‘Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far…
I silently seethed after Chad’s last words. Too irate to speak. Too irate to even argue. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to plunge a sharp knife right in the base of his throat, puncture his lungs and fucking kill him.
How dare he blow up my bike! What gave him the goddamn right?
Um…you kinda just tried to kill him, the annoying voice in my head reminded me.
To keep from screaming obscenities at this impossible pestilence of a man, I chewed on my tongue and ate my words for dinner. That, and because he was speeding like a freaking lunatic, tires screeching and all, and my body was pressed back in the car seat.
When the car began decelerating, the buildings and street signs no longer a blur, I noticed we were on the road to my apartment complex. Disappointment pricked at me and I stupidly found myself saying, “I thought you said you were taking me with you?”
A look of irritation passed over his features, as if the sound of my voice was the last thing he needed to hear, like I was nothing but an obnoxious gnat. He just kept on driving until we were at my apartment, not giving me the courtesy of an answer.
I wanted to stick my tongue out at him, but looked out the car window instead, and that’s when I noticed the flashing lights.
Police cars and a fire truck.
The hell?
The gates were taped off, no entry. But it didn’t seem as though Chad was there to get in. He swung right up to the yellow tape outside the gates, drew up the handbrake, left the engine running, got out of the car and walked unhurriedly up to one of the police cars parked a distance away from the others.
While he bent at the window to talk to whoever was in that cop car, I dragged my gaze back to my apartment building, trying to understand what had happened, considering there was no fire and there wasn’t much I could make out from this distance.
Setting the bag with the food on the dashboard, I leaned forward to peer a little bit closer through the windshield. A horrified gasp escaped me when I saw the thin sheets of sooty black smoke, residue of an extinguished fire, floating out of an apartment on the top floor.
My apartment.
Holy shit, my apartment had been on fire! What the fuck?
People, residents of the complex, huddled around, staring up at my ruined apartment. The fire truck must have gotten there before the fire consumed the whole building, because it was only my apartment bleeding smoke.
While I was out chasing Chad, my apartment had been on fire.
The sound of the car door opening dragged me from my warranted indignation and tongue-tying shock. Chad folded himself back inside the sports car with a duffel bag.
My chocolate brown duffel bag. Which had over half a mil inside.
Tossing the bag onto my lap, he slammed the car door harder than I thought necessary, shifted the gear in drive, and reversed from the scene.
Lost for words, I glanced down at the bag in my lap, then at the side of Chad’s face, then in the rear-view mirror back to the apartment building, then at the bag again, then at Chad. “How did you…hold on…you’re the one who set my apartment on fire?”
Driving a little less manic than before, he gave me a sidelong glance as an answer.
A growl rumbled in my throat like a Bandersnatch and I gripped the straps of my duffel bag to control the rage spiking inside me. “Why the hell are you setting all my shit on fire?! Arrrghh! Do you have to be such a deviant fucking miscreant?!”
Chad turned his head to me and cocked it slightly. “A deviant miscreant?” he asked, low and slow. “And, what are you?”
As I heaved in a breath, gearing up to shout at him some more, he unexpectedly soared into an incensed roar. “San Fran is my safe haven, with minimal crime and impossibly happy people. And sometimes it creates a nice illusion that all is right with the world. But every once in a while, someone like you comes along and starts shitting on my rainbows and fucking unicorns. Painting my blue skies black and my white clouds red, eclipsing my sun, sucking me back into the fucking darkness. And you know what, it pisses me off! You’re pissing me the fuck off, Blood!!”
With each word, his voice crescendoed, got growlier, and by the end, I was pressing myself against the car door.
“So tell me,” he said in a lower octave, “if I’m a deviant miscreant, what are you?”
“The angel of death?”
With a humorless laugh he said, “And yet I have you in my car. Taking you to my home.” Exhaling, he tutted. “Oh Death, where is your victory? Where, oh Death, is your sting?”
“You’re tryna slew me with a Bible quote?” I asked, incredulous. “Pretty sure that’s an insult to God.”
