by R. J. Lewis
Vixen…
Sometime in the morning Nixon had left. I slept through it. I curled myself up into a ball of sheets and pillows and surrendered to the darkness. If it weren’t for Nixon holding me the entire night, I would not have been able to sleep. I held him like he was my lifeline, and I felt another fissure in my soul.
I was wary when I woke up. It took me forever to get out of bed. My eyes were on the door, and I inched to it, one gruelling step after the next. When I put my hand on the knob, I took a deep breath and turned it.
When it turned freely, a relieved breath escaped me.
I didn’t know if the shooting yesterday meant I’d be locked in my room for safety reasons. I was frankly surprised that wasn’t the case. It seemed Nixon truly didn’t feel threatened at all.
I went to the phone on the night table. Nixon had wired it so I could only call him or the hotel front desk.
He answered after the first ring. “Yeah, baby?”
I took a moment, tapping the table thoughtfully. “The door’s unlocked.”
“It is.”
“So…”
“So?”
“Does that mean there’s no danger?”
“There’s no danger,” he confirmed. “Go through your day like usual. I’m in the meeting room going over some things with the guys. You can see me for dinner when you’re done.”
My brow furrowed. “Done what?”
“You’ve got a few appointments. Check the planner.”
“Okay.”
He hung up and I put the phone down. I grabbed a silk robe hanging in the closet and threw it on. I strolled out of the room and to the kitchen. The planner was on the counter. I flipped it open and grabbed a banana from the fruit basket. As I ate, I looked over my appointments.
Dr. Sullivan 9:45am
Nail appointment 11:15am
Hair appointment 12:10pm
I frowned and grabbed a chunk of my hair and looked it over, catching the infinite number of split ends. I supposed I was due for a haircut. I examined my nails after. They were short and uneven. I’d bitten them off – a stupid habit Nixon had called cute. They looked androgynous, for sure. I wasn’t sure how the nail technician was going to salvage them.
I got dressed in a pair of lounge pants and loose shirt. I half-assed my make-up and by then I received a call from the front desk letting me know the doctor was coming up to see me.
Jane Sullivan was a young, pretty doctor. She had red straight hair and blue eyes. She was professional, and while she smiled at me and acted polite, I just never got the warm vibes from her. Like now, when I opened the door to her, she shot me that forced smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. It was like being here annoyed the shit out of her, which was fine. Whatever. Nixon may as well have had a gun dug into the back of her, the way she carried on.
We settled in the lounge room. I took a seat on the couch and waited. She didn’t ask me how I was. She simply got down to business, asking me how the birth control was going. I said Fine and Good when necessary. Then she administered the shot in my arm and went through the usual Doctor lingo, letting me know what to watch out for over the next few days.
I zoned out, thinking of yesterday. I swore my ears were still ringing from the sound of those gunshots. I rubbed at the inside of one of my ears, as if that would stop it from making that god-awful sound.
“Are you alright?” Sullivan asked, curiously.
“Yeah,” I answered, avoiding her eye. It wasn’t like I was going to say, Hey, I got shot at yesterday, someone wanted me dead, but don’t worry, the dude missed because he got tackled to the ground by a guy that ended up killing him.
A guy who, I had to add, hinted he could make me disappear.
“How’s Nixon been treating you?”
I instantly redirected my gaze to her, shocked by her question. She’d never asked that before. I wasn’t even aware she was allowed to discuss him with me.
Noticing my expression, she shrugged weakly. “I heard him lose it in the foyer. He’s in a foul mood. Everyone looked scared.”
“He treats me fine,” I told her, numbly.
She looked dubious. “As you know, I don’t work on the island. Nixon has me flown over.”
“Okay.” Why was she telling me this?
She looked at me long and hard. “So, you know, I’ve known Nixon a long time, but I’m not on his books or anything. It appears you’re pretty isolated and, well, if you ever wanted to talk, I’m here.”
It took several moments for my shock to ebb away. I stared at her, trying to gauge how trustworthy she was. It was hard not to be suspicious. I wasn’t going to just openly tell her my life story or anything, but…I also felt this desperate need to talk.
So, I asked safe questions first. “Do you see anyone else on the island?”
“Just you.”
“Nixon must make it worth your while.”
She smiled with ease. It looked real. “He does. He is very generous in the monetary sense. I work at a clinic in an unsavoury area. The extra money helps.”
“How’d he find you?”
“He was in rough shape when he came into the clinic. It was after hours. He’d broken in.”
“Hurt badly?”
She nodded, solemnly. “Very. He’d been stabbed. Was covered in blood. It was really messy.”
I blinked in surprise, envisioning Nixon in bad shape. I’d never seen more than a busted lip on him. “Then what happened?”
“He came to me again a few more times, and we treated him at the clinic the best we could.”
“Under the table?”
She laughed lightly, nodding. “Oh, yeah.”
I studied her, quietly asking, “Do you know his real name?”
She shook her head, her smile fading. She wouldn’t meet my eye when she answered, “No, I don’t.”
