We step into the sandwich shop and the bell sounds on the glass door, announcing our arrival. The scattered customers all stop mid-bite and turn their attention to us. The examination is brief and they all turn back around to continue on with their eating.
I approach the counter and wait for the woman to greet me. “What can I grab for ya, hon?”
“Small roast beef with everything on it and a water.” I reach my hand into my front pocket to pull out my card, but Tango reaches his hand out in front of me with his card. Dad has been good at depositing money into my account since I can’t exactly settle down and do something normal, like find a job. I suppose it’s his attempt at repentance for making me suffer alone. Maybe he thinks it makes me look at him as less of an asshole for the life he’s given our family. I can’t be bought, though. “I can pay for my own food,” I grumble in Tango’s direction.
“Daddy’s orders, princess.” He hands the woman the card and says, “Add a large pastrami with cheese and sauerkraut. Oh, and a large soda.”
She takes the card from his hand as her eyes linger on his face. Her puffy cheeks turn a rosy red and the lines around her lips tighten while she fights the urge to smile at the Incredible Hulk.
“Small roast beef with the works, large pastrami with cheese and sauerkraut, with a watta and soda,” she yells into the kitchen with a thick Boston accent. It makes me want to laugh, but I realize that wouldn’t go over well in a crowded shop full of other Bostonians. “You two aren’t from around hea, are ya?”
“California,” I say.
“Missouri,” he says.
So, he won’t give me any answers, but a lady at the sandwich shop asks him something and he answers right away. He’s definitely being an ass to me.
She turns around, pulls the two plates off the counter, and hands them to my boyfriend-looking bodyguard. I snag my plate from his hand and drop down into the nearest seat. He slides in across from me, and his knees knock into mine under the table. He doesn’t apologize or excuse himself. He just smiles and laughs softly—it weakens me a bit. But then my mouth takes over with its automatic reaction.
“Excuse you?” I snap.
“I didn’t do anything?” he retorts, completely unaffected by my attitude.
“You just knocked your legs into my knees.”
“It wasn’t an accident. Why would I say sorry?” he laughs. “You should really calm that temper of yours.”
“And you should learn some manners,” I respond.
I knock my knees back into his and momentarily have the desire to keep them there, not minding the warm feeling it causes in my belly. But instead, I slide out of the booth. I carry my plate over to the counter and plop down on a stool. “You can watch me from over there, I’m sure.” I might be laying it on too thick, but I don’t know how else to lay it on. “Excuse me,” I say to one of the waitresses behind the counter. “May I have a knife to cut my sandwich, please?”
“Of course,” the waitress responds as she places it down beside my plate.
I place my elbow down on the bar and rest my head in my hand. Some days, I wish Dad would disappear and leave me with a life of my own, rather than in the coattails of this fucking career he chose for himself. I didn’t choose this shit. No one ever asked me if I wanted to be followed around my entire life. Dad was the cause of Krissy’s death, and he’s out there carrying on with what he does best. Well, now it’s only me. My life will always be under some kind of microscope because of him. But Tango, he’s pretty much the fucking icing on top. To send me an amazingly hot man to ogle, only to be informed that he’s my new babysitter, is pretty screwed up. It’s like Dad wants me to be miserable.
Tango doesn’t take a hint. He sits on the stool beside me and twists the chair so his knees are only an inch from my right thigh. His proximity is making me uncomfortable, but not in the worst way. Then again, yes, it is the worst way. He’s making me uncomfortable. People aren’t allowed to have that affect on me. “Look, maybe we aren’t getting off to a great start,” he says, shoving a fry into his mouth. “I’m doing my job. We both know that. But people still make friends at work. You know?” He sounds serious, which makes me realize he has no idea how unlikely a friendship would be with me.
