by Anne Malcom
She sharpened her own gaze. “Of course not. He lost me the second his hand turned into a fist.” Her voice was strong, resolute.
So there was that.
“Well then, what’s with the insane demand to keep something that is A, hard to hide, and B, something that needs to be dealt with a secret?” I demanded.
She regarded me. “You know what everyone thinks of me. Polly the romantic idiot. Head in the clouds. Clueless. My family’s been in enough pain. I’m not causing them more. Not giving them another reason that they have to take care of me. They deserve to take care of themselves.”
My heart hurt with her words, and the way the hurt in her voice told me she believed them. “No, babe. That’s not what everyone thinks of you. You’re the woman with a big heart, a bigger smile and strength to not let the world turn her natural beauty into inevitable cynicism,” I said. “And your family will be in more pain if they know you went through this alone.”
She blinked away her tears. “But I’m not alone. I’ve got you. Don’t I?”
“Of course you’ve got me, idiot. You’ve got a lot more people though, babe. Trust me, this kind of stuff is easier to get through when you see how many people won’t leave your side,” I told her.
“Maybe,” she agreed. “But this is the way I want to do it. And I’m asking you, as my friend, to respect that.”
I frowned. “You’re asking me to lie to everyone.”
“I came to you because I knew you’d understand,” she said. “Because you kept things from your family because you knew you had to. Because no matter what other people would’ve told you, you had to do it alone.”
I chewed my lip. “And that was a mistake.”
“Maybe,” she said again. “But this is my mistake to make.”
“Fuck,” I hissed.
“Is that a yes?” she asked.
I glared at her. “Of course it is. But I’m not happy about it.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
“I’m guessing we’re hiding you out here for the foreseeable future?”
“Just until my eye heals enough to cover it with makeup.” She reached for her tea, cupping it rather than using the handle.
“Well, that’s normally a week, but we’re surrounded by alpha males who can sniff out hidden injuries from a mile away. They’re itching to pound on their chests and protect their women, so we’ll make it one for general outings but two if we have to visit your brother-in-law.”
“Perfect. I’ve just discovered Riverdale on Netflix, so silver lining!” she said, a little louder than the eerie whisper, sounding almost like her old self.
But I knew too well that she’d never be her old self.
I stood.
“Where are you going? We can start from episode one. I don’t mind rewatching,” she said.
“You’re moving back in here, I assume?” I asked.
Her face turned sad. “If that’s okay?”
“Of course that’s okay, you little nitwit,” I said playfully. “But you didn’t come here with any bags, so I’ll go get your stuff.” I walked to retrieve my purse, the new Chanel that contained my favorite lipstick and also my favorite Glock.
“Rosie, you can’t kill him!” Polly exclaimed, abandoning her tea again and adding to the lake on the coffee table.
I turned. “I know,” I sighed. “At least not yet.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Not ever.”
I rested my purse on my shoulder. “Seriously? The asshole hit you. You’re not going back to him, so what do you care?”
“I care because at one time, I loved him. A part of him, however small, however fleeting. I care because I’m married to him, despite him hitting me and definitely being an asshole. I care because no matter how shitty of a human being he is, he’s still a human being. It’s not up to me or you to decide the punishment for that. He’ll have his sins on his soul. I don’t want them on mine.”
Somehow, even with the evidence fresh and throbbing on her face, Polly was still determined to believe the world wasn’t about sin and punishment.
It was that determination that gave me pause.
“Please, for me,” she whispered. “I know you operate under different rules than I do. And I would never judge you for that. Everyone lives their own life, and I understand yours. I respect it. But I can’t live it. So please, Rosie.”
I stared at her. “Fine,” I grumbled. “I’ll just get your stuff and I won’t shoot him,” I promised.
She smiled, big and bright and somehow free of the demons that should’ve been lurking there. “Thank you.”
“Whatever,” I muttered, walking out the door.
I’d promised not to shoot him. That just meant I had to get creative.
Unsuspecting, I’d opened the door to one of the gentlest humans I knew with a tattoo of violence on her face.
It was only fair that Craig got the same.
Or a version.
As soon as he opened the door, his face met the brass knuckles Gage had given me for Christmas.
Despite being what most people would call petite, I could throw a punch. Craig obviously could too, but he sure as shit couldn’t take one.
The crunch of metal against bone was followed by a gurgled cry and Craig collapsing to the floor.
I stepped over his groaning body into his apartment, looked around.
“Nice place you got here,” I said, dangling my gun from the hand that didn’t have my brass knuckles on it.
He was still groaning.
“Pussy,” I muttered.
I looked down at him. His cheek had opened up and blood was spurting all over his no-doubt expensive rug. His eye was already swelling.
“Oh, would you look at that,” I said, standing over him. “You and your wife will match now.”
“It was an accident,” he groaned.
I bent at my knees so both I and my gun were in his face. His eyes radiated fear and cowardice.
“Oh, why didn’t you say so? An accident? Well, that’s okay, then. What’d she do? Not press your laundry right? Fuck up the eggs? She must’ve deserved it then,” I said. Then I pistol-whipped him. “It was an accident when your mother got pregnant with you. That’s the only accident here.”
