by Zoe Hill
She thinks it’s unnecessarily dangerous.
I don’t agree.
As an NYPD Homicide Detective, I can handle myself in most situations.
“How did you approach this man?”
Angela’s question hangs between us while I try to form an answer. Looking around the room, I meet the haunted gaze of the man in his late twenties who always sits opposite me. Marcus offers me an empathetic smile that buoys my flagging spirits enough to croak out an answer.
“We danced a bit, then he followed me to the bar, so I asked him.” The dark-eyed man sits up straighter in his chair, although he keeps his arms crossed protectively over his chest. His interest is daunting in light of his history. While Marcus is almost as quiet as I am, he’s been much more detailed about the abuse he was subjected to and the lingering affect it’s had on him as an adult. “He was a bit shocked to begin with, but once I’d explained what I wanted him to do to me, he was all for it.”
“Did he hurt you?” Marcus asks. I let go of Renee’s hand and hold my arm up for him to see. Pushing my long sleeve down, I show him the bruising around my wrist. The obvious fingerprints make the rest of the group move uncomfortably in their seats, except Marcus. He nods. There’s understanding in his voice when he says, “Does feeling like you don’t have a choice make it easier to deal with the shame of enjoying it... sex?”
The knowledge that my abuse was mild compared to Marcus’s—not that you can rank child abuse by severity since it’s all soul-destroying—I find myself blinking back tears when the ability to respond is stolen from me by the lump in my throat once more.
Settling for a sharp nod, I close my eyes, drop my chin back to my chest, and slide as low in my chair as I can. The shame he mentioned is my constant companion, but it’s never stronger than when I’m faced by people who truly comprehend what was done to me. When I’m with them, my emotions bubble to the surface and it takes all my willpower to fight back the desire to scream. I want to shout at my seven-year-old self for not telling my dad the first time Harrison Greaves touched me inappropriately. I want to yell at my parents for taking his family’s money instead of fighting a corrupt system to send him to jail. I want to tear strips off my current self for being so weak and wallowing silently in despair over four months of sexual abuse when people like Marcus are able to face their past head-on.
Marcus was sold by his drug-addicted mother to a local gang as a four-year-old. He was raped daily for over a decade until he was able to run away. While he can’t be touched by men because he has a visceral reaction akin to flames burning beneath his skin, Marcus has created a life for himself, complete with an understanding wife and two children. Only one year older than me, he is a walking and talking indictment of my failure to thrive.
“I went home last weekend,” Renee announces when the hush that’s fallen since I last spoke begins to weigh down on my shoulders. “Faced my mom. Told her how big of a piece of shit her husband is and explained that he did the same things to me as he did to my sisters.”
“And how was that received?”
Renee’s responding laugh is filled with pain. “She kicked me out and told me not to come back until I stopped with my lies.”
This time, I’m the one who takes hold of her hand.
“How did that make you feel?” Angela inquires.
“Abandoned, I guess,” Renee replies. She returns the pressure of my fingers when I squeeze her hand. “It was the same reaction my two older sisters received from her, so I should’ve known it was coming. I guess I thought I was closer to her than my sisters. I thought she’d understand... that she’d take my side over the monster she still sleeps with to this day. Instead, I was booted out on my ass. Even at forty-two, it’s hard to separate the parents I wished I had from the parents I actually had in my head.”
“Have you spoken to your sisters yet?”
Shaking her head at Angela’s question, Renee scoffs, “Of course not. Why would they want to speak to me after I spent decades denying what he did? I’m the enemy in their eyes. I blamed them for what happened to me, then buried my head in the sand and refused to help them when they tried to have him prosecuted. I’m to blame for everything and they hate me for it. Hell, I hate me.”
Angela holds her hand up. It’s the group’s signal to stop speaking and listen to her. When Renee presses her lips together, our therapist addresses us in a fierce tone.
