Target on Our Backs

by J. M. Darhower

  He gets in the car, shutting the door. Seconds later, the others follow suit. The car pulls out of the alley, gunning it to speed down the street as the car on the opposite side of the alley does the same, disappearing.

  I don't hesitate.

  I've already been here for far too long.

  Any longer and Joe will be awake.

  Ducking my head, I make a speedy exit, heading back toward my car. I leave the neighborhood, my gloved hands clutching the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles hurting from the strain. I have half a mind to track Lorenzo down right now, to kill him in his sleep for even thinking of talking to me that way, to even think of sneaking up on me, but I know I can't. I shouldn't.

  He's on guard. He's surrounded.

  There's no way I'm getting close to him.

  Not tonight, anyway.

  Besides, he could've killed me, but he didn't, which means he wants something from me, something to make him value my existence, but I'm not deluded to think it has anything to do with sentiment. Despite what he might claim, Lorenzo doesn't have friends, either.

  He wouldn't bat an eyelash if I died.

  He wouldn't even hesitate to pull the trigger.

  It's after one in the morning when I make it home. I tread lightly heading inside, making sure to be quiet, but the dog hears me the second I step through the door. He appears right there in the foyer, his hair bristling, a low growl rumbling his chest.

  "Don't start with me," I mutter as I head to the den, pulling off my gloves, tossing them on my desk. He follows me, stalling in the doorway. "I've dealt with enough shit tonight. I don't need you hassling me on top of it."

  "Me or the dog?"

  Her voice is close.

  Too damn close.

  I didn't even notice her in here.

  My eyes glance across the room, at where Karissa sits on the couch in the darkness. Her bare feet are propped up on the coffee table as she eats from a small carton of Ben & Jerry's ice cream, wearing nothing but a too-big t-shirt.

  "The mutt," I say, strolling over and sitting down beside her. "I married you, so it's sort of your job to give me a hard time."

  "Good to know." She points her spoon at me before scooping up a big chunk of whatever the chocolaty flavor is she's eating. "You were gone for a while. I woke up and you know... you weren't here. Wasn't sure where you ran off to."

  "I didn't expect you to wake up," I admit. "Had something to take care of."

  "And did you get it taken care of?"

  "I did."

  She nods and continues to eat her ice cream.

  She doesn't ask me to elaborate.

  Doesn't ask anything else about where I've been.

  I can feel the tension, though. I've felt it coming off of her since yesterday when she got home. It's like a wall surrounding her, one I'm not sure how I'm supposed to break through.

  "I'll tell you," I say, "if you really want to know."

  She pauses eating, slowly pulling the spoon from between her lips. "I know you will."

  She still doesn't ask.

  Smart girl.

  Sighing, she discards the spoon in the nearly empty carton and sets it down on the coffee table. Tugging the shirt down over her knees, she tucks her legs up toward her on the couch, wrapping her arms around them. She lays her head down on her knees, facing my way. Her eyes are cautious as they scan me. "Maybe we should move."

  "If that's what you want."

  "But I want you to want it, too."

  "I've got what I want," I say. "I've got you. I couldn't care less where we live, whether it's here in New York or halfway around the world. So if you want to move, we'll move. I go where you go. End of story."

  I don't know if she likes my answer.

  It's true, yeah, but it's no help with her decision.

  "Is there anywhere we can even go where I'll be able to sleep all night without you slipping out to handle things?"

  I shrug. "Alaska."

  "Alaska?"

  "I'd never leave the house. It's too cold up there. My balls might shrivel up."

  She laughs.

  Her laugh is one I love.

  It's soft and feminine and completely genuine.

  "That would be tragic."

  "Tell me about it. I kind of need those things."

  "Well, there's always Nevada. California. Ohio. Florida."

  "Not Florida."

  "No?"

  "I'm not a fan."

  She regards me cautiously again. "Maybe we should just stay right here."

  "If that's what you want."

  "I don't know," she says. "I don't know what I want."

