Kiss Me, I'm Undead

by Tasha L Driver

  ...I'll Fix This.

  I ran right past a very confused Jillesa and got as far as the parking lot before I stopped, mentally berating myself. What would running fix? I’d been doing it since I was sixteen and was no safer and no better a person than I was then.

  My flight from an abusive family led me into the arms of a future cartel boss. It took so long to finally run from him. Six goddamn years. And, when I did, it was into the so-called protection of the DEA and U.S. Marshal Service. What good did that do? They placed me in Phoenix, and he found me in two months. A tip-off by an informant there had them moving me on the fly to Nashville. I was ruled by a constant state of paranoia. I took self-defense classes and started carrying around pepper spray and other weapons. But I never felt safe. When my handler was killed in a hit-and-run, I truly believed it was no accident. I begged to be moved even though there was no evidence that the accident had anything to do with Jorge.

  I’d gained a rep as a troublesome assignment, and the only marshal who’d take me on was out of the Chicago office. Peter Whitehead met me when I got off the plane and took me to my apartment. My monthly allowance had run out, so he found the only apartment I’d be able to afford on the paycheck of a girl who’d dropped out of high school—fast food or waitressing were my only choices. I’d run myself straight...nowhere. Except...I had friends here.

  Gina and Jill cared about me. Frank was upset, but even he seemed concerned when Gina talked about Gray Eyes. Even Miguel had, for no real reason, been sweeter to me than anyone I’d met in my life. I’d count Freddie in that list, but I still had a feeling something was up with him. Plus, he’d be going back to Germany when his grandfather was better. Or, well, died. Freddie never did say what was exactly wrong with him.

  So, what is there to do now? Peter would surely hear about the shooting. I could tell the truth and end up someplace worse with not even the friends I’ve made to make it all better.

  Stepping off the sidewalk and into the hospital parking lot, I kicked the concrete base of a disabled parking space and immediately regretted it. Dumb ass. Now your toe will swell, and none of your peep toe heels will fit. Although, the faded and scuffed yellow paint told me that the thing had already taken plenty of abuse long before I showed up. Maybe it was the everything-I-do-is-wrong base.

  But what if there was a chance that I didn’t do everything wrong? There was no indication that the other two victims had anything to do with me. Maybe Gina was mistaken. She was on what I assumed was a morphine pump, after all. Not having tried any myself, I could only guess that the stuff could mess up your thinking pretty bad. It’s possible that Gray Eyes was just checking me out. Even if she said he was watching me for a long time. He did have a sort of stalker vibe. Or he could have been after Freddie. Who knew what kind of trouble that dude got into when he ran at night? It’s possible that Gray Eyes had it out for him, saw us talking, and was scoping me out to see if I could be used as leverage.

  I smacked my forehead and laughed. If anyone had been watching my internal debate for the last fifteen minutes, they’d say I looked like I belonged on a nineties’ sitcom. The kind with the laugh tracks. Of course, he was after Freddie! And since Freddie clearly slipped past him when he left early that night, he focused his attention on the only person the douchebag had talked to: me. I don’t know what Gina said when she approached him, but, knowing her, it was a threat. That’s why he went for his gun.

  But...could Freddie really have done what was done to Gray Eyes in the alley?

  I didn’t even want to think about that part. All I knew was that there was a single plausible theory that didn’t involve Jorge. I needed to wait until I knew for sure that he hadn’t found me. If there was even a chance I didn’t have to tell Peter, I wouldn’t have to be moved again. I just needed to pull up my big-girl panties and play detective to get to the bottom of things. I could do that. I’d read a few mysteries featuring amateur sleuths. All they did was go from place to place asking questions and checking out leads. It should all work the same. Right?

  Hell. If I was going to investigate something anyway, I might as well go totally gung-ho and figure out how to fix everything. If Jorge is behind the shooting and the murders, I’d gather enough evidence for the feds to stop dilly-dallying about “circumstantial blah-blah-blah” and put his murderous ass behind bars for good. And if none of this had to do with him, which is a possibility anyway because even he wouldn’t have so many of his own Xolotl Cartel killed, I’d just have to figure out who else could be killing people around here.