“There is nothing to hate in any of you because the blame lies with your abuser and the adults who helped them cover up their crimes. While you are victims, you are also survivors. As victims, you are blameless. As survivors, you are guiltfree. How you reacted to what was done to you isn’t up for judgment. How you respond to the scars, both psychological and physical, that you bear from your trauma is also not up for judgment.” Looking directly at Renee, Angela adds, “That goes for your sisters, but it also stands for you. Whether you feel that you let them down and that their anger is legitimate is a separate issue from being to blame for what happened to all three of you. There is one perpetrator... your father. Once you come to terms with that, maybe you’ll feel differently about your sisters. Maybe not. However, you cannot conflate the issues in your head.”
Discussion picks up around the circle, but I don’t contribute. Instead, I watch Marcus’ face as he adds his thoughts. The haunted look in his eyes lessens the longer the group talks. His smile becomes more genuine and he stops hugging himself. It’s mind-boggling to watch him come out of his shell while the heightened emotions have the opposite effect on me.
As the other members pick apart Angela’s announcement and twist and turn it to fit their own situation, I huddle lower in my seat and struggle to breathe. My throat closes tighter every time I think about speaking. A hole opens in my chest and my heart pounds erratically in my ears. As the conversation rages, the noise turns into a low buzz that infects my brain and wipes my mind clear of all but one thought.
Why can’t I find a way forward when everyone else can?
THREE
“If cats could talk, they wouldn’t.” ~Nan Porter~
SPENSER
As I pull myself free of the effects of the sleeping aid I took, I realize that every inch of my naked body aches. Smirking, I push to my feet and luxuriate in the agony. For most people, pain means life. For me, it shouts that I made it one step closer to the death I crave.
Maybe next time I’ll manage it.
“Come on, Lilith,” I order the fearless pussy who rules my life. Despite my strong words, my tone is low and soothing, an act to lull her into obeying for once. The ginger feline currently positioned on the sill of the only window in my basement apartment is fickle. Sometimes, she’ll follow—but more often than not, she’ll ignore me until I go to her. “Move it or lose it, lady.”
Her sole reaction is to spear me with a glare.
Seems today is one of her obstinate days. With a grin, I scoop her up and cradle her in one arm like she’s a newborn. Stretching out like the evil queen she clearly believes she is, Lilith purrs when I scratch her under the chin. With her eyes closed, her happy rumbling grows louder, as I juggle her in one arm while I use my free hand to grab a tray of gourmet cat food. Every muscle in my body screams from the abuse I put it through last night as I wrestle the stubborn foil lid off.
The ache widens the smile on my face.
“Here you go, little lady.” She leaps to the floor the second her bowl hits the tiles and begins eating immediately. Tail in the air, Lilith dismisses me without so much as another glance. “Well then, I guess that’s my cue.”
Chuckling to myself, I push open the door to my bathroom and flick the switch. The bright light that illuminates the small, tiled room makes me narrow my eyes until they adjust. Once I can see more than black spots, the sight that greets me in the mirror above the basin almost makes me wish I’d left the light off.
So close, yet so far. My innate self-preservation wins again.
“Hmmm,” I mus
e, turning sideways so I can properly observe the mottled marks that color my side. Dark, eggplant-colored bruising mars me from the top of my ribs to my hip. I poke at my injuries, then snarl, “Fuck you, Theo. Close but not close enough.”
After tipping four paracetamol tablets out of the bottle I keep in the top drawer for just this purpose and dry swallowing them, I turn on the shower and step inside once the water has warmed up. The steam generated by the heat engulfs me. Loosening my muscles. Unclenching my jaw. Softening my mood as I come to terms with remaining alive.
While the water works its magic, I go over my plans for the day in my head. It hits me that I have nothing to do once I hand in the severed finger chilling in my freezer. Presenting this gory memento to my handler is my way of signing off from my latest job.
Hopefully, my kill last night will bring a lull in business because a free minute is a rare thing in my world. You see, my family has certain wishes that they trust me to grant. Bloody, violent, illegal needs they’ve decided only I can provide.
I’m a lethal genie made entirely of neuroses.