  "Let me know when you figure it out."

  She rolls her eyes, standing up and grabbing her carton. "I'll be sure to do that."

  Reaching out, I grasp her arm, stopping her before she can walk away from me. "I'm trying, Karissa. I don't know what more I can do."

  "I know," she says. "It's not that."

  "Then what is it?"

  She hesitates, like she's considering not answering, before she lets out a resigned sigh. "Do you think I'm a bad person?"

  Out of everything in the world she could've said, that wasn't even on my list of possibilities. I'm stunned to even hear her ask that. Her? A bad person? "Of course not. Why would you even think that?"

  "Because I'm here."

  Her answer is automatic.

  Her panicked expression tells me she didn't mean to say it out loud.

  "Because you're with me," I elaborate for her, "and because I'm a bad man."

  "No, I didn't mean--"

  I pull her to me, silencing her before she can even try to explain herself away. It's pointless. I know what she means. I don't need her to backtrack about her feelings. "Look, I make no apologies for who I am, or for what I've done, but none of that is a reflection on you. The fact that you love me doesn't make you like me."

  "But what if I am like you?"

  "You're not."

  "But—"

  "You're not," I say again. "You love a sinner. If anything, that makes you a saint."

  She smiles, leaning down to kiss me softly. "I'm heading to bed, Naz."

  "Is that your way of getting out of this conversation?"

  "Maybe," she says, before whispering, "good night."

  "Did you know... and this might be shocking... but Napoleon Bonaparte wasn't short at all?"

  A few people murmur in response to Rowan's declaration, but most, like me, are just listening in silence. While I'll give him credit, he's a more interesting professor than most, there's only so much he can do to excite us about the Napoleonic Wars.

  "He was actually, by modern measurements, just shy of five feet seven inches, so he was as tall as I am," he continues. "The rumor likely got started for a few reasons, one being he's listed at only five-two on his death certificate, but those were French increments. He was actually above average height of his time, but he surrounded himself with much taller guards, which just made him look smaller. Fascinating, isn't it?"

  Fascinating?

  Not the word I'd use, but whatever floats his boat.

  Class is over, technically, and people around me are packing up to leave, but the professor is still speaking, clearly passionate about the subject.

  "For next Tuesday, I'd like a paper on why his height even matters. Two pages, double spaced!"

  That gets a reaction from everyone, but it isn't a good one.

  Honestly, I don't know why any of it matters.

  Short, tall, big, small… it doesn't make him any less of a dick.

  People are already jetting out the door when I slip my history book into my bag. My attention is fixed three rows in front of me, to the redheaded nightmare packing up her things. She looks all around me, making a point to never look at me, like maybe if ours eyes don't meet she can pretend I don't exist on the same plane as her. It's childish. Ridiculous. Rude.

  It's probably exactly what I'd do in her shoes.

/>   I'm almost the last one out of the classroom today. It's uncharacteristically warm, and I've been sweating all morning.

  It probably doesn't help that I'm wearing a thick black scarf.

  It was the only thing I had to cover the faint bruise along my throat. I tried using makeup, but well, I've never been good at matching skin tones. It was like drawing a freaking bull's-eye right on my neck.

  So scarf it was.

  Strolling outside, I pause in front of the building, considering my options. I've got another class in a little over an hour, so as usual, I've got a bit of time to waste.

  Honestly, I kind of want to just go home and say to hell with it.

  I'm not really sure what's gotten into me, if people are all up in my head or if I'm just too exhausted to really care. I feel like I'm just going through the motions with no real direction, having no idea what I want to do when I grow up.

  I'm supposed to declare a major soon.

  I'm nowhere near ready for that kind of responsibility.

  Getting married was an easier commitment.

  I start to walk away, to do just that—leave—when I catch sight of Melody in the distance, heading this way from class. She's not alone today, no… someone's right beside her, holding her hand.

  Leo.

  I stay right where I am, waiting, as they approach.

  Jesus, he's even prettier up close.