  My friends wouldn’t be in danger, I wouldn’t have to leave, and maybe Karma would decide that my good deed made up for an innocent person dying because of that single selfish action eleven months, four days, two hours, and thirty-three minutes ago.

  I could do this. Yeah...

  People Think They Know You, But They Don't.

  After a few more minutes of over-thinking and kicking the concrete base—much more softly than that first time—Jill came out of the main entrance doors to find me. “So, uh, good times in there, huh?” She smiled, but her heart wasn’t in it.

  “Not really.” There was no point in lying. “Did you talk to her?”

  Jill gave a half-shrug with one shoulder. “She was pretty much out of it when I got in the room. She opened her eyes and said hi. That’s about it.” She looked down and joined me in kicking the concrete. “I don’t think I could have handled much of seeing her like that anyway. I only stayed in there a couple of minutes, then I went into the hall to talk to Frank.”

  “Oh yeah?” My voice cracked. I know she heard it. “So...what’d he say?”

  “That I’d missed all the drama.” She glanced at me with an indecipherable side-eye and didn’t say anything else. I was dying to know how much he’d told her, but afraid to divulge too much information with my interest. What if I lost everyone and all my plans meant nothing?

  Minutes, or maybe only seconds, ticked by. She graciously broke the silence. “He’s not mad at you, you know. Neither is Gina. They’re more worried than anything.”

  “What about you?”

  “What would I be mad about?”

  “Depends on how much Frank told you.”

  Without warning, Jill grabbed my shoulders and yanked me to face her, then adopted her no-bullshit pose with her fists on her hips and one foot jutted out to the side. “Look. How much he told me, which was just about everything anyway, doesn’t even matter anymore. The problem isn’t that someone tried to shoot you, it’s that you never told anyone you were in trouble. My brother’s a cop. Did you know that?” Actually, I didn’t. “If you’d have told me or anyone else that you got beat up that night instead of that battered-woman’s excuse of falling—”

  “I really did fall.”

  “—then we would have protected you. All you had to do was give me the bastard’s name, and I’d have had Jaqueel lock his ass up.”

  “I don’t know his name. I’ve just been calling him Gray Eyes.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “How long has this guy been stalking you, and you don’t know his name?”

  I threw up my hands in exasperation. “Jill! This is what I’m trying to tell you. No one beat me up that night. I don’t have a stalker. Last night was the first time I’d ever seen Gray Eyes. And he’s not who’s been trying to kill me for the past year!”

  Jill blinked several times before her eyebrows began an ascent toward her hairline. Her head, ever so slowly, tilted to the side. “Bitch. Did you just say someone’s been after you for a year?”

  “Goddammit.” I plopped my butt down on the curb with my head in my hands. Stupid, Kiera. Real stupid.

  “Explain.” That one sternly spoken word had me wanting to spill my guts. But...

  “I can’t.”

  “I said explain, Kayla. You cannot keep this from me. Not after what just happened to Gina.”

  That did it. I’d placed enough blame on my shoulders. I didn’t need anyone else
’s. “I said, ‘I can’t,’ not I won’t. Those things may sound the same to you but they are not. Not even close. I. Can. Not. Tell. You,” I said again, punctuating each word with sharp claps from my hands. “Not my rules, they’re someone else’s. And if I break those rules, there are consequences. Okay?”

  “What the fuck?” she cursed as she shook her head. “Do I even know you?”

  That was it. That was the question that hit the nerve that’d been broken for so long. The one that led to the part of my brain that told my eyes to shed tears. They came like a tidal wave I was powerless to stop, and that wave carried in it emotions I tried so hard not to let emerge to the point of being visible to others. Pain. Loss. Guilt. Shame.

