“What I want is for you to help me, like you promised!”
“You want some help, Morgan?”
“Yes!”
“Then how about I give you some advice,” he says. “You dug yourself a hole, sweetheart, a hole so big it might as well be a grave. And they’re going to bury you in it, first chance they get, unless you get out. But all this you keep doing? All this noise you keep making? You’re just making it all worse. The hole just keeps getting bigger and bigger.”
“What else am I supposed to do?”
He shrugs. “Forget about it.”
Those words are a slap to the face. I flinch.
“You’re still young,” he continues. “Start over, move on, build a new life. People do it all the time.”
Those are probably the cruelest words that have ever been spoken to me, and that’s saying something, considering the world I live in. Life stopped playing nice with me when I was just a kid, and I grew up fast after that... faster than a kid should ever grow up. But I never let it stop me, I never gave up, fighting to make a life for myself, a life of my own, building sand castles out of nothing that I could call home. It was all stolen from me, though, in the midst of a storm, and he tells me just to start over? To give up? To move on?
I don’t want to react. I don’t want him to know he’s getting to me. I’m not going to cry, that’s for sure, because Gabriel Jones isn’t worth a single fucking tear. But the lump in my throat keeps growing and growing, my eyes stinging, and I know I need to go before he realizes he got to me.
I walk away, grabbing the office door and yanking it open, slamming it against the wall as I storm out. People stop what they’re doing, eyes flickering my direction, like the floor comes to a standstill at the commotion. I head for the elevator, slapping the button as I hazard a glance back at the judgmental faces.
“Oh, now you all want to look?” I shout as the elevator dings, opening. “You want me to bend over so the rest of you can take turns, let all of you brave boys in blue fuck me a bit more?”
I step into the elevator and hit the button for the first floor, but before the door can close, whisking me away from this hellhole, Gabe steps in. The second we start moving, he slams his palm against the stop button, the elevator screeching to a halt. A loud buzzer goes off. I know they can hear it on all the floors. I can only imagine what they’re all thinking.
Probably that he’s fucking me some more.
I reach past him, attempting to grab the button so we’ll start moving, but he blocks my hand, shoving me back against the side of the elevator.
“Pull the button back out,” I growl. “Now.”
“You need to calm down,” he says. “You’re making a scene.”
“Says the guy holding me hostage in an elevator.”
“Look, I know you’re upset, but you’re acting irrational.”
“Irrational?” I shove against him, trying to force him away from me. “Fuck you!”
He narrows his eyes when I kick him, since shoving him isn’t working. Okay, maybe that was irrational, assaulting a police officer, but whatever. He deserves it.
“We’re building a case,” he says. “You know that. We’ve been building a case for decades, Morgan. Yeah, you’re waiting, but it’s nothing compared to the time this department has put into this case. So I sympathize, I do, but we can’t jeopardize everything because of what amounts to a fucking civil dispute!”
I blink a few times. I don’t even know what to say. He calls it a civil dispute, like it’s nothing more than a petty little squabble. I stay quiet, refusing to let him see how much that hurt me, and he pulls the button out so the elevator can move again.
Officer Rimmel looks up when I step into the lobby, her gaze flickering to where Gabe lingers. A look crosses her face, her eyes narrowing as they again seek me out, watching me pass. Jealousy, or maybe just disgust... I don’t know. Does it matter? She doesn’t know what it’s like to be me. She could never understand, so she can take that look and shove it up her snobbish ass.
It’s early evening, the air blistering as it approaches dusk. I pull my hood up before shoving my hands in my pockets. Keeping my head down, I cut around the side of the precinct, heading for the subway.
I slip through the small gathered crowd, squeezing into a spot along the back. The F train approaches after a few minutes and I step onto it, finding an empty seat toward the middle of the car.
The sun is setting by the time I make it back into the city, the train taking me straight to the Lower East Side. I walk the few blocks to my building, my head still lowered, despite no longer being in Brooklyn.
