experience until now. I was stupid to think he was even slightly normal.
“Nope, you are going to leave and I’m going to go take a shower.” I hold my stance.
And that does it. He grabs the barrel of the gun and a roundhouse kick hits me in my stomach and I stumble back, and the gun flies across the room. I’ll give him props; he can deliver one hell of a kick. The women are huddled naked on the bed. Gonzales gives me this nod, telling me it’s okay to do what I know I have to do.
Another kick comes at me and I block this one with my forearm and grab his foot, twisting it so hard he loses his balance and hits the floor with a thud. But that doesn’t stop him; he presses his hands to the floor above his head and does a kip-up to stand. Smooth, guess you’ve been well trained. Good thing I have too.
Fists start flying. Him landing a good one on my shoulder as I pound my left into his gut and my right comes crashing down on this exposed penis. Instantly he grabs himself and takes a quick knee. Giving me enough time to dive for the gun on the floor and I fire. My bullet blowing a clean hole straight through the middle of his forehead and he’s gone. Dead. Finito, and my ears are left ringing from discharging in such a small space.
Realization quickly hits his wife and she starts to scream; her husband is dead. Gonzales holds her and I grab the phone from my pocket, leaving the babbling wife for Gonzales to deal with and call Brewer. I peer down at Mike’s crumpled body on floor in a pile of bright red blood. His brains scattered in clumps all over the room. Even some landing on the bed.
“Yeah? James?”
“Mike, Dr. D, Landers, has been eliminated,” I tell him and all he does is sigh.
“When’d you kill him?” He doesn’t sound mad.
Does this not surprise him?
“About two minutes ago. Tried to talk me into screwing him. Literally.” My voice is level; I feel better. Somehow a weight has been lifted from me. And it doesn’t even phase me to see a dead man lying on the ground and my socks soaking up his blood. It’s not my first rodeo.
A sharp, full-bodied laugh roars through the receiver and I roll my eyes. Of course the pervert man whore himself would think this is funny.
“I’m glad you find this humorous. What do you want me to do? The wife is still here.”
That revelation sombers him up real quick. “I’ll make a call and I’ll have a clean-up crew over in twenty and the FBI in ten, to take the wife into questioning.”
“And?”
“And, what?”
“What about me? I just killed a man I was supposed to investigate, not murder.”
“Ah…oh well… you did what you had to. That’s why we changed your identities before you moved in next to them. So if somebody got killed it would be Wade Carter as the murderer, not Calvin James. And the government can’t arrest somebody who doesn’t actually exist.”
These evil conniving men.
“You hired me so I’d do just that. Didn’t you?”
“I’m not giving away my all secrets. Let’s just say I knew you were the man for the job. And since you were busy with this other safe link BS, I figured. Ah—why not send him in.”
Great…I’m another pawn in this big government system.
We talk for a few more minutes, and when I hang up, I get naked in the same room dead Mike is lying in and throw my clothes next to him, besides my boxers. I leave those on. I can’t show these women what I’ve got in my pants. It’s not pretty. It’s scarred and gruesome. That’s what I’d call it anyhow.
I open the front door wide for the incoming traffic just before I hit the stairs to take a nice hot shower and wash the past twenty four hours away.
At least killing that psycho will bode well for my mental evaluation the little doctor lady assessed today. Vivid dreams- check, Angry- check, Aggressive- check, Not following orders- check-check, Killing a man, because of his issues, that all stem back to leaving his children and woman- Triple check.
Chapter Thirteen
~Emily~
“You going to get that sexy ass of yours out of that bedroom, Miss Emily Bronwyn? Or do I have to come in and drag you out by your hair, myself?” Stacy, my all adoring and completely pain in the ass best friend yells, from the other side of my bedroom door. I’m just finishing up my walk through of my bedroom, grabbing my little teddy bear stuffed animal that James gave me around a vase of flowers in the hospital and my Papa Bear's pillow to sleep on. Just as I’ve done since I moved back home from the hospital.
“I’m coming, I’m coming, hold those gay ass horses of yours!” I tease, yelling back loud enough, so he’ll get the picture. We are t-minus ten minutes, till the buses pull from the lot. It’s tour time! I know I’ve been so depressed lately with James leaving me but I am so excited to be heading out on the open road with two different tour buses this time. I get to work and I haven’t done that in a very long time. This past week I’ve packed everything for the twins, helped moderate the crews we hired and the special effects companies we are using for this short tour. A tour that sold out in exactly three minutes online. How cool is that?
Throwing open my door, I come face-to-face with my too-handsome-for-his-own-good bestie. All sexified, in his worn jeans, brown leather flip-flops and a fitted white tee. Which of course gives him that sexy surfer guy look, thanks to his shaggy dirty blonde locks.
“Damn girlfriend, you look hot,” he observes with admiration, his pretty blue eyes taking in my newest fashion statement. I figured new tour, new wardrobe. Rocker style, baby.
So… I’m— how do you say it? Flashin’ my new sexy duds. Oh fuck, I dunno.
