Killing Mary Jane: A Dark Romantic Thriller

by Amarie Avant

  Jake cut him off, “I have business to attend to, sir. Beasley is doing his job. Your woman is safe.”

  “Good.”

  The call disconnected. He hated men like his boss. Richer than Satan. And they thought they were always one step ahead. Jake was a gift from the scientist to Beasley. At least, that’s how the fat man saw it. His boss didn’t trust anyone, and Jake reported back to his boss. However, this was the first time in years that Jake hadn’t been honest.

  Glenn was gulping a can of Pepsi. Noticing Jake, he choked on soda bubbles. Jake leaned over the table and patted him rather roughly as Glenn continued to cough. After a few more seconds, Jake had to repeatedly remind himself not to kill this one.

  “Are you all right?” he asked in a condescending tone, whacking Glenn’s back once more.

  “I-Ouch!” Glenn scoffed. “Just don’t help me. That hurts.”

  “Where’s Mary Jane?”

  “My dad’s at the house. If you want some mary-juana, you know where to get it.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Glenn.” Jake poked him in the chest. “You were with MJ today at Wyatt and Cody’s place.”

  “Who?”

  “The twins. Big guy, got his pecker sliced off. Little-big guy, got his neck snapped. I was gonna beat the info out of you, but since you’re helping Mary Jane, I will restrain myself. Where is she?”

  “What’s it to you if I’m helping her?”

  Jake’s eyes brightened as Glenn didn’t back down. “I reckon you’ve grown a pair. Good for you, boy. There is a beast coming to eat—and I do mean eat—her. Nobody can stop him.” Jake stepped closer and pulled out his gun. He aimed it at Glenn’s nose, bugging the pimply schmoozer. “Where is she?”

  “Beast? If anything, you’re the beast!”

  Jake tilted the gun slightly upward and popped off a round. White dust danced down from the ceiling. In a snap of a finger, Jake snaked a hand around Glenn’s throat, and they commenced to familiar territory, with the skinny one shaking like a spindle. Jake yanked him so hard, Glenn almost fell over the counter. After a few moments of Glenn pulling at Jake’s hands, while he was being choked, Jake squeezed tighter. Still Glenn refused to talk. Letting up a little on the choking, Jake whispered, cold as ice, “You’ve heard the bedtime stories. I know that cunt who raised you got kicks out of scaring and telling you all about Hurricane.”

  Jake grinned as Glenn’s eyes flickered with horror. Glenn’s fingers shook as he tried to pry Jake’s fingers from his neck. Once a bluish hue crept up his face, Jake stopped squeezing his neck, and instead pushed him back.

  Glenn said not a word as he massaged the reddened skin on his throat. Stiff and thin-framed, his chest rose and fell, yet he refused to speak.

  Sighing heavily, Jake noticed the flicker of manliness in Glenn’s eyes. “Glenn, I’m going to save Mary Jane. I don’t have much time.”

  “Why?” he snapped. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

  This very question had Jake speechless. That three-letter word, “Why” had been his only thought for the past few weeks. It had started one day. For no reason he could come up with. If Mary Jane had truly belonged to Beasley, he probably would’ve put a bullet to her skull by now for her behavior. They both knew he couldn’t hurt her, but Jake had saved her.

  Jake just kept telling himself that the scientist owned her and he was being loyal by saving Mary Jane from Beasley. That fat fuck wanted to use her. But what was he fooling himself for? The doc had used her first, probably even the worst. And he remembered just how Mary Jane reminded him of his past. Before greed and lust consumed him. When it came to her, he just couldn’t be loyal.

  He had to screw over everyone for her. Protecting her was an innate craving. A driving force charged through his psyche on repeat.

  Save Mary Jane.

  Save Mary Jane.

  Save Mary Jane.

  Save Mary Jane.

  Save Mary Jane.

  Save Mary Jane.

  It’s like I’m going out of my fucking mind! I have to save her. And I have to let her go . . .

  That part hurt. For a man who felt no pain, knowing that Mary Jane had to survive and live free away from him cut to his core.

