The Monster

by Shen, L. J.

  “Where have you been?” She changed the subject, refusing to be offended and or leave my fucking building.

  Now I did feel something.

  I felt ready to strangle her.

  “Allow me to answer you with your favorite goddamn expression: none of your business. How did you find my address? Do not say none of your business,” I warned.

  “Google.”

  “Don’t lie to me.” I turned to face her, curling my fingers over her delicate neck and giving it a soft squeeze just to scare her. Her throat bobbed with a swallow, but she didn’t back down.

  I misjudged her all those years and hated myself for judging a book by its cover. Inside that lacey and elegant spine teemed chaos.

  “Don’t ask tough questions,” she snapped back.

  “My address is untraceable.”

  “Well, Batman, I think both of us know that isn’t true.” She rolled her eyes. “Can you remove your fingers from my neck? I’d hate to traumatize you further with skin-to-skin contact.”

  Only a handful of people knew where I lived, and not even Cillian, Devon, or my soldiers were among them. I was a notoriously private person. Came with the territory of doing what I did for a living. The only people who had my address were Troy, Sparrow, and Sailor.

  Sailor.

  My traistor (traitor sister) must’ve talked to Sparrow after I left, put two and two together, and spontaneously decided to butt into my shit.

  My cat and mouse game with Aisling was starting to become a multiplayer game, spinning out of control, and it was time to put a stop to it once and for all.

  I could confront her about what I’d found out today, tell her I broke into the clinic, press for more answers, but it would be useless. She looked distraught, her onyx hair plastered to her temples, her eyes shiny with tears. She would only go on the defense, and I hated fucking liars. They reminded me of my biological mother.

  I removed my hand from her throat.

  “Look, can I come in?” She rubbed at the column of her neck, her posture slackening all of a sudden, like a deflated balloon. It dawned on me my not wanting to fuck Dani had nothing to do with her age or ability to bore me to the point of a clinical coma and everything to do with Nix.

  God-fucking-dammit.

  “No,” I said flatly.

  “I really need to talk to someone.”

  “I suggest you turn to a person who cares.”

  “You don’t care about me?” she asked, surprise and hurt marring her voice. Was she asleep the last fucking decade? Did I care about anyone, myself included? No. Troy, Sparrow, and bigmouthed Sailor were the exception. I supposed I could toss in Rooney and Xander now, too. Obviously, they had the advantage of not being able to talk fluently and therefore were in low danger of pissing me off.

  “Not even a little. Go away.”

  She licked her lips. “I need to vent. It’s about my parents. Everyone else has a horse in this race. My brothers, Mother, and Da … even my best friends are married to my siblings, so they can’t be clearheaded about it,” she explained.

  She had a point.

  Furthermore, if she had important information about Gerald, she could help me bring him to his knees and get a confession. So while it was true that I never, under any circumstances, brought a woman over to my apartment, it was time to make an exception. For her.

  For the first time since I moved in by myself at eighteen, I opened the door and let another person who wasn’t Sparrow or Troy into my domain. Even my cleaning lady only had the vaguest idea where I’d lived. She was driven back and forth from my place in tinted-windowed cars.

  “Fine. But I’m not gonna fuck you again,” I warned.

  I could always count on my pride to win over, and Aisling was a constant reminder of the fact the Fitzpatricks saw fit to do business with me but not allow me to date their daughter.

  “Well, that’s a relief.” She smiled politely, her chin barely quivering as she tried to contain her emotions. “And I promise not to try to seduce you again. Now, shall we?”

  Aisling took a seat on the plush black leather couch, spine erect, her hands demurely resting in her lap.

  “May I have some coffee?” she asked shakily.

  “Would you like a fucking full English breakfast along with it?” I cocked an eyebrow, still standing up. “No, you can’t have coffee.”

  “I think we both need a few moments to gather ourselves before this conversation.”

  “The only part of me in need of gathering is getting my cock into someone’s mouth, and since I don’t want you anywhere near it, I suggest you cut to the chase.”