  I regretted not going full-on Rockabilly when I got ready this morning. The clothes, hair, and make up shielded my inner turmoil from notice. People always thought I followed the lifestyle. Sure, I loved the music in all its forms. I had since before my dad died, when he’d play me his favorite songs and swing me around our basement rec room. But the look came after Jorge. It was both a disguise and my armor. I belatedly realized that I hadn’t even been able to muster any sassy comebacks since the shooting. The humor kept me from dealing with my own brain. “Kayla Smith” was missing and plain old Kiera O’Reilly was sitting metaphorically naked on the curb outside of the hospital. There was only one answer to her question. “No, Jill. You don’t.”

  Hey, These Babies Are Real!

  My ride home with Jillesa featured the uncomfortable silence you’d expect. To her credit, she never asked for anymore explanations and she didn’t pressure me to elaborate on what I meant when I admitted she didn’t know who I was. She simply dropped her stance and handed me a travel pack of tissues from her purse. I pulled myself together as quickly as I could. When she’d decided I was done blubbering, she walked across the lot to her car, yelling back at me, “You coming?”

  As we pulled up to my apartment building, I readied myself for something more. It never came. Not even after she put the car in park and sat there with her hands on the wheel, staring out the windshield. I knew she expected something from me, but I couldn’t give her what she wanted. That had already been established. I wanted to give her something. An apology? A promise? I didn’t have a clue where to start.

  I settled on simply, “Goodbye,” as lame as that was. My torso was halfway out of the car when I heard her stable, calm statement, “I meant every word I said,” and I sat back in the passenger seat. “I don’t know who you are, Kayla, but you’re not nobody. You matter. Say the word. I have your back. I will force my brother to help you, even if it goes against his duties as a cop. The Madera’s have resources and connections you could never imagine. You’re not alone.”

  What does a person say to that declaration? The weight of it was just as heavy as the pressure that had been sitting on my shoulders for so long. All I could do was nod and give her a half-assed wave in return. She didn’t say anything else.

  I walked the pathway to my two-flat, climbed the few steps, and opened the front door that led to the small vestibule just inside the building. Inside, I grabbed the mail out of my box and unlocked the second, heavier security door that led into the hallway. I turned to wave at Jill again. She could see I was safe inside, and she pulled off. I’d never thought about it before, but she always did that when she dropped me off. Was it a Chicago thing? A Midwesterner thing? Or just a natural habit of any person who gives a fuck about your well-being?

  Shuffling through what was mostly junk mail—ads for cable bundles, cigarette coupons (I didn’t even smoke), and coupons for a bed and bath store that did not exist anywhere near this neighborhood—I didn’t pay attention to anything that could have been in the way of the always-clear path to my apartment door until I felt my foot hit something solid, but not heavy. I looked down at a package placed right in front of Unit A, so there was no mistaking that it was meant for me. It was wrapped in paper, but lacked a shipping label. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck no! Everything that had been happening pointed to this package containing any number of worst-case scenarios. All of them began with the fact that the package should not have made it past the vestibule without a key to the security door.

  My heart hammered against my rib cage. Bomb. It looks like a bomb! Should I be hearing ticking?

  I couldn’t breathe in anything more that the shallowest of breaths. Or worse, a head! No, it’s not big enough to be a head. And how in the hell is a head worse than a bomb?

  My vision swirled and spun. I dropped my shitty junk mail. I could barely even hold myself up. Smaller than a head...A hand? Or a foot? Yes, definitely one of the extremities.

  It’s not a normal thing for a woman to automatically assume that a body part was wrapped and sitting neatly at her doorway, but most women didn’t know Jorge Vargas. Or any thug from any cartel in Latin America, for that matter. The Xolotl may still be considered an up-and-coming cartel, but Jorge had been in that life since he was ten. Jorge’s old capo was assassinated before I’d even started growing breasts and, rather than stay in Acapulco, Mexico and get killed or absorbed into one of the other dozen or so cartels battling it out there, he decided to head to the border town Mexicali at seventeen. By nineteen, he’d legally became a resident of California. By twenty, he was importing cocaine through Calexico, California. And by twenty-four, when I met him, he was capo of his own cartel, not as organized as the Sinaloa, but just as lethal.