  “Why, Jake?” Glenn asked again. “Why would you help her?”

  “Because I must!” Jake snapped, returning to the present. That very question had roamed through his mind far too many times to count. Every woman in the entire world had one use. If they crossed him, and he wanted them, they served him one way or another. In life or in death, they served their purpose.

  Not Mary Jane. She was different.

  Jake was different the moment he laid eyes on her, because something in his brain had switched. Why? The thought consumed him momentarily, because in the next instance, a driving force moved him again.

  Save Mary Jane.

  Save Mary Jane.

  18

  Thirty Minutes Ago…

  She spat blood and sand from her mouth. Mary Jane pushed her face up and away from the cool, desert sand. Turning over onto her back, she took in the spray of stars and a full moon while giving a weak groan.

  With care, she sat up to see the Accord tilted on its driver’s side about fifty yards away. Every time she blinked, the image of the car being T-boned and flipping like the world’s deadliest rollercoaster flashed through her mind.

  Slowly she started to stand, but her legs wobbled. She needed to save Wulf. He had on his seat belt. He had to be unconscious and may be trapped. Alive and confined, unable to get out, or else he would’ve saved her.

  With a deep gash in her calf, Mary Jane crumbled down. Her eyes widened, locking on a figure heading toward the car. Then she glanced down at the ground before her. There was a trail leading away into the desert. She must’ve been taken out, dragged to safety. She sighed hoping the stranger was being cautious and now about to help Wulf.

  Mary Jane looked back toward the man reaching into the car and thought to thank him for—

  Pop. Pop.

  She watched the tall, burly figure as orange firelight flashed in the dark. The bastard had just shot off a few rounds.

  The ringing in her ears stopped.

  All noises gone.

  Mary Jane’s fused lips ripped apart. “Nooooo!”

  A sob crashed through her body as the man turned toward her. Even larger than the twins, he moved toward her like a grizzly bear to a mouse, the smaller creature catching his attention with little fascination but enough to taunt the beast.

  A beast so scary her throat constricted as he stooped down before her. The darkness shrouded his face in shadow, for a moment, before her eyes adjusted to the shocking reality. There were masses of grooves and ridges in his skin.

  “They call me Hurricane.” His unnatural, steely voice sent a tremor of fear down the nape of her neck. His breath reeked of rot. The kind of smell that once you breathed it in, there’s no forgetting. His callused hands claimed Mary Jane’s cheek, so rough and abrasive.

  “I’d love,” he began in an observatory manner, “to peel off this velvety skin, but my master wants you alive. But, he told me once he’s done with you, I’ll have you all to myself.”

  His mouth opened wide displaying jagged, shark-like teeth. Hurricane’s tongue snaked out of his mouth. She trembled in terror as his bumpy tongue burned from her chin to her high cheekbone.

  Hurricane lifted her up from the ground and over his shoulder. She jerked her arms and legs in one last attempt to get away, but it was no use. In her upside-down line of vision, Hurricane took her farther and farther away from the man who should have been her hero.

  Her heart was crushed to smithereens.

  Now Wulf was probably dead.

  She’d be taken.

  Her impending death didn’t stop her from ruminating over memories of being Special Agent Anya Randolph. Am I her?

  Hurricane neither bound nor gagged her during the long, quiet ride. His truck had been reinforced w
ith an extra steel cage, which had been the reason the Honda summersaulted across the desert earlier.

  Numb beyond belief, this moment dwarfed any of the feelings she’d had of Agent Trent Winehouse going rogue. Wulf had always had her interest at the forefront of his mind. Even when he’d mistaken her for a drug addict, he’d only wanted the best for her. Wulf cared for her.

  She didn’t move a muscle at his side. Nonetheless, her heart continued its relentless beat. Wulf’s blood was on her hands.

  Hurricane turned off the desolate freeway onto a one-lane road, ascending toward a lone mansion. It dangled against sheetrock. The truck climbed and climbed the hill until they came upon the open land of Beasley’s home. An extravagant “B” on the wrought-iron gate gave the façade of wealth. He pulled through the gate, down a long lane with manicured cacti on either side, and headed toward a large U-shaped driveway. There were three red imported sports cars and those ominous F-250s in red, blue, and white—so very patriotic. Sensor lights turned on as Hurricane stopped between the Ferrari and a blue Ford.