  We held each other’s eyes for a few seconds. She didn’t waver.

  “You’re not going to talk until I get you a coffee, are you?” I suppressed a groan.

  She shook her head. “’Fraid not.”

  Reluctantly, I went into the kitchen to make it. It occurred to me midway the journey to the counter that:

  One, I didn’t know how to operate the coffee machine; I always grabbed Starbucks on my way out in the morning then spent the rest of the day loathing myself for consuming burnt coffee that tasted like an overflowing sewer water, and—

  Two, my house, my rules, my drink of choice.

  I grabbed a Macallan 18, poured two fingers into two tumblers, and made my way back to the living room.

  My apartment was neatly and minimally designed. Bare concrete walls, black leather everything, high barstools, and chrome appliances. Notably missing from my apartment were any paintings or pieces of unneeded furniture.

  Also currently missing from my apartment right now was Nix.

  I frowned at the coffee table, confused.

  I looked at the massive glass jar in the center of it.

  One of the bullets I kept inside was rolling on the floor. It bumped into one of the table’s legs.

  Shit.

  I dropped the whiskey, bolting out the door, catching Aisling punching the elevator’s button hysterically, her eyes wildly scanning her surroundings. Her cheeks were wet, and she was shaking all over. I grabbed her by the wrist and tugged her toward me.

  What the fuck happened? Why was she so scared?

  “Let me go!” she yelled, trying to shake me off. “Coming here was a huge mistake.”

  “Couldn’t agree with you more. Yet you’re here, so you’re sure as hell going to see this through. I know the Fitzpatrick clan is used to other people finishing shit for them, but this time you’ll have to pull through.” I hoisted her over my shoulder, stomping back into my apartment, my fingers digging into the back of her thighs with possessiveness that surprised and disgusted me.

  She is not yours to keep.

  She is the enemy’s spawn.

  She is the woman you are paid to never touch.

  And she is not worth the fucking headache.

  “Let me guess, there is a perfectly good explanation for the bullets, right?” She chuckled bitterly, and I was glad she at least didn’t do the whole let-me-down routine women were so fond of.

  “There is,” I clipped, “but you are not going to like it.”

  “I’m all ears,” she said.

  I slammed the door shut with my foot behind us, planting her back on the couch and squatting between her legs, snatching her gaze and hands.

  “You calm?”

  “Don’t treat me like a baby,” she snapped.

  “Don’t act like one,” I deadpanned.

  “Why do you have bullets in a jar? Dozens of them, no less.”

  “Why do you think I don’t want people to get into my apartment?” I answered her with a question, my newfound technique courtesy of Deidra or whoever the fuck I almost had sex with at Badlands tonight.

  “Evidence.” Her teeth chattered, and she hugged herself.

  “I take the bullets out of the people I kill and keep them.”

  Sam, you fucking idiot. An admission to the woman whose father you are about to slaughter like a sacrificial lamb.


  She stared at me in terror mixed with … fascination? Of course. I kept forgetting that she, too, was a monster. I picked up the bullet she dropped on the floor, ignoring the scent of the whiskey as it soaked its way through the carpet.

  I flipped the bullet, tapping it with my finger.

  “See this? M.V.? Mervin Vitelli. I engrave their initials, so I don’t forget.”

  “Why don’t you want to forget?” She frowned.

  Because if I start forgetting all the people I kill, nothing will separate me from an animal, and I will become a real monster.

  Soon enough there would be a bullet with G.F. engraved on it, a fact that reminded me I should put some distance between Aisling and me. I stood up and walked back to the kitchen, returning with the Macallan bottle—sans tumblers this time. I took a swig straight from the bottle, passing it to Aisling. I lowered myself into a recliner opposite her, the coffee table serving as a barrier between us.

  She took a small sip and winced, handing it back to me.

  “I knew you killed people, but it’s very different to actually see proof of how many lives you’ve taken.”