I tip my water bottle into my mouth and take a long swig, looking into his eyes, trying to read him. I pull the bottle from my lips, making a slight popping sound, and look back at my plate of food. “Why do you want to be my friend, Tango?” I ask in all seriousness.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he shoves another fistful of fries into his mouth and chews for a minute before responding. He clutches his hand around his napkin and looks at me. I turn to look at him, waiting for his answer, and watch as his dimples deepen a touch. “Because I think you’re a pretty cool chick.”
His words force warmth to spread through my cheeks and everything inside of me wants to say something nice in return, but that would be going against everything I think I should be doing—keeping him at arms length. “You might not think that if you really knew me.” And the heat is gone. I have to keep reminding myself that a friendship is impossible with him. The words Mom burned into my head constantly replay whenever I even think of befriending someone new.
She would place her hand on my cheek, look me in the eyes, and say: know everyone . . . trust no one. I promised not to forget those words. It was the last thing she said to me.
CHAPTER SIX
TANGO
THIS GIRL IS seriously in pain. I’ve seen pain. I’ve seen a mind destruct. My mind has had its moment too, but this girl has lost everything without ever having a say or a choice in the matter. I know she’s snarky for a reason, but it’s her way of remaining strong. And I admire that. Every second I spend with her, I understand her a little more. I understand her more than she realizes. She’s so wrapped up with feeling alone in this world she likely hasn’t considered the possibility that there are other people living with similar feelings, even if the situations are different.
She doesn’t trust me, and I can’t blame her. I can see the struggle in her eyes to even accept me as an acquaintance. And again, I can’t blame her.
CALI
He’s pretending to act occupied as I pick up my prescription for Vicodin, which I appreciate. I’ve been taking painkillers for a year, and the scar is only half of the reason. The other half is emotional pain. I’ve been pacing the aisle for twenty minutes as they verify my information and transfer my prescription from California. I’m sure he knows the list of meds I’m on, and I’m sure it will give him a good inside track as to how fucked up I am.
I lean over the counter to see if they’re any closer, but I don’t see anyone at all. I push back off the counter and walk down one of the nearby aisles, searching for painkillers and sleep stuff.
“You in pain?” Tango asks, turning the corner from another aisle.
“Always.” I mean that in so many different ways.
“Do you have an injury?”
Here we go. First step to friendship is admitting weaknesses about yourself. “Yes.” That was easier than I thought.
“Hmm. That wasn’t in your record.”
I twist my head toward him and stare him down until he looks back at me. My teeth grind against each other until my gums hurt. “What else have you read about me?”
“Your birthday is August 2nd, which makes you a Leo—the ferocious lion of zodiacs,” he snorts. “Big surprise there.” He pulls a box of pain relievers down from the shelf and examines the back as if he’s never seen them before. “I know you’ve been through hell.” He places the box back on the shelf and picks up another one. “I know that you want a friend, but you’re scared of having one. I know you’re in physical and mental pain. But it’s not because I read it in your file, I know because it’s written all over your face, and it’s tattooed on your collarbone.” He tugs on my sleeve, and I consider not pulling away, but the look in his eyes makes me feel something and it’s not somet
hing I should be feeling. I jerk my hand away from him as if it were an uncontrolled reflex.
“I was shot in the shoulder. They couldn’t extract the bullet because it’s too close to an artery.” I squeeze a box of painkillers tightly within my grip and graze him as I walk back to the pharmacy counter.
He rushes to my side. “Who was supposed to be with you when that happened? Is that what this is all about? Someone let you down?”
I clap my hand over the bell to grab a pharmacist’s attention quicker. “Excuse me?” I shout into the back room.
“We’ll be with you shortly, hon,” one of the pharmacists replies from behind the wall I can’t see around.
“Tell me, Carolina.” He pulls on my arm again, and I don’t pull away this time. I look up into his eyes and I swear I see what compassion is supposed to look like.
“Yeah. The last guy didn’t exactly do his job. Let’s just say, I don’t trust anyone—I can’t trust anyone, for a reason.” My words cause a jitter within his eyes—a look as if he’s trying to understand.