  I’d listened to him excitedly tell stories of growing up in Acapulco. No longer a vacation destination, but a war zone. All the different cartels had a specific way of sending messages to their rivals. They’d capture someone, the higher ranking the better, and cut off the arms and legs while the victim was still alive. Then the head. Lastly, they’d cut off the penis and stick it in the man’s mouth before wrapping each body part individually in plastic. Every part would then be transported and dropped in the middle of a busy fucking intersection in broad daylight for the whole barrio to see. He’d said it was such a regular occurrence that the people would maneuver around the body parts until police arrived and cordoned off the area. After the victim was taken away, everyone went about their business of the day. Just like that.

  So, yeah. As panicked as I was, my mind went immediately to Jorge’s stories and knew the box contained something that used to be attached to a human being. A bomb was not even close to vicious enough for him.

  I grabbed my phone out of my pocket and blinked rapidly in an attempt to see the numbers nine, one, and one. No, I can’t call local police, how would I explain this? Peter was a better choice, except my hands shook too bad to hold onto the phone. It dropped toward the ground, and I barely registered the blurry hand that appeared within my view to catch it before it hit the ugly brown carpeting. Strong arms, warmth, and a soothing accent enveloped me.

  “Relax, darling.” Freddie. He pulled me into his chest, and I deeply inhaled the clean scent that reminded me I was his.

  He whispered lilting phrases in his native tongue that I couldn’t even begin to understand, but every syllable lulled me back into a state of calm. The package was, however, not forgotten. I snapped my eyes open—When had I closed them?—and, happy my vision was clear again, looked at the floor in front of my door. Naturally, the box was still there, and I pushed away from Freddie to get as far from it as possible. He turned and bent to pick it up with a chuckle.

  “Don’t touch that,” I screamed.

  “Are we afraid of boxes now?” He faced me again, holding it as if it was just a normal package.

  “It’s evidence!”

  “Of...?” The smirk on his face was annoying.

  I didn’t even know how to begin to address what I thought was in there, but I wasn’t going to let him make fun of me. “Look, Hammerdick—”

  “It’s Schwinghammer,” he corrected through gritted teeth.

  “—let me say this in words you can comprehend. See box. Box by door. Not outside. Boxes go outside. Who put box her
e? Someone baaaaad.”

  If looks could curse a person out, he’d just called me a cunt. “You mean like me?”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m the very baaaaad man that put the scary box by your door.”

  “Why? What’s in the box?”

  “It’s—How the hell should I know, Kayla?” He’d never actually yelled before. It was almost scarier than whatever might have been in that box. “It was in the vestibule when I got home from the hospital, and I brought it to your door. To be nice.”

  “It’s not labeled how did you know it was for me and not you?”

  “I don’t know anyone here except for you.”

  “Why didn’t you assume it was for your grandfather?”

  His grimace suggested he was teeming with anger. Or it could have been the way he ground out the words, “Perhaps it was the pretty pink paper it was wrapped in.”

  I looked down at it again. It was quite possible that in my haste to picture body parts inside the box, I neglected to note the color of the paper wrapped around the box. Now, that didn’t mean that Jorge hadn’t sent body parts. It just meant he would have taken the time to put them in attractive packaging. Or...I’m just paranoid.

  “So, who put it out there then?”

  “Someone masochistic enough to admire you,” he grumbled with a roll of his eyes and shoved the box into my hands. He headed to the stairs.

  “Um...Freddie?”

  “What?” I was glad he hadn’t turned back toward me because the growl in his voice alone was enough to send shivers down my spine.

  “My phone,” I squeaked.

  He still had my knife too, but I wasn’t going to push much further. He held out the phone without turning around, and I swiped it from his fingers before he returned to his apartment, taking the stairs two at a time and slamming his door behind him.

  Shoving my phone back in my pocket and grabbing the mail from where it had fallen on the floor, I juggled the box while unlocking my door. At that point, I was more curious than afraid. As unlikely as it was, a present from a secret admirer was a much better option than a body part from my ex. I thought of Miguel—because my stomach chose that moment to remind me that I hadn’t eaten since the day before—and then I wondered who on earth might have liked me enough to give me a gift.