Because, when it comes down to it, nowhere is safe for me anymore… if I was ever really safe anywhere to begin with. I used to think I was, but then again, I used to believe a lot of things that were never true.
Like, that Santa Claus brought Christmas presents, and fairy godmothers were real, and good things happened to good people, and love was something everyone deserved.
I used to believe in big houses with white picket fences, in perfect families and happy endings. I used to think what was meant to be would inevitably find a way, but as the days go by, I start to wonder if maybe I’m just delusional. Maybe things only happen if you force life’s hand. You call life’s bluff and go all in, risking losing everything on the off chance that maybe you’ll win.
My stomach is twisted in knots and my lungs burn, every breath a chore. Physical pain has nothing on emotional torment. And at least once a week—once a fucking week for the past nine months—I get that feeling in my chest, the feeling that tells me I’m somehow still alive, that my heart still exists, somewhere, continuing to beat, despite the fact that it had been brutally ripped out, stolen. Every time I go to Brooklyn, I’m reminded of the life I lost, and I hate it… I hate the feeling of helplessness, the reminder of the void, but I keep going, I keep enduring, I keep living… because the only thing worse than going to Brooklyn is me not going there.
I head into my building, trekking up to my apartment, every one of those one-hundred and eighty-six steps feeling like torture, darkness setting in by the time I reach the top. The dim lights in the halls flicker, only half of them lit. I open my apartment door and step inside, shutting it behind me, and am about to hit the light switch when movement in my peripheral stops me. It’s subtle, just a shadow shifting, not making a sound at all, but I know enough to know it’s the silent ones that are the most terrifying.
Death doesn’t always come with a scream and a bang, no… death, when premature, usually comes like a whisper on the wind, quietly stalking you until it can rob you of your last breath.
The shadow moves closer and my heart stalls a beat before frantically pounding, echoing in my ears. I react fast, reaching under my hoodie, my hand slipping beneath the band of my bra and grabbing the small butterfly knife tucked there. Whipping it out, I flick the lock off and flip it open as I swing toward the shadow, not giving it a second thought. I thrust the blade at the form lurking in the darkness, swinging and slashing, hitting something. A loud curse carries through the apartment in a gritty male voice—not the voice I expected, but son of a bitch, it’s too late to stop, because I’ve already cut him.
No turning back now.
He grabs me when I jab the blade at him again, grasping my right hand and squeezing hard to disarm me. Shit. Shit. Shit. Before he can do anything, before he can stab me with my own knife, I thrust my left hand at him, slamming the heel of my palm into his nose with every bit of strength I’ve got.
BAM.
It’s enough to get him to let go, catching him off guard, his hands protectively shielding his face as he curses again. Fuck. I’ve got ten seconds to get myself out of this before he recovers.
Ten… nine… eight…
Turning, I move toward the door to run out, the seconds ticking away.
Seven… six… five…
I grasp the knob when he grabs me, his grip strong. Fuck, make that only f
ive seconds. He bounced back way too fast, like it didn’t even faze him. I spin his way and try to hit him again, flailing my arms, when he shoves me, throwing me against the apartment door.
His body slams into mine, forcing the air from my lungs, the knife suddenly pressing against my throat. I blink a few times, otherwise not moving, not wanting him to have some knee-jerk reaction and slit my throat on accident.
Or intentionally, either.
Jesus Christ, he could…
He might.
Although my vision is hazy and it’s pretty damn dark, I easily make out his face, my eyes scanning his features with caution, lingering on the scar. It glows in the night, like a jagged lightning bolt, the same shade as the evening moonlight streaming through the bare windows.
Scar. I still don’t know his real name. The man’s like Beetlejuice... or hell, maybe he’s Voldemort. He’s fucking Bloody Mary. Don’t dare say his name or he might show up. I get why, too. He’s not the devil you want to conjure. But I’ve dealt with a lot of evil in my short life, and this motherfucker is the least of my problems.