Anyhow, I’m wearing jeans. Yes, I am rocking my body out in some damn jeans. I used to hate these things. Not anymore. When all you wear is a jonnie, for what feels like a lifetime, you gather a much broader perspective and appreciate things you didn’t used to. Jeans included. I’m also sporting a super tight, blue Teddy Ruxpin t-shirt. It’s super cute and cost me next to nothing.
Since I’ve been basically living off of protein shakes and fruit, I’ve lost most of my baby weight. Depression does that to a girl, when she’s without her better half. The only real thing my body will never lose is these massive mommy marks covering my entire stomach and the surgical scar. All of which I am totally fine with keeping. I like having them. It’s a constant reminder that I have Eric and Jenna and I’d never want to change that.
Speaking of Eric and Jenna.
“Stace, are the babies all ready?”
“Yes, Johnathan’s got them both in the bus, tucked into their own little cribs.”
Surprisingly enough, Johnathan ordered another tour bus since our posse has expanded to include five new people. Eric, Jenna, Cammy, Dylan and sometimes Kyle, if he tags along in the next few weeks. The tour is only three weeks long with a total of six shows. That’s all Stacy could fit in, on such short notice. Vegas is the first and today’s Monday, but the show isn’t until Wednesday. We get a whole day in Vegas to visit, but I don’t think I’ll be doing much of that, because Davis has to be sucked to my hip at all times, alo
ng with this man named Brady. He’s the new guy. Who doesn’t look much older than I am, or wide enough to protect much of anything. He’s maybe five-eight and weighs as much as a Doberman. Ok, maybe that’s a tad harsh. What I meant to say is, he’s really scrawny. If you can imagine, it doesn’t make me feel very secure.
Stacy leads the way out of the back sliding door of the house and locks it up, once I’m past him. Now trailing me, my arms carrying the last few things I need to take with us on tour, I make my way out the back gate and into the large lot where two huge buses are parked. The new one is red with silver with black metallic accents and word Stricken is written on both sides in huge letters. Jonathan might as well have written; stalk this bus; it has famous people inside. That would have probably given us less problems than showcasing the name how it is now. It’s an open invitation to follow us from one stop to the next. I wish he would have thought of that when he did the ordering and not left Stacy to do it, like Stacy was supposed to. But Johnathan sort of beat him to the punch.
Inside, I throw the bear, pillow and anything else I need to into my bunk and take a seat on the black wrap around, tufted back, leather couch. The can lights illuminate me from the ceiling as I take in the kitchen with its sleek black cupboards with chrome accents. There’s a massive flat screen and in the back is the bedroom that I refused to inhabit. Johnathan is the singer and I’m the co-manager. I don’t deserve a bedroom. The cribs for the babies are built-in, in his bedroom, along the right side wall. The head of his full sized bed adorning the opposite one. Cammy’s bunk is across the aisle from mine and Dylan is below her. Stacy is above me and Davis below. The final bunk is for the diver, Stan. It’s a full house for us.
“Well hello, you finally made it. I thought you’d never come,” Johnathan torments, exiting his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Dirty diaper in hand, he makes his way into my main living quarters and tosses it into the hidden trash receptacle.
Cool.
“I had to get a few things. I was not late,” I snap, playfully shaking my finger at him.
“Really?” He fake looks at his wrist that has no watch. “Looks like we had to push back the departure time thirty minutes, for the likes of you. I swear sometimes I don’t know what I see in you. You’re such a pest. Maybe I should have fired you long ago.” He smirks and chuckles, plopping down beside me on the couch. Stretching back, he sprawls his arms out on either side of him, lying them on the top of the couch. I swear, he’s such a dumbass sometimes. Ha—who am I kiddin’? He’s a dumbass, most of the time.
“Yep, probably should have. If I had half a brain I would have murdered you and dumped your body in the ocean for the shit you say to me. But…” I turn my head fluttering my eyelashes like an idiot with a wide grin. “I happen to love you for some god-awful reason.” I stick my tongue out at him and lean over, resting my head on his shoulder.
Yes, I am actually getting along with mister misogynist. Who would have guessed it? Right….
The night my parents left I fell into this deeper vat of depression. It felt like I was losing more control over my life, even if I’m not—for the most part anyhow. And that same day I told Johnathan I couldn’t be with him. Like ever, ever. Not a maybe. Not a sort of. A, no way, José. And for whatever reason he’s given me my space to breathe and in turn, I’m getting more comfortable around him. All because the way he now treats me, showing me he’s not trying to get into my pants or woo me back into loving him. It’s like a switch was flipped that emotional day on the beach.
Then that night another switch was flipped. I cried all night to Mariah Carey and N’sync. The next day I followed the same routine of crying and taking care of the babies. Steeping in a big ol’ vat of misery, dipped in suck and wrapped up in a crusty coating of what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you-Emily-quit-being-a-big-baby.
Three days I lived in that world. On the fourth day, which was this past Wednesday, I started in again, ready to start my day the same way. Only to have my door off of its hinges when I got out of bed. My iPod and the dock it sits on, was missing. And I found Stacy sitting with Kyle and Johnathan on the living room couches, right around the corner of my first floor bedroom. I went to rip them another asshole. But when I sat down they had other plans. I was basically put through depression boot camp. I was threatened if I didn’t straighten up and try to move on, they were going to make sure I got medicated. They forced me to eat an entire sandwich and a glass of juice in front of them. I couldn’t even pick off the crust.