  Hurricane’s voice broke through the pitch blackness as he removed the key from the ignition. “You ready to die?”

  She nodded. I can’t take anymore of this world. Closing her eyes, the back of her head slumped against the headrest. She heard rummaging then the door slammed, indicating that the beast was out of the car. Seconds later, her door opened. Blood, sweat, and bad hygiene assaulted her before Hurricane pulled her from the seat. Orange tones burned her closed eyelids as the sensor lights flipped on as he walked.

  Hurricane knocked at the door. It opened.

  Mary Jane’s eyes finally opened as she was flung into the foyer. She sailed across the waxed black-and-white-checkered tile. The blood from her leaking calf smeared until she landed near a marble décor table next to the left side of the double staircase.

  “Mary Jane has returned!” Beasley’s heavy, breathy voice rose as he neared. With a grunt, his fat thighs weakened as he bent to touch her clammy cheek. “Hmmm, I remembered you being more outspoken.”

  “She wants to die.” Hurricane’s voice was a life-shocking volt against her heart.

  “A shame,” Beasley sighed. “I rather enjoy torturing the reluctant. Return Mary Jane to her cage.”

  Hurricane’s prickly, bearded face turned upward into a harsh smile. His long, thick hands went through her unruly tresses. “This will be mine,” he said, pulling until she glided against the waxed floors by the roots of her hair.

  A few minutes later, toward the back of the house, Hurricane finally hefted Mary Jane over his shoulder to carry her up the stairs to the servants’ quarters.

  He opened a door at the top of the landing and tossed her into a dark room. He flipped on the lights. The walls and floors were black. The only furnishing was a five-by-five-foot cage along one wall.

  She slowly took in the scent of bleach that almost masked others—blood, urine, death.

  “Lock her in there, for now,” Beasley ordered.

  Hurricane’s fists balled. “Why wait? She’s bleeding. I can almost taste it.”

  Beasley’s eyes narrowed at Hurricane’s aggressive stance. “Will you disrespect your master?”

  Hurricane’s chest deflated. His eyes cast to the floor.

  Beasley glanced at Mary Jane and took a step closer to Hurricane to whisper in his ear.

  The beast of a man didn’t appear too happy about Beasley’s comment. But he was obedient. He held the cage open for her.

  “Cuff your hands and ankles,” he growled.

  No amount of self-defense would save her from him. Mary Jane crouched into the cage, took a seat, and did as told. Hurricane locked the padlock on the door, reinforcing the truth. She wasn’t leaving anytime soon. Then they left her in the room.

  Tongue thick and stuck to the roof of her mouth, Mary Jane stared at the closed door. She refused to drink out of the doggy bowl near her bare feet.

  There was nothing left to do but wallow in self-pity.

  I got Wulf killed for nothing.

  With no reason to live, she waited for death. Welcomed it.

  I’m not a secret agent. I only have one memory. I’m nothing.

  If she could fade into the black walls around her and become one with everyone who’d been tortured in this room, she would.

  “I don’t want to go home,” the younger one begged. Her bottom lip protruded.

  The older sister stopped next to a Victorian-style home and turned in front of her. She placed a hand on the younger sister’s shoulder. “Then what are we gonna do?”

  “We can—”

  “We can’t con people into taking care of us if our own mother can’t! Look, I know the kids laughed at our clothes today. They do it every day. All they remember is that we wore the same outfit a few days in a row,” the older sister huffed. They weren’t used to living in a good neighborhood. At most of the other schools, they blended in for a while until their mother moved onto a new man.

  But her little sister wasn’t to be consoled. “You can do your magic tricks like you did when Mother forced us to come out here. We drove so long, and you got us all kinds of food and stuff. We can find Dad.”

  “It wasn’t just magic tricks.” She bit her lip to force the bile from rising. “Should Child Protective Services split us up? Is that what you want?”