Rinsing my hair, then soaping my body, I take perverse delight in jabbing at the bruising on my ribs until the pain makes me hiss. Once I’m as clean as possible, I twist the tap off and step out of the shower stall, wrapping a towel around my waist while I brush my teeth with the water running.
When I hear my main door close with a snick, I pull open the top drawer of the vanity and lay my handgun next to the basin. Soft steps make their way across the apartment in my direction. After spitting out the toothpaste and swilling some water in my mouth, I move behind the door. Angling it, so I’m blocked from view, but I can see who’s approaching, I hold my breath and wait.
It’s unusual for visitors to enter my domain unannounced. It’s well-known that I don’t entertain down here, but you can never account for someone else’s death wish.
I know mine has me doing some incredibly stupid things.
“Triiiggggger,” a grating voice calls for me. As always, the use of my underground name sends a shiver down my spine and makes my left hand pulse with damning recognition. “Come on, Trig. You know this has to be done. Your dad’ll kill me if I don’t.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I curse. Striding out of the bathroom, I let my towel drop to the carpet, hold my arms out from my sides, and turn on a circle. The intruder stifles a giggle from her perch on the arm of my couch. “I’m still in one piece. Now get the fuck outta here and report that back to Daddy Dearest.” I motion toward the door she entered through. “Don’t let it hit your ass on the way out. Or do. I don’t give a shit.”
Rebel leans down to pick my towel up before she stands. Her red lips quirk as she approaches me, then she rubs the towel over my chest, catching the remaining drops of water from my shower. Just before she touches my dick, I break free of my stupor to snatch the damp towel from her and back away. Three long strides backward end with my back against the fridge and nowhere else to go to escape her grasping hands. My skin burns, the feeling of a million tiny flames flaring underneath my epidermis, threatening to overwhelm me.
Watching her, I run through the numbers in my head until my reaction subsides to a manageable level.
Her mocking smirk pins me in place. She knows what’s going on in my head. I made the mistake of confiding in her when she arrived on the scene a decade or so ago.
I should’ve known better. There’s nothing remotely trustworthy about this woman.
Rebel’s short stature, white-blonde hair, dark eyes, and delicately curved body that’s covered by a tight dress with a short, flared skirt makes her look like a harmless little pixie. She gives off an air of comfort like she’ll kiss away your boo-boos, then bake you some cookies, all the while you kick up your feet and accept every ounce of affection she showers you with.
Spend more than five minutes in her company and you’re quickly disabused of that notion.
Rebecca “Rebel” Barrington is a full-time NYPD Internal Affairs Investigator and a part-time, Coalition owned, killer for hire—taught everything she knows by the Devil himself.
My father.
“Like what you see, Trig?”
I blink. “No.”
As reactions go, it’s nothing. In my world, however, it’s a damning tell.
Rebel sneers, latching onto my anxiety and twisting it into a weapon to taunt me. “Sure, you do. I’m irresistible.”
Fuck. My. Life. This murderous succubus is the last thing I need to deal with this morning. I usually have until lunch time to work myself up to meeting with her to exchange my frozen package for another job.
“Oh, come on. You’re almost thirty-three. Don’t you think it’s about time you become a man?” she croons. There’s a cat’s got the cream grin on her face when she corners me. “You must be curious by now....”
“I wouldn’t fuck you with Edward’s dick,” I retort. “And that’s saying something since you regularly use it as a pogo stick.”
My curt reminder of her less than illustrious entrance into the Coalition as a comare for the eldest Averell son wipes the smile off her face.
Despite her reaction, it still takes every ounce of restraint I possess not to snap her neck for touching me. The only thing stopping me is my parents. They’d definitely disapprove of the death of one of their weapons, and since seeing them in any capacity that doesn’t end with a more than welcome bullet in my head is something I avoid at all costs, I hold back. Barely. Inwardly seething as my skin burns from the residual memory of her touch, I distract myself by knotting my towel around my waist and looking around for Lilith. My little feline fiend usually makes her distaste for intruders in her domain known earlier than this.