By the end of the two hour heart-to-heart, I left feeling good, emotionally drained, but good. And I told myself I was going to get myself out of this funk. I was going to make the most of life and enjoy the things I do have, not dwell on the things I don’t. Even if I don’t like that I don’t have James. Ok, I fucking hate it with every single cell in my body. But I refuse to whine anymore, or cry anymore. Well maybe I do cry sometimes. However, it’s not as bad as it once was. I am moving forward. I am taking my stand to become an amazing mom and I’m going to kick some serious ass helping with this short tour. To show everyone that you can be hurt and stomped on, but you can still have the strength to move on and move forward. I’ve experienced more pain and stress in my life these past nine or so months, than I have in my entire life. Although… in turn, I’ve also felt the most love and joy that any one person should feel blessed to have felt even once in their lifetime. Love without pain is impossible, for you must know one to enjoy the other. And I’ve learned that many times over, the hard way.
***
“Stacy, I got it,” I yell, over the deafening roar of over sixteen thousands fans as I run around the substantial backstage here at the MGM Grand indoor Garden Arena. I’m bobbin’ and weavin’ my way in and out of roadies, instruments, wires, speakers…. you name it. All so I can find the guys that I know are lounging in the green room, which is in the back. I have to give them an update and make sure D knows we will be setting up his new drums. Not the old purple ones.
I round the back corner, my eyes set on the door with the big fancy star. And…
Umph! Oh shit! Fuck!
I plow into the front of a monster. His hands shoot out and grab both my upper arms as I teeter back on my three inch black heels, wearing a pair of worn and tattered jeans (they came that way), and a fitted Stricken shirt, about to topple over.
“Whoa there, sugar,” he coarsely grumbles, his hot massive hands searing into my flesh. Keeping me upright.
Son of a bitch! I know I should have flicked my bic before I left the bus today. But I had to feed the babies, pump, get ready, read Dylan a story and sit in on a bad meeting. Now I’m here. I’m doing my job, babies being cared for by Cammy, and this place is an absolute zoo.
Tugging my arms out of his panty dampening grasp, I look up.
Oh my god!!!!
“Uh…Thanks...,” I stutter, brushing my hands over my arms where his hands were.
Smooth Em, sound even more ridiculous why don’t cha?
He chuckles, one of those take-me-to-bed-right-now chuckles and I blush. He’s really hot! Broken heart be dammed. This man is still fine. And I can admire anything from a long, far, safe distance. Which I’m not doing right now. Fuck!
Looking up again, I’m surprised my eyes aren’t bugging out of my head. He’s at least six foot ten and three hundred plus pounds of man brick. Bald head and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Every inch of skin I can see is cloaked in tattoos minus his face and part of his neck. But I can’t stop thinking about how massive he is.
Jesus Christ, how does he fit into a car?
Another chuckle permeates the air between us and he produces a smoldering grin.
“I drive a truck.”
Oh, dammit, I just said that last part aloud. And my face gets even hotter. I’m sure my face now matches the bright red color of my hair. I’m so embarrassed.
“Uh…. Sorry… you’re just… you know...” I shrug, unable to compose the right words. Who am I kidding? I
can’t compose a single coherent thought. I’m such a retard.
“Big, mean and ugly,” he states, and his voice recedes and a pitiful frown fills that cute part of his face that used to have that delicious smoldering smirk.
I can’t believe he really thinks that low of himself.
“Nope, wasn’t going to say that. I was going to say...”
“Hey baby… Emily….Hey!” I get cut off and turn around to see Johnathan jogging towards me. Oh, that’s right I was going to go talk to him when I hit ‘The Wall.'
Stopping next to me he puts out his fist. “What up Bruce,” he greets, bumping fist with him. With The Wall.
“What up, Jay man?”
Jay man? Seriously? Lame!
“I see you’ve met your new job.”
Johnathan looks down at me from his six-five stance.
Me? I’m the new job?
Oh hell no! I fell in love and I’m still madly in love with my ex-fiancé. Who’s nineteen years older than I am and my old bodyguard. And now this Wall is going to be guarding me? I don’t think so, buddy. Not when I’m the size of his right shoe. All five foot tiny two of me. And he looks like that.
“This lovely little thing is thee Short Stack?”
Oh please, not another buffoon calling me that ridiculous name. Gee whiz.
“Yep, the one and thee only.” Johnathan pats my head.
Asshole! He actually patted my head. I’m not freakin’ five, ya know!
I seethe, giving him a vicious look, clenching my jaw and punch him in the side. Not much good it does me. These stupid rockers are solid.
“Chill.” He stares at me and I see he means it.
Okay, fine. I take in a deep breath to calm my anger.
“I hired Bruce, an ol’ buddy of mine, to be your new bodyguard,” Johnathan explains, standing next to me in his distressed jeans, black boots and a black t-shirt that says ‘Real Men Make Twins’ in big white lettering. Can you say ‘dork?’
Stricken Resolve Page 16