He nods his head as if he does understand. “Sorry to hear that,” he says simply. Sorry is as much compassion as I pull out of these bodyguards. It’s why I don’t typically talk about myself. Why bother? They don’t really care. With the exception of maybe one or two, most of the previous bodyguards usually remained quiet, like a soldier on guard. I didn’t speak to them, and they didn’t speak to me. It was manageable. But Tango is slowly pulling me into his web, and I don’t know if this web is already a tangled mess or a beautiful dew droplet covered mesh of security.
“Tate?” My name is called from behind the pharmacy counter. “ID, please.” I hand the gum snapping, pharmacy assistant my ID. She studies it for a second and looks back up at me. Then back at my ID. “New tattoo?”
“No, it’s not. Is my prescription ready?” She looks at me and tilts her head to the side as if I said something to offend her. She extends her arm out and hands me the bag.
I turn around to leave and I hear the girl mutter, “Have fun snorting that.”
I pull in a deep breath of air through my lungs until I feel the skin stretching over my chest. “Excuse me?” I turn around to face her. Anger is bubbling through me and I’m not sure if I’ll be able to suppress it. I’m good at going from zero to one hundred when it comes to seeing red.
Her lips pucker and she shrugs her shoulders. “I call it as I see it.” She crosses her arms over her chest and straightens her neck, trying to front some kind of confidence after she broke pharmaceutical conduct, I’m sure.
“It is incredibly rude to make assumptions like that.” I understand I look damaged, and these comments seem to be finding me more often than not lately, but I need to gain some solid ground again. I’m losing myself in this chase I’ve devoted my every waking moment to.
I feel Tango’s arm sweep against mine as he places his hand down on the counter next to me. “Is there a problem with your prescription?” he half asks me, half asks the pharmacy assistant.
I stare at her for a moment longer, waiting for an apology maybe. I don’t see one coming, however. “I’m entitled to my opinions,” she sneers.
“You’re entitled to act as a professional, not an antagonist. Say what you want to me, I don’t care. However, for everyone else’s sake, your supposed future profession will take you further if you learn to keep your misconceptions of others to yourself.”
Another employee must have heard the confrontation, because I see a large burly man with ashen hair and a matching thick beard turn the corner, walking toward me slowly with a slight limp. He places his hands down on the counter and breathes heavily, trying to catch his breath from his twenty-foot walk. “I’m the manager, is there a problem here?”
“No, but thank you for asking.” He studies me for a moment. And I’m starting to gather who might be responsible for creating the open hostility around this place. It’s evident that a nose piercing and a couple visible tattoos warrant a drug addict label.
“Could I see your prescription for a moment?” No one looked at me this way in California. People had tattoos on their faces there and piercings in unpredictable places. No one gave them a second look. But here in this sheltered suburb of Massachusetts, I’ve been given twenty once-overs since I arrived six hours ago.
I hand him my bag and focus my eyes on his nametag. “Davis? Is that your name?” I ask.
He nods his head with confirmation as he turns the bag over to see what prescription I had filled.
“Do you trust your employees?” I ask.
He doesn’t blink before answering, “Of course I do.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I retort quickly. His eyes twitch and he looks from side to side at the idiot girl who was helping me and the other college student filling the drug containers.
“Excuse me?” he says with a slight crackle in his voice. A slight sheen of sweat glows over his forehead, and I can sense a growing discomfort within him.
“This one over here,” I point to the girl, “she was pocketing pills before I approached the counter. She also told me that you let her take whatever she wants.” It’s not really true, but it’s what she deserves. His eyes dart over to her. Her cheeks redden as she shakes her head back and forth, disagreeing with my accusations.
He hands my prescription back to me. “Thank you. Have a nice day.” He’s definitely trying to shut me up. Other customers are now standing behind me, looking over my shoulder trying to catch a better view of what’s going on.