Damn.
It was one of those annoying mysteries about him. I hadn’t realized how relevant a name was until I met him. When you interacted with someone who hid their real name, it felt less personal. It drew the boundaries well and clear. As close as I could get to Nixon, I could never get too close.
And it wasn’t fair.
Because he knew everything about me.
He always had the advantage between us. Always.
Relaxing my shoulders, I asked, “How long have you known him?”
She clasped her hands together in her lap, looking thoughtful. “Around five years.”
I did the math in my head. He’d known her three years by the time we’d crossed paths. She’d come onto the scene straightaway, tending to me on the island. I’d sort of wondered if he’d just recruited her for the sake of me by how quiet and detached he’d been around her.
“So, he went to you when he needed to get treated?” I asked.
“No. Like now, I was treating a patient he knew.”
I went still, mulling that over. It suddenly occurred to me I might not have been the first girl he kidnapped. Of course. I was so dumb. With my heart climbing up my throat, I pressed, “Another girl?”
She nodded, swallowing hard as a flash of emotion flashed through her. “Yeah, it was more involved. More than just birth control. She needed medicine for health reasons.”
More than birth control.
For some reason, my body went tight and a strange pain – akin to betrayal – shot through my chest. I kept my lips from trembling, though admittedly, every part of me wanted to shake.
Did you think you were special? That all this time it was just you? Stupid girl.
Jesus, my body was acting funny. I cleared my throat to clear away the lump forming there. I wrapped my hand around my neck, aware tears were springing to my eyes. Oh, God, this was so embarrassing.
“Are you okay?” she suddenly asked, all bug-eyed.
“Yeah, I ate something bad last night,” I lied, standing up. “Thanks for the shot. I really appreciate it. I definitely don’t want a baby. Ever.”
�
�Are we finished?”
“I think we are.”
She gathered her things quickly and I shoo-ed her out of the apartment. She looked at me like I had two heads all the way to the door. I slammed the door on her face and then I collapsed to the ground, shaking everywhere.
“Of course, there were others,” I scolded myself. “Why the fuck are you surprised, Victoria?”
I shut my eyes, wincing when I said my name. I hadn’t heard it in so long. The tears I suppressed moments ago gave way. They fell down my face in fat drops.
“I just wanna go home,” I cried, hugging myself.
It’d been a long time since I’d broken down like this. The last time…God, the last time was in that fucking cabin he took me to. I’d pleaded for my life in that room, and he’d just stared at me the entire time, weighing over what to do with me.
There was no care in him then.
There was no care in him now.
It was all in my fucking head.
You don’t spill that much blood and have the capacity to feel.
I kept forgetting how violent he was. How little it mattered to him to take a life or dispose of a fucking body like he effortlessly did last night.
What happened to the last girl he was with? Had he broken her until there was nothing left to break?
I’d been right.
I was just a toy.
Just a toy.
And all toys break eventually.
14.
Nixon…
He was in a cunt of a mood.
He’d spent most of his morning trying to figure out how in the fuck that man found his way to the basement. It wasn’t on any of the footage. He’d seen the dead cunt meandering around the foyer, and then he’d disappeared from the cameras.
It just went to show you could have a million cameras lying around, there would always be a blind spot. Someone would always find a way.
Nixon wound up questioning the front desk, and they’d just looked at him with this Bert stare he wanted to savagely rip off.
“I guess the problem is you’re all too fucking beautiful to employ,” he cursed, glaring at the women with disdain. One of them perked up, and he glowered at her. “That’s not a fucking compliment, Janine.”
“Jenny,” she corrected.
“Whatever your name is. You spent the entire fucking time being chat up while someone that looks like he dumpster dives for a living strolled past you.”
“I thought security would take care of unwanted guests, Nixon.”
Yeah, well, security had to be called down to the basement because, get this, there had been a fucking shortage of guards yesterday. Un-fucking-acceptable.
“And,” Janine added, “it is discrimination to kick someone out of our facilities because of the way they look.”
Nixon blinked slowly, flexing his jaw as he stared at her. “Are you saying from now on you won’t be diligent of who comes through the door?”
“No, sir, I’m saying that I didn’t think anything of it when he came through.”
“You…” Nixon paused, trying to understand. “You remember him coming through.”
Janine shook her head. “Well, no.”
“I don’t understand, Janine.”
“Jenny,” she corrected again.
Nixon glanced at Tyrone. “What is she talking about?”
Tyrone looked lost for words. “I uh…think she was saying maybe if she had seen him, she wouldn’t have thought anything of it because…she doesn’t discriminate?”
Janine smiled brightly. “Exactly. Thank you, Tyrone.”
Nixon massaged his temples. Fuck, a migraine was coming on. He couldn’t take pointless conversation. Who the fuck hired Janine, anyway?
It didn’t matter, he told himself.
God, it didn’t matter.
Dropping his hand back down, he levelled the girls with a firm stare, and they straightened in response.