He blinked rapidly, holding his head and barely focusing.
I snatched the collar of his shirt. “See, you’re stupid. Because you had the whole world in your hands and all you needed to do was treat her right. It’s not hard with a woman like that, who’d rip her heart out of her chest for you. And she would’ve. But luckily, you showed your true colors early, so she didn’t waste a huge chunk of her life with you. She’s soft and tender, but she’s not weak, so she’s not going to blame herself or come back to you after you laid your hands on her. Luckily, she’s too much of a good person to let me kill you.”
I fastened the barrel to his forehead.
“Luckily for you. Not me. I would love to do it, trust me, but that would hurt Polly. And unlike you, I would never do that, even if it’s doing the world a favor.” I glared at him. “So here’s what’s going to happen, I’m going to get her stuff. You’ll stay here, weak and crying on the floor, where you belong. Where you were stupid enough to think Polly would stay. You won’t get up until after I leave. Then, when you’re served with divorce papers, you will sign them, along with half of everything you own, even the stuff you’ve hidden in places you don’t think anyone will find it.” I pressed the barrel harder. “I’ll find it. And if you’re hiding anything from me, Craig, I’ll hide your body so good only the aliens that take over our planet in a few hundred years will find your bones. Capisce?”
He leered at me. “You can’t get away with it,” he spat.
“Oh yes I can,” I said softly. “You know I can. You know who Polly’s brother-in-law is. You also need to know that the Sons of Templar have her back. They’re scary enough, but more importantly, I’ve got her back. And I know you think I’m a weak woman, but
trust me, you haven’t seen shit. So be a good boy and don’t find out, ’kay?”
I waited for him to answer. I wasn’t impatient.
I only moved the gun when he nodded once.
“Perfection,” I said, dusting off my dress and putting my gun and bloody brass knuckles back in my Chanel.
It was late before Luke got home.
He was away chasing a skip. Usually I’d be with him, but the Golden Globes were on.
“You’re not coming out because of some stupid awards show?” he’d said that morning.
I gasped. “You take that back,” I demanded. “It’s the award show. The one to start the season. Jen and Ange are going to be attending. Both of them. Do you have any clue what that means?”
He stifled a grin. “None whatsoever, but I do take it back. It totally makes sense to miss work for it.”
I scowled at him, stifling my own smile.
He kissed me rough and hard. “Love you, babe.”
I smiled full-on at that. “Love you.”
He paused.
“I thought you were leaving,” I said.
“Just takin’ in the moment,” he murmured.
“What moment?”
“The one where I get to kiss my woman goodbye, knowin’ I’ll come home to her. Say three words that have been trapped in me for decades. Just like to savor it sometimes. That feeling. The one that tells me that life may be ugly and hard and violent, but it’s worth it for the fucking beauty of moments like this.”
His stare was unyielding.
“I… we… you can’t say things like that to me, Luke,” I snapped. “Men don’t say that in real life.”
“Guess I’m dreamin’, then,” he said. He kissed me again, that time soft and tender. “Bye, babe,” he murmured against my mouth.
“Yeah,” I breathed.
I hadn’t gotten to watch the Golden Globes, as it turned out. But I did have dozens of texts from Lucy telling me who she thought wore it better.
I got a pang looking at my phone thinking about how oblivious she was, thinking of dresses and feuds when her sister was sleeping away a broken marriage, a broken heart, and a very bruised face.
The door opened before I could contemplate whether I was being a good friend to one person at the expense of another.
“Honey, you’re home,” I chirped.
He was on me in three large strides. Granted, the apartment wasn’t that big. Despite everything, I melted into his kiss.
It was far too short as he pulled back, face lazy and happy. That was until he zeroed in on my hand.
Brass knuckles were effective but they left marks. The force of my blow had broken the skin on a couple of fingers, and my hand was a light shade of purple in some places.
He snatched my hand. “What the fuck, Rosie? I thought you were staying home and watching the Golden Goes,” he clipped.
I tried to snatch my hand back. It didn’t work. “It’s the Golden Globes,” I corrected. “Everyone knows that. You’re just pretending you don’t know what it’s called to hide the fact that you secretly watch the reruns and—”
“Rosie,” he warned.
I fluttered my eyelids. “Would you believe me if I told you I tripped?”
His eyes narrowed. “Onto someone else’s face, yeah. Who the fuck have you been fighting with?”
“The mailman,” I lied. “He didn’t deliver my shoes, even though it was overnight shipping.”
“Rosie,” he repeated.
I huffed. “Guess you’re gonna find out anyway. Polly’s moved in.”
His eyes went hard. “What did the fucker do?” It wasn’t surprising that he knew immediately that it had to do with Craig. He was a good judge of character and very protective over Polly.
“You can’t tell anyone,” I said first.
“What?” he seethed.
“Polly doesn’t want people knowing about this.”
He stared at me. “Secrets don’t do well for people, babe. We know this.”
I stared back. “I agree. But her mistakes were her own to make. Just like ours were.”
He scowled at me in response, then gently kissed my hand.
“You’re hurt. That makes it my responsibility,” he murmured.