“That one over there,” I point to the guy filling the pill bottles. “I bet you the quantity in this bottle doesn’t match what the prescription calls for.” I know this is a risky assumption, but if they want to judge me by my looks, I’m going to do the same back to them. Neither of them look like they should be behind a pharmacy counter. He takes the bag back from my hands, rips it open, and retrieves the bottle. The pills ping one by one on to the metal pill counter. The number appears in red digits, displaying: 35. “My prescription called for forty-five pills. Right?” I’m silently cheering myself on for winning this one. Karma. Definitely karma at its finest.
He recounts my pills and pours them into the container. “I apologize on behalf of my staff.”
Tango’s fingers press into my arm as he pulls me to face him. “Let’s go.”
***
I close the door of my bedroom and fall into the unforgivingly hard chair in front of my laptop. I unlock the latch and lift the screen. I find a picture of Reaper on my hard drive and drop it into the Internet search engine. I love that we can search with images now, since it helps me keep track of where this asshole is. A list of similar images pops up on the screen. The most recent one shows footage of him in a bank in Maryland. The image is dated as of three days ago.
Rage boils through me each day that I know he’s running around loose, chasing me and chasing Dad. I know I could have ratted him out to the cops and helped them locate him, but everything within me needs to feel the retaliation myself. I know he’ll eventually be put away or killed, and since it’s me he’s after, the chances are partially in my favor for causing the latter part.
My eyes lock on the image stretched across my screen. I click my mouse on the zoom button, bringing myself closer to my sister’s murderer—the only man I’ve ever loved. I shouldn’t have trusted those smoldering translucent blue eyes, shadowed by his dark straight brows. His perfectly tousled toffee-colored hair, and the flawless full lips made for touching were all it took to make me fall for him. Looks are so damn deceiving.
I shake my head at the smirk playing across his lips. He doesn’t even know he’s being photographed, yet it’s as if he’s always playing nice for the hidden camera. It’s all a game to him. I close the page and open up a new one. I search for the closest shooting range. It’s been a week since I’ve been, and this pent up anger isn’t going anywhere. I need to unleash. It’s sad to remember the day a paintbrush was good enough to relieve stress
. Now, I’d probably snap one in half with my first stroke.
I reach into my bag and pull out a Sharpie and scribble the address of the nearest range on my hand.
I walk into the main living area, noticing Tango sitting at the breakfast bar with his phone. “Do you shoot?” I ask.
His forehead wrinkles with a downcast expression, questioning me. “Shots?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of shots?” he asks. I’m sure he thinks I’m talking about alcohol.
“9mm Rounds.”
He sucks in a mouthful of air and holds it, processing what I’ve said. “Well then.” A satisfied smile inches across the bottom of his cheeks.
“Can you shoot? Or are you going to sit in the observation room?” I question. I’m sure he knows how to shoot. He wouldn’t be a guard without that training.
“I’ve shot a couple of times. I’ll give it a try.” He stands up from the barstool and pulls his coat off the bar.
“A bodyguard who can’t shoot?” I know that’s a crock of shit.
“I’m not a bodyguard,” he corrects me.
***
He made us wait a couple of hours for a reason I was unsure of, but when we walked outside, he lead us through the parking lot and up to the front of a newer black pick-up truck. “Whose truck is this?” I ask, hesitating before following his lead and walking around to the passenger side. I figured we’d be taking a cab to the range.
“Mine.” I hear the pop of the locks unhinging from inside and we both climb in and settle into the nylon bucket seats. “I had it driven here, but it was running a bit late. It’s why we needed to wait out the last couple of hours,” he grins.
It smells like a combination of a pine air-freshener mixed with cologne. I’ve smelled worse in a man’s vehicle. Actually, it’s kind of nice. I sink into the seat and drop my purse to the floor. I’m usually stiff as a board when I get into someone else’s car. The inability to trust always seeps in, and it causes me to feel claustrophobic, but for some reason, I don’t feel like that at all in his truck.
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