“I will feed you all to my dogs if you don’t pull your heads out of your asses,” he threatened, flaring his nostrils. “No more fucking solitaire on your computer. No more flirting with hotel guests. I pay you to work. Got it?”
The three women nodded at him, wide-eyed with fear.
Good.
He stormed out of the foyer, aware Tyrone followed closely behind.
“Buddy,” he said under his breath, “I’m pretty sure that was workplace bullying.”
“That was taking care of business,” Nixon barked back as he entered the elevator and hit the basement button.
Tyrone stood beside him, shrugging one shoulder as the doors closed. “I mean, I get that you would think that way, but…I’m not sure threatening to feed your employees to dogs is healthy.”
“It’ll up morale, Tyrone.”
“How in the fuck?”
“Don’t want to be eaten by a pack of dogs? Then do your fucking work, and that won’t be a problem. It builds awareness. They’ll have to work harder, and if they work harder, they’ll feel confident they’re not on the menu.”
Tyrone made a face. “That’s kind of fucked up.”
No, what would happen next would be fucked up.
He was going to round up all his muscle and figure out who the fuck let the man through. And then he was going to kill him.
He didn’t care if it was a mistake, either.
In Nixon’s world, mistakes cost you your life.
As the saying went, a chain was no stronger than its weakest link.
*
Sometimes, when he wanted to torture himself a little bit, he thought of how life would have played out if he hadn’t taken that job.
Two years ago, he had accomplished all he set out for. His account was filled with riches, and he was so close to checking out. Maybe he would have settled somewhere cold, like that mountain had been. He loved the cold. The way it made him feel alive.
He didn’t have to take that job.
He didn’t need to.
He’d established himself in the underbelly. Was feared and respected and highly sought after.
But he was bored.
Money was tedious after a while.
And he was in mourning.
He grieved in silence, shut out from the world, on the island he had just discovered, shacked up on the top floor of Hotel Browning, drinking himself to sleep, until he couldn’t take his own company.
So, when Hobbs made that call, had said, “Hey, in case you’re interested, there’s a huge lump of treasure in the heart of Surrey. It’s dangerous. There’s going to be gunfire. One of your men will probably die. Figure you might want a bit of excitement. Better than drinking yourself to death on that lonesome little island. What do you say?”
He wanted to say, Fuck that. No thanks.
He might even toss the phone out the crappy rattling windows and be done with that bullshit.
But he found himself silent instead.
As the seconds ticked by, he began to consider.
He didn’t want to feel the heaviness in his heart anymore.
He sort of wanted to die.
And this job…well, he might end up in a shootout. He could see himself going out that way. Fighting to the very bitter end.
Maybe the law would take him out.
Maybe it would be the cunts he was going to rip off.
Fact was, it was better to die that way than to die of a broken heart, perched in a dilapidated hotel room, on an island that needed too much saving to give a shit about.
“Count me in,” he’d said.
15.
Nixon…
“When are you gonna let the girl go?” Hobbs asked, settling down next to Nixon at the bar of the basement.
Nixon wiped at the blood spatter he’d missed, ignoring Hobbs. He’d literally just taken a seat a minute ago. The morning had been long and gruelling and – as he got down to piecing the events last night – had resulted in an unexpected chase across the marina and into a waiting ferry.
“Nixon,
” Hobbs pressed, irritably. “I’m asking you a fucking question.”
“Thought my silence was answer enough.”
Hobbs took his glasses off and rubbed at his eyes like he had a headache. “How much blood you willing to spill over her?”
Nixon threw the napkin down and lazily dragged his gaze over to him. “Are you going through some mid-life crisis, Hobbs? You’re taking a huge interest in my life all of a sudden, and last I checked, we’re business partners. We’ve got a job in the next few days –”
“You’re seriously going to leave Vixen behind to rip off some dickhead for a bit of gold?”
Nixon’s gaze narrowed. “She’s safe here.”
“She’d be safer on her own, did you know that?”
He didn’t want to hear it. Jesus, he heard it enough from Vixen lately. The girl had no fear anymore. She was splitting open at the seams, and there was nothing Nixon could do to close her back up again. Long ago, he’d fuck her and it would be enough to silence her for a while. She had enough sense to fear him.
But now…
Now she was harder to tame.
He wanted to go back to the way it was. He wanted her to be afraid. He wanted her to obey and plead for her life and be relieved when he let her live another day. That Vixen was easier to gratify. That Vixen had accepted her fate. He’d known what he was doing then.
Now he knew fuck-all.
“It’s been two years is all,” Hobbs added, solemnly. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others last night, but we both know the attack yesterday deliberately failed. This is…familiar, isn’t it?”
Nixon tapped his fingers on the bar, contemplating. “It is.”
“We know who was responsible before.”
“It’s not him,” he said firmly. “I killed him.”
“His body was never recovered.”
“I killed him.”
“You sure about that?”
Nixon laughed coldly. “Last I heard, you can’t live without a heart.”
Hobbs stilled. He was the squeamish type. His face paled as he stared dumbly at Nixon. “Okay then.”