  Melody notices me standing here and dodges right for me, dragging Leo behind her. He laughs, seeming confused for a moment, before he notices me, too. The confusion melts from his face, replaced with some sort of understanding that tells me he knows exactly who I am without needing an introduction.

  He gets one, though… Melody makes sure of it.

  "Kissimmee!" She yanks me into a hug, still holding onto Leo, so we're in some awkward ass triangle embrace that only Melody would think is acceptable. "This is Leo… Leo, this is my best friend, Karissa."

  "Nice to meet you," Leo says, holding his free hand out toward me. I stare at it for a moment before shaking it weakly. "I've heard a lot about you."

  "I was afraid of that," I mutter, pulling away.

  Melody laughs, nudging me. "It was all good, promise."

  "It was," Leo agrees.

  "Well, in that case, it's nice to meet you, too."

  "We were just heading to grab some coffee," Melody says, smiling radiantly. "You want to join us?"

  "I shouldn't…"

  "You should," Leo chimes in.

  I shrug, conceding, not wanting to be rude. "Sure, I guess."

  I walk with them the few blocks to the café, feeling like one hell of third wheel, as the two of them stroll hand-in-hand, touchy-feely the entire way.

  It's nice, though, seeing her look so happy.

  "I'll grab the drinks," Leo says as soon as we arrive, pulling his hand away from Melody's. "You two find us some seats."

  "I can get my own," I say.

  "Nonsense," he replies.

  Nonsense.

  I hear that word all the damn time.

  It's one of Naz's favorites.

  I start to protest some more, because he doesn't need to buy my coffee when he doesn't even know me, and besides, I'm not entirely sure how Naz would feel about another guy fronting a bill for me, but Melody yanks on my arm, pulling me toward a small table over along the side, not letting me fight it. I grumble, sliding into the chair across from her, saying something about paying him back that she completely ignores.

  Typical.

  "By the way, I totally nailed the test the other day," she says. "Only fucked up one question."

  "The philosophy one?"

  "Yep."

  "See? You were worried for nothing."

  She shrugs, nodding at the same time, like she's agreeing but doesn't want to admit I was right. Leo returns then, juggling two coffees and a small chocolate mint tea. He sets the warm tea in front of me and I glare at it while he settles into his seat beside Melody.

  "Problem?" he asks hesitantly. "That is what you drink here, right?"

  "Yeah, it is," I say, glancing at him suspiciously. "How did you know?"

  He seems taken aback by my question and just stares at me, while Melody chimes in, waving it off. "He just said like two minutes ago that he's heard a lot about you, which means he's probably heard everything about you by now. We've come here a few times. I've mentioned how you drink that pissy chocolate thing."

  "Oh."

  "I may have also mentioned how scarf-y you usually are," she says, motioning my way. "Jesus, it's like, eighty fucking degrees out today. Aren't you hot?"

  Reaching up, I run my fingertips along the scarf. "No."

  I'm lying. Obviously.

  I'm sweating like a pig.

  The heat radiating from my drink sure isn't helping.

  It feels like a sauna in this place.

  Ugh, I think I might be running a fever…

  She shrugs it off, like she believes what I'm saying, and turns her attention on Leo. Thank God. I sit in silence, watching the two of them converse, a natural ease between them as they talk and laugh. I don't drink my drink. I don't really know why. The thought of doing so almost nauseates me.

  Fifteen minutes.

  I don't know.

  They're encased in a bubble of whatever the hell it is that's radiating off the two of them. I don't know that I'd call it love, since it's still so brand new, but there's certainly a healthy dose of lust mingling with something bigger. Something more.

  Hell, maybe it is love.

  What do I know?

  I fell in love the moment I laid eyes on Naz outside of Santino's classroom.

  I didn't know it then, but it happened.

  It happens.

  So maybe it happened to them, too.