As if I’ve conjured her, my cat slinks into view behind Rebel. Slow and steady, she sizes up her prey, then pounces. My parents’ acolyte screams when my kitty’s pin needle claws penetrate her bare legs. Regaining control of herself with a speed that would be impressive on anyone other than a trained assassin, Rebel kicks out at Lilith but misses when the cat races out of the way. She stomps her foot and moves to follow my only friend.
Red-hot rage pulses through my veins. Stopping only to take the frozen baggy out of the freezer, I storm after her. Rebel takes one look at my face, blanches, then freezes on the spot with her hands in the air.
“Trig. No. Calm down,” Rebel pleads, backing up. “I wasn’t gonna hurt her.”
Nothing in her voice deters me. Her lies have always sounded like truth anyway—I learned that the hard way too.
My one-room basement apartment is small, so I reach her within half a dozen long strides. Immediately enraged by her attempt to hurt my cat, I seize hold of Rebel’s throat and use my grip to frog march her toward the exit. The burning flares under my skin, so I grit my teeth to endure it without freaking out. Using my spare hand to wrench the door to my apartment open, I drag her flailing form up the steps to the main area of my twin’s townhouse and shove her through the double doors. She hits the floor with a grunt.
“Touch Lilith again and I’ll kill you.” I throw the baggy into her lap. “This is what you came for. Give it to him, so he knows it’s done.”
Distaste ripples through her entire frame when she picks up the baggy containing Theo’s finger, but she remains quiet. The staff has stopped whatever the fuck they were doing to this already immaculate townhouse to stare at us. I tighten my towel to avoid giving them a full-frontal shot of my cock, while Rebel looks around at the crowd we’ve drawn, and scrambles back to her feet. She smooths her dress down. Her expression is blank as if she refuses to acknowledge that I just showed her ass to the help.
Holding my left hand up, I waggle what’s left of my trigger finger until the little remaining color has drained from her face. “Tell him that you’ve checked me over and I remain in one piece... minus the portion he removed himself.”
I cradle my long-healed hand against my chest—the phantom pain plays havoc with my head, although I logically kno
w that there hasn’t been a reason for my finger to hurt for almost fifteen years—and head back downstairs to my safe haven. Even though I don’t wait to hear her response, she shouts it after me anyway.
“That’s not the reason I came by this early,” Rebel announces. “They’re in town and they’ll be here tonight to speak to you.”
I stop dead in my tracks. Head down, ears ringing in disbelief, I curse, “Like fuck they will.”
“Like you have a choice,” she snaps. “Just be ready at eight.”
Keeping my back to Rebel, I try my hardest to keep my voice level, when I ask, “What do they want?”
“The same as always,” she quips in a flat tone. “Someone dead.”
Her strange emphasis goads me into turning to face her and I fight to keep hope from building in my chest. “Me?”
Rebel shakes her head, a glimmer of sympathy lightening her dark eyes for a millisecond. “Not to my knowledge.”
“Righto.” I acknowledge her rare breach of their confidentiality with a sharp nod.
Disappointment makes my gut drop to my feet when she adds, “I have to tell them about your ribs. It’s my job.”
“Knock yourself out. It’s all the same to me.”
“Come on, Spenser,” Rebel whispers my real name like a prayer. “Stop letting the targets hurt you. Everyone knows it’s only to piss in your father’s face... but it makes the rest of the Coalition question your usefulness.”
Stomach roiling, I head back down to my apartment without answering Rebel. I close the door behind me with force, locking it as I go, then I run to the kitchen area to throw up in the sink. Lilith winds her way between my feet, agitatedly bumping against my ankles while I retch.
With my meager stomach contents purged, I rinse out my mouth then offer my worried cat the explanation I’d never give Rebel, “Pissing in my father’s face is the point. Eventually, it’ll hit him in the eye, and he’ll be forced to put me out of my misery, with or without the Coalition’s blessing.”