“I’m not hurt. Battle wounds don’t count,” I countered.
He eyed me. “You’ve got enough of those, Rosie.”
I eyed him back. “You can never have enough.”
He sighed and yanked me into his embrace, and I sank into it, letting the events of the day fully and completely wash over me now that I was safe.
We stayed like that for a long time. Though, forever wouldn’t have been long enough.
“He hit her,” Luke said when he pulled back, still keeping me in his arms.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “How did you know?”
His thumb brushed the edge of my eyelids. “I can see it in your eyes, babe.”
I sighed and pressed my head into his chest.
“You kill him?” Luke asked blandly, kissing my head.
“Polly wouldn’t let me,” I whined.
“You at least fuck him up?”
I nodded against his chest.
He stroked my head.
“We’ll get him,” he promised. “And we’ll take care of her.”
I pulled back. “I know,” I whispered. My hand went down to cup him over his jeans. He let out a harsh breath and his eyes went dark. “But first I need to take care of you. And it seems my hands are injured. Do you think my mouth will suffice?”
My fingers worked at his belt and he grew underneath the denim.
His hand went to my breast, tweaking my nipple. “Oh fuck yes it’ll suffice, babe,” he growled.
Two Weeks Later
“How do you feel after two weeks under quarantine?” I asked Polly, swinging my bags as we meandered down one of my favorite and mostly undiscovered vintage shopping spots in LA.
Polly smiled, pushing her heart-shaped shades to the top of her head. “Feels nice.” Her smile disappeared. “But weird. I think I hate him, maybe. But I still miss him. Am I pathetic?”
I squeezed her hand. “No, babe. You’re human. You’re kind and loving. You don’t let people go from your heart. That’s not pathetic.”
She squeezed back, pushing her shades back onto her face.
“So,” I said. “Heath’s back.” I was going for a casual input into the conversation.
She stopped walking, right in the middle of the street. Some guy on his phone almost collided with her, then muttered insults under his breath.
I flipped him the bird.
Polly didn’t notice him. “He is?” she whispered.
I nodded.
She swallowed visibly.
“Are you sure it’s not him you really miss?” I asked gently.
She tilted her chin up. “I’m not sure about anything anymore.”
I was about to make the most of that statement, to finally get the skinny on her and Heath, but someone decided to shoot at us before I could.
Assholes.
As soon as the blacked-out SUV with no plates screeched out from the corner, I was on guard. Then I saw the back window open and the glint of metal.
I dove on Polly a second before the shooting started.
I heard the first part of her strangled scream, the rest drowned out by the roar of at least one semiautomatic weapon.
It was a lull in the afternoon, which meant the street wasn’t busy, but the people who were around screamed and ran. I covered our heads, hoping people wouldn’t continue to be standing targets for much longer.
A sharp pain erupted in my shoulder, like a bee sting at first that grew more and more intense as the roar of bullets ground my teeth together.
And as quickly as it began, it was gone, the squeal of tires replacing the low boom of the gun. When it was apparent that the car was gone, people started crying, yelling, calling 911. I moved gingerly, aware of the fact that my arm was on fir
e, hot lava spilling from my blouse and down my arm.
My attention wasn’t on my own bodily injuries as I focused on Polly’s gray pallor and terrified eyes.
“Are you okay? Are you hit?” I asked quickly, running the one arm that was still working over her shaking body.
“No, no,” she whispered, and then her eyes widened. “You are, Rosie. You’re shot.”
I awkwardly stood up, dusting my skirt. “It’s a flesh wound,” I dismissed, then frowned at my sleeve. “I’m more worried about my blouse. This is vintage,” I moaned.
Polly stood in front of me, regarding me in horror. “You’re shot,” she repeated. “And you’re worried about your blouse?”
“Of course. The arm will be fine after a couple of stitches and hopefully some good drugs. Crepe silk, on the other hand?” I shook my head. “There’s no ambulance for that.”
She grinned weakly among the chaos around us. “You’re crazy.”
I grinned back. “The best people are.”
Getting shot was like heartbreak. You saw people experience it in the movies, and in my world, more often in real life.
You know it hurts. You see it.
But you don’t actually realize the fucking agony of it until it happens to you.
Heartbreak was obviously worse, because like for silk crepe shirts, there was no ambulance, no hospital for a break that incurable. Well, maybe there was, if you counted a fallen cop with great abs and an even better ass.
Who just happened to be storming through the ER, murder on his face and fear in his eyes.
I’d been rather blasé about the whole thing. It was a shoulder wound, for chrissake. I wasn’t about to faint or cry like the other nitwit who got a graze on her shin. A graze. It only just broke the skin, wouldn’t even need stitches. You would’ve thought it took the whole leg off.
No, I wasn’t one to make a spectacle over something as asinine as a bullet wound. Not until I saw Luke’s eyes. The utter terror in them. I guessed he’d gotten a frantic call from Polly, babbling about how I’d been shot. She’d been more upset than I had.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” she chanted at my bedside once they’d stitched me up.
I squeezed her hand. “Babe, I’m okay.” I frowned at her. “Don’t faint,” I commanded. Then I smiled. “They gave me morphine. This is aces.”