  A ringing phone shatters the moment, the sound of Tupac blaring through the café. Amitionz Az a Ridah. My eyes instantly settle on Melody, but she makes no move to answer whatever's ringing. No, beside her Leo fumbles in his pocket instead, pulling out a gold iPhone. He glances at the screen of it, frowning, before pressing a button on the front. The song instantly cuts off as he brings the phone to his ear. "Yeah."

  I'm stunned.

  Absolutely flabbergasted.

  Somebody other than Melody is still rocking Tupac.

  That was always her thing.

  "Did you do that?" I ask quietly, waving toward his phone, as he turns away from us, not getting up, but definitely muffling his conversation. Not that it matters, you know, considering all he's doing is a lot of agreeing with whatever the person on the line is saying. Uh-huh. Yeah. Okay. Sure.

  He's so damn… agreeable.

  "What?" Melody asks, glancing at me before laughing. "Oh, no… wasn't me. It's actually how we met, if you can believe it. I was walking by him one day over in Washington Square. His phone started ringing. I started signing. The rest is sort of history."

  "Oh, I figured you met him in class or something."

  "Nah, he doesn't go to NYU."

  "Where does he go?"

  She laughs. "Wherever he wants to go, I guess, since he isn't in school."

  "He's not? What does he do, then?"

  "Whatever he wants," she says. "Right now, he's sort of just working with his brother."

  "What does his brother do?"

  "Oh, uh… I don't know. It's a family business or something. He's just doing odd jobs for him to make a bit of money."

  So many red flags are going up I'm surprised I can still see past them.

  This all sounds familiar… so, so familiar.

  He's practically unemployed, doing odd jobs to help out family, yet he can afford a meal at Paragone? Either he's a trust fund baby with a heart of gold or his dealings aren't exactly above board.

  Ugh, I don't know what to think.

  He couldn't be, could he?

  "Alright, alright, yeah… give me a few minutes." Leo hangs up his phone, slipping it in his pocket. His focus turns back to us, and he
smiles, but there's something off about it. I don't know if I'm just being paranoid, after everything that has happened, or if he's really acting the way I think. Either way, my hair bristles when I look at him. "Ladies, I hate to jet, but I have some things I need to go handle for my brother."

  Melody frowns. "Will I see you later?"

  "Of course," he says as he stands, leaning over to press a quick kiss to her forehead. "I'll call you." He turns to me, nodding. "Nice finally meeting you, Karissa. We'll have to hang out again sometime."

  "Yeah," I say. "I'm sure it'll happen."

  He's gone, just like that, giving a brief look back before disappearing.

  Melody sighs once he's out of sight. "So?"

  "So?"

  "So what do you think?"

  What do I think?

  I'm not sure that's something she's open to hearing.

  Not yet, anyway.

  "I think you like him," I say, "a lot more than I've ever seen you like anybody."

  Her smile grows. "I think you're right."

  "How much do you really know about him, though? I mean… who is he, really?"

  A cloud of confusion takes over her face. "What?"

  "I'm just saying, you know, you haven't known him long…"

  "It feels like I have, though," she says, shrugging. "It feels like I've known him my whole life. There's just so much about him that seems… familiar."

  "I know the feeling," I mutter.

  "I'm not trying to sound cliché or whatever, but when I look at him, I feel like I'm looking at myself… like, a part of me. You know?" She laughs. "Ugh, I sound like a damn Nicholas Sparks romance novel."

  "He actually writes tragedies," I point out. "They call it romance, but someone usually always dies, and that's sure as shit not where this is going…"

  I don't think, anyway.

  Ugh, God, please don't let it be.

  I don't want our lives to be a damn Nicholas Sparks story.

  "Really?" She grimaces. "How is that romantic?"

  "I don't know. I guess it can be, if you're dying for someone you love, or someone loves you even knowing you're going to die. It's selfless, sacrificing yourself for someone else, so someone you love doesn't have to suffer as much as they might otherwise."

  "Wow, that's…" She pauses. Loving? Compassionate? Noble? "Morbid."

  Morbid.

  "That's one way to put it." I laugh. "It's kind of like the Plank of Carneades."