  “The first one is the most meaningful one. After that, taking lives feels the same. Like a second or third bite of an ice cream cone. Of course, it doesn’t hurt to know the people I kill are pieces of shit,” I replied.

  “I’m not so sure,” she said, and by the way her forehead creased, I could swear she was talking from experience.

  “You came here to talk. Talk,” I ordered, knocking the side of her sensible boot with my loafer.

  She blinked as she took in the apartment, its bare walls and cold nothingness I surrounded myself with. I liked it that way. The less I had, the less I became attached to things. It was an expensive brownstone, at three million dollars, but different from Avebury Court Manor, which was laden with paintings, statues, and other luxurious symbols of wealth.

  There was nowhere to hide here. It was just us and the walls and the unspoken truth sitting between us like a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode.

  “My mother wants to file for divorce.” Her voice cracked. She looked downward, her neck like a broken flower stem.

  “I know it sounds ridiculous to you,” she rushed to add. “After all, it’s a well-known fact my parents have never been faithful to one another. Their marriage is considered a sham in most social circles of New England. But for me, it means something. It means a lot, actually. Growing up, I knew I had the stability of Avebury Court Manor. Even though Mother and Da weren’t a functional couple, they were still a couple in their own strange way. Believe it or not, Sam, they worked. I know I’m not an impressionable teenager anymore and worse things happen to twenty-seven-year-olds. Some people lose their parents, their partners, even their children, but I just don’t understand…” she shook her head, tears hanging on her lower lashes for dear life, refusing to fall “…how everything escalated so quickly. One moment we were leading a normal life—as normal as life could be for us—and the next everything exploded. The provocative pictures of Da and that … that woman materializing out of nowhere, the poisoning. Someone is trying to ruin my father, and Athair thinks it’s my mother.”

  I stared at her, offering no words of explanation or encouragement. What could I say?

  Actually, now that you mention it, I’m behind the operation. Jane is merely collateral damage. Be thankful it’s not you I’m throwing under the bus. And by the way, this isn’t even the tip of the iceberg, so buckle up, sweetheart, because I’m about to make him remortgage your childhood house and bleed him dry of his billions.

  “Do you really have no lead?” she asked, signaling me with her hand to pass the bottle.

  I did, shaking my head.

  She sipped the brown liquid like it was tea, returning the bottle to me. “That’s weird. You are usually so resourceful. I can’t recall the last time you couldn’t help my family when we got ourselves into trouble.”

  I was marginally amused by her attempt to trick me into working harder on the case. A case that I’d created all by myself.

  “Patience, Nix.”

  “Are you a patient man?”

  “I don’t hold myself to the same standards I hold you to.”

  “That’s convenient.”

  “I lead a convenient life.” I saluted her with the bottle, taking a sip. “Anyway, look at the bright side. Two houses. Two parents. Two Christmas trees. Two sets of presents and so fucking forth.”

  “I’m not a kid.” Her eyes flared with rage.

  I elevated a brow. “You sure act like one where your parents are involved.”

  “What would you do if you were in my position?” Her eyes zeroed in on mine, sharp all of a sudden.

  Lower myself to my knees and have you take my balls in your mouth again.

  “Let them sort this shit out by themselves. They are grown-ups, and you are not the parent. You’re the kid.”

  Perhaps because I was more focused on Aisling recently, especially during Thanksgiving dinner, I couldn’t help but notice how her mother had asked Aisling to pour her drinks for her and join her in the bathroom to help her with her zipper. Jane didn’t treat Aisling much better than a maid. I couldn’t remember when that dynamic had started, and now I wondered whether I chose to turn a blind eye to it all along or I didn’t want the facts to get in my way of seeing Aisling as a spoiled brat.

  “I am sort of my mother’s parent,” she admitted. “She relies on me … mentally.”

  “That, to use the technical term, is fucked-up.”