Or, well, he was. He’s just made his way right to the top of the list of people who want to hurt me, and he’s certainly in the position to do it. Blood streams from his nose, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about it, too fixated on staring me in the eyes, not a hint of anything in his expression.
Blank.
My eyelids flutter as he draws the slick blade along my skin, just hard enough for me to feel it, before he presses the tip of the knife against a spot on the side of my neck. I wince. Stinging pain ripples from the spot as the sharp point of the blade breaks the skin, drawing blood.
He cuts me.
“That’s twice now,” he says, leaning close to whisper those words in my ear, pinning my body against the door. The heat radiating off of him swaddles me. “Twice you’ve come at me with a knife. There won’t be a third time, Scarlet. You ever try it again, I’ll kill you. I’ll cut you to pieces while you beg me to stop.”
He turns his head, his nose brushing against my cheek, smearing his blood on me... blood I drew hitting him. I close my eyes, still not moving, the knife against my neck. It wouldn’t take more than a flick of his wrist to shove the blade in. He lingers there, the rusty copper odor of blood greeting my nostrils as it mixes with his scent. I don’t know if it’s soap or cologne or something else entirely, but the man smells citrusy, fresh and vibrant. Blood orange.
Warm breath ghosts across my skin, and I exhale shakily the second I feel his tongue. It runs along my cheek, tasting my skin, licking his blood right back off. The knots in my stomach tighten as my knees weaken, an onslaught of tingles coursing through me, assaulting my senses.
Jesus Christ, he’s demented. There’s something seriously wrong with this guy. I should be repulsed, and part of me is terrified, but that’s the part that once used to be an innocent little girl.
That’s not me anymore.
Reaching around him, I fist the hair on the back of his head, weaving my fingers through the locks and yanking hard, pulling his mouth away from my cheek. A grimace twists his expression as a flare of rage burns in his eyes. That was either a grave mistake I just made or one of the best ideas I’ve ever had in my life. Passion emanates from him like heat from a fire, warming the air between us so much I damn near start sweating as he growls.
Oh god, he growls.
The sound pulses through me, like electricity to my soul. I don’t know what the hell I’ve gotten myself into, but when he slams his body against mine again, shoving me back into the door, instinct takes over. I go with it, grabbing onto him, wrapping my arms around him as he drops the knife. It clatters to the floor between us, and I consider, for a split second, diving for it, but the thought is wiped away when he kicks it, sending the damn thing sliding across the living room. Smart.
“What turns you on more?” he asks, his hands grasping my thighs as he pulls me up. “The fighting or the fucking?”
I wrap my legs around his waist, bracing myself, clinging to him as he thrusts, the force of his hips slamming me into the shaky door. Sparks ignite inside of me as something hard rubs that sweet spot between my thighs, hitting my clit despite all of the fabric, sending jolts through my body.
Oh fuck.
“What makes you think I’m turned on?” I ask, my voice breathless, earning a chuckle from him, the sound spawning goose bumps across my skin.
“Call it a hunch.”
A gasp escapes my throat when he thrusts, again and again, like he’s fucking me with our clothes on, slamming into me with so much vigor I can barely think. I grind against him, desperate for friction, banging my head against the door as I tilt my chin, his mouth again finding my flushed skin.
His teeth nip along my jawline, biting, scraping, nothing loving about his lips, nothing sweet about his tongue, as he makes his way to my ear and whispers, “I would destroy that pussy.”
“You think so?” I ask, those words making parts of me tingle that haven’t come alive in quite a while, like a match being struck and finally finding a flame.
“Without a doubt,” he says, not letting up. Pressure builds inside of me as I run my fingers through his thick hair. “I’d wreck you for any man that came along after me, put them all to shame, because I’d give you exactly what you wanted.”
“How could you possibly know what I want?”
“Because,” he says, grabbing a fistful of my hair and twisting my head, forcing me to turn away from him. “Looking at you is like looking in a mirror, Scarlet.”