  “No,” the little sister whimpered. “I want to stay with you, Ma—”

  Mary Jane’s eyes popped open as she heard the doorknob turn. Hurricane’s head dipped as he passed through the six-foot doorway. His eyes took her in like a piece of Kobe beef.

  Mary Jane stared at the disfigured man. She took in the lumps on his face more clearly in the light, the jagged scars on his alligator arms and hands. Quietly, she took in every inch of Hurricane’s disfigurement, ready and waiting to be killed.

  At the sound of a voice behind him, Hurricane backed out of the room and shut the door.

  She leaned back against the cage wall as her heavy eyes closed again. She fell into another lucid dream.

  Sunlight danced along the gauzy drapes that rustled in the wind. The tropical island life outside beckoned Anya, proving that she could just stay here in paradise. She could just go rogue too.

  The illumination highlighting Trent’s light brown abdominals, his legs, and the biceps of his arms. It was all so romantic, almost dream like.

  “Come here,” he said.

  She smiled groggily, but was surprised he stayed. After a wild night of lovemaking, she’d anticipated that the hotel room would be void of any remnants of the man. If Trent wanted to, he could make it look like he’d never been there.

  Her heart lurched. She had hoped he’d left. After all the talk. The oath to the Agency. She sought the best for Trent. If it meant him disappearing in the night, so be it. As she maneuvered into the thick ropes of his arms, he spoke her very thoughts.

  “I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye, Randolph.” He kissed her softly on the forehead. “I’m not that cruel.”

  “But you have in the past,” Anya replied. Though women’s intuition screamed, she snuggled in the crook of his shoulder. Emotions clogged her throat and made the embarrassing words even harder to divulge. “You did leave me without saying goodbye.”

  His thumb brushed at the tears trailing down her cheeks. “I said goodbye, Anya. You just didn’t understand.”

  Her nose crinkled and she thought back. Three years had passed. The memories weren’t exactly easy to think about. Trent had never been an “assignment.” She’d always cared for him.

  “Do you remember the last morning? I met you at the Agency with coffee and breakfast. Danish pastries.”

  Slowly, she nodded.

  “I told you goodbye then, with breakfast. Remember?”

  Her eyes brightened as she recalled the very day he disappeared. “Oh, that’s right. You never said goodbye except for that one morning after we ate. You made us dance slowly and sang a few lines of Frank Sinatra�
�s Goodbye. You knew you were leaving?” Anya pulled herself away from his welcoming arms, no longer comforted. She’d hoped that he’d been coerced into betraying the Agency, his country, her. That couldn’t be so if he had orchestrated their last moment. “Damn, you’ve always been a bastard!”

  “Oh, honey.” He grinned as she hastened out of the bed.

  “Don’t ‘oh, honey,’ me, Trent Winehouse! I am taking you in.”

  “No, you’re not,” Trent said.

  “Yes, I am!”

  The sound of choppers cut through the sky. Anya lunged away from the bed and away from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Bullets rippled through the glass windows and French doors. Shards of glass flew.

  Trent calling her name was barely audible through the continued shots fired. Anya scrambled toward a nightstand to shield herself from the line of fire.

  “Mary Jane?”

  Mary Jane’s eyes popped open, yet again. The voice in her dreams, that voice was so familiar. It sounded like…

  She looked at the doorknob as it slowly turned.

  “Oh, my beautiful Mary Jane. It has been a while.”

  She gasped. “Trent?”

  19

  He rubbed a hand through his wavy, yet kinky hair. The biracial man had cool gray eyes. Although chilling, they complemented his steel-colored tailor-made suit. Handsome and lean, he had just enough muscle, indicating he implemented a flawless workout regimen.

  “No, I’m not Trent.”

  Beasley walked in behind the man she knew as Trent Winehouse—who had just denied being Trent Winehouse.

  “She doesn’t know who I am?” Not-Trent questioned. He rubbed a hand against a neatly-cut beard then placed his hands on his lean hips.

  “No, she doesn’t.” Beasley gazed at Not-Trent with worried eyes. It was clear that the hierarchy was topped with this new stranger. He was the boss of them all.