  “Maybe, but it’s the truth. My life is … not as pretty as it seems from the outside.” She scrunched her nose, reaching to pluck one of the bullets from the jar and rolled it between her fingers, examining its initials. She put it back. Took out another one. I resisted the urge to lash out at her, tell her I was now going to have to wipe her fingerprints from each of them individually, in case someone ever found them. I could tell she was close to tears and wanted to avoid becoming a wailing woman at all costs.

  I grew up with Sparrow and Sailor, two women who weren’t prone to dramatics. In fact, I could not recall them crying at all. I was sure a tear or two was shed at family funerals and such, but they had always carried themselves with the quiet strength of women who knew the underworld inside and out and ruled it as their unchallenged goddesses.

  Usually when I heard women cry, it was in bed and for all the right reasons.

  “Boo-fucking-hoo, sweetheart. You’re young, beautiful, and rich enough to buy happiness. So your parents are about to get a divorce and hate each other’s guts. Welcome to the twenty-first century. You are officially joining fifty percent of people in the U.S.”

  I really was a bottomless source of fucking sunshine, wasn’t I? But there was nothing I could do to help her. I wasn’t going to change my plans to spare her feelings.

  Nix’s eyes narrowed at me, but surprisingly, she didn’t look like she was about to bawl.

  “My life is not as charmed as you think,” she insisted, whispering hotly. “For one thing, growing up I never saw real love. A healthy relationship between a man and a woman. At least you had Sparrow and Troy. My childhood was an endless stream of arguments, object tossing, and my parents disappearing to Europe for months at a time, together or alone, leaving me with the nannies.”

  I stared at her blankly, showing her she hardly mustered enough pity in me to inspire me to get up and grab her a Kleenex.

  “Then I lost someone I really cared about when I was seventeen, in a pretty … brutal way.” Her throat bobbed with a swallow, and she looked around, uncomfortable all of a sudden. I didn’t ask whom it was.

  Rule number one was to not get attached. It clouded your judgment.

  “What else have you got for me?” I yawned, leaning back, making a show of checking the time on my phone.

  “My first time …” She hesitated, biting down on her lower lip. My interest piqued, and I found myself sitting upright. �
��I lost my virginity to my professor.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Forty-one.”

  “And you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “That’s—”

  “Disgusting?” She smiled sadly, her eyes shimmering with tears again. I was going to say hot as fuck, but of course that was out the window now. “Yeah, I know. Wanna know the disgusting part?”

  “I thought I already knew. He was forty-one.”

  She shot me a tired smile.

  “I found out three weeks after we started sleeping together that he was married with a kid. See, he didn’t wear a wedding band and lived in an apartment complex on campus, alone. He looked young and stylish and hung out with the students so often…” she picked a cuticle around her fingernail, tugging on it nervously “…I wanted to lose my virginity to someone with experience, and I knew he had it. We continued seeing each other after we had sex. Until one day he just disappeared into thin air. Stopped answering my calls. Just got up and left. He didn’t even complete the academic year. I needed some sort of closure, so I found him. And, well, I found out why he left. Because of me. Because his wife, who taught at another university two states away, had found out and dragged him back home by the ear. When I found his new address, I made the mistake of driving down there and knocking on his door.”

  Bad call. But I had plenty of life experience, and Aisling lived in a protective bubble. Of course she wanted answers, closure, and all the other mumbo jumbo you read about.

  “She opened the door and threw the phone he’d used to call me. She started screaming at me in front of the entire neighborhood, calling me a whore, a homewrecker, a spoiled bitch. She said my mother is a slut, that everyone in America knows one of us doesn’t belong to Fitzpatrick, then promised she would let all the hospitals in Boston know what I did. It was humiliating. Especially since I never knew this man was married.”

  “Is that why you never tried for a hospital here?” I asked.

  She bit down on her lower lip, pulling more and more dead skin from the side of her fingernail. “Partly. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s not the entire reason, anyway. Since then, I limited my interaction with men even more.”