He keeps his grip on my hair, holding my head there, pinning me to the door with his body as his other hand slides between us, slipping down the front of my pants. Rough fingertips rub my clit, and I let out a cry at the jarring sensation.
Holy fuck, I’m close.
I can feel it in every inch of my body, all the way down to my bones—the tension, the tightening, the desperate need for unraveling as it builds and builds and builds. He yanks my head further to the side, pain creeping across my scalp. His lips are on my throat, his tongue swiping across the small cut from the knife. The stinging sensation shoves me over the edge as he brings me to orgasm. Pleasure rushes through me. I squeeze my eyes shut, my lips parting, noise catching in my throat as my body convulses.
Uhhhhh…
“Fuck,” I gasp. “Uhhh… fuck.”
As soon as it fades, he stops, letting go of my hair, letting me look at him again as he removes his hand from my pants. I damn near fall, my legs dropping down, feet hitting the floor again as he pulls away. I stay pressed up against the door, keeping my distance, even as he retreats a few steps, giving me space. He retrieves my knife from the floor, regarding it in the darkness. Four-inch blade, iridescent rainbow coloring, the dark handle etched with spiders.
My heart pounds hard, making my vision hazy as he strolls toward me with it.
His eyes flicker from the knife to me, as a small smile twists his lips. Locking the blade away, he holds it out. I take it carefully, surprised that he’s returning it. He seems like the type to confiscate people’s possessions and call them his own. Not that I have room to talk or anything, considering stealing from him is what got me in this mess in the first place, but still… I don’t know what to make of it.
I don’t know what to make of any of it.
I slip the knife away, eyeing him. “Why are you here?”
“Sixty-six cents,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a few coins, tossing them at me. I don’t try to catch them. There’s no point. They hit the floor and scatter, rolling around, a discolored quarter coming to rest near my foot. “Figured I’d pay you back before midnight struck and interest kicked in.”
I stare at it. “Well, I guess we’re even now, huh?”
“Seems that way.”
Pushing away from the door, I move past him through the apartment. I’m still fully clothed, but I feel completely exposed in front of that man right no
w. Way too exposed. “I’m sure you can let yourself out, you know, since you had no problem letting yourself in.”
I make my way up to the roof. My hands are shaking and I need fresh air. I need the hell out of there. The place is a stifling cubbyhole made of splintering wood and crumbling brick, not much of an apartment, much less a home. Even most prison cells have four walls and a ceiling, a place to lay your head while cut off from society.
I’ve lived worse places, though. A lot worse.
Try sleeping chained up in a concrete dungeon, and then we’ll talk about living in hell, because I’ve been there.
A cloud of breath surrounds me, my teeth chattering, as I step out onto the roof, strolling over to the ledge and sitting down on it. The wind is bitter cold, slicing against my skin like razor blades, but I welcome the sensation, letting it cool my feverish skin.
It’s nice just to feel something, even if that something is pain.
My gaze drifts out toward the river just a handful of blocks away. Massive housing projects block most of the view from here, but sitting on the ledge, right in this spot, I can see a sliver of the dark water between the buildings, and beyond that, the skyline of Brooklyn.
Just a moment passes before I hear the noise coming from my apartment, the sound of footsteps on the ladder leading to the roof behind me. I don’t turn to look, listening as he comes near. He’s not trying to go unnoticed, not sneaking around, but his approach is reserved, more casual than determined.
I don’t know what he wants.
I don’t know why he’s still here.
But I don’t have it in me to ask, either.
What does it matter?
The icy wild blasts me with his unique scent as he props himself against the ledge beside me. I cut my eyes his way when he sniffles, rubbing his busted nose with the back of his hand, the bleeding stopped for the most part. He says nothing at first as he looks out at the city, but his silence isn’t some form of punishment he’s forcing upon me.
No, it’s a rare solace, one I find I’m grateful for.
Eventually, though, he finds his voice. “You should go for the eyes, you know.”
Menace (Scarlet Scars Book 1) Page 9