“Nah,”—he shook his head—”it only proves I’m redeemable and you’re a lost cause.”
I scoffed. “Like fuck, you are.”
Shooting me an annoyed side glance, he scowled deep and pushed the pedal to the metal. “I like it better when you’re silent.”
The jolt of the acceleration flung me back in the seat, but it didn’t shut me up. “I see you got the cops in your pocket.”
“It’s necessary.”
“So where are my artilleries?”
Chad gave me a look. “Barring the obvious fact that I’d be out of my fucking mind to give you weapons to use against me, I let the cops have them as payment to hold your cash and docs for me.”
“And what about my clothes and—”
“Eminem,” he said out loud, cutting me off, and I was momentarily confused until I heard a beeping sound and his monitor responded, “Locating Eminem” and, in a second, all of Eminem’s albums were loaded.
Hitting a button on the steering wheel, Chad selected the 2010 Recovery album, then the single Love the Way You Lie.
Still a diehard Eminem fan, I realized. Back when I knew him—or at least thought I did—Nas and Eminem were basically the only music artistes he jammed to. A small smile tugged at my lips at the choice of song, though.
Was he apologizing for hitting me?
Huh.
“Do you st—” I started to ask, but he instantly pressed a button on the steering wheel and upped the volume so loud and blaring, my words got drowned out by the music.
Pursing my lips, I turned and looked out the window at the world zooming by. Because, yeah, whatever, I got it now: he liked me better silent.
Arrogant shit.
My ears were buzzing when we finally got to his place in Russian Hill—a building I’d watched for months, seeking the most expedient way to steal in.
There’d been no way.
The only residents of this six-story apartment building were big, bulky, mess-with-me-and-you-die employers of Chad. It had taken me some time to realize no normal people actually live there, people who I could befriend and manipulate to sneak my way into the building.
After a week of scoping out the building and seeing only scary-looking fellas come and go, I’d settled on the conclusion that the entire building belonged to Chad, and only his security team resided there. Like it was his compound.
Clever fucker.
I bet he slept like a newborn baby at night, curled in a fetus position and sucking his thumb.
When Chad swung the R8 through the mighty tall gates of his “compound”, a man who seemed to gobble steroids for breakfast immediately came out of the building and hurried to take over the car. Hmm, a criminal valet? Ha.
Getting out of the car, I slammed the door with unneeded force. But Chad didn’t bite the bait. He just handed the keys to the man, took the food bag from me, leaving me with the duffel, then grabbed my wrist with his free hand and tugged me along.
The outside of the building was all kinds of the typical San Fran quaint and charming, but inside was wholly modernized with clean chrome and cream finishes. The lobby had a huge receptionist counter at the front, and sitting behind it was another hulk-like man, watching a set of monitors lined off down the long stretch of stainless steel counter, which I had no doubt were showing security feeds on every inch of this place.
Further down the expansive lobby were burgundy sofas and beige armchairs, raindrop chandeliers and tall mirrors, expensive art and ostentatious rugs, tremendous potted plants and flat-screen televisions on the walls. You’d think you were in the lobby of a five-star hotel, the place was so lavishly designed. Not an apartment building of criminals.
How deceptive. Like the owner.
Like a trimmed puppy with a pink dog tag, I was tugged along into the elevator. Chad punched in a code and our ascent began.
Silence.
He was in hate mode. But could I blame him? On numerous occasions I’d tried to kill him.
And failed.
Now I realized it was because he’d known all along my purpose here and played me. And I was an ignorant idiot to believe Chad wouldn’t have suspected me.
I should have gotten a hint the second he’d asked me in the garden if I wanted to kill him. But I’d been too busy aching for his lips on mine to hear the warning bells.
I’d waited until he’d completely fucked my brains out to question how he’d gotten in the complex. Then, like a dull-witted fool, I’d believed him when he said he never knew I lived there.
So distracted. So unacceptably distracted I’d been.
A prime example why screwing your target is never an option. Yeah…you just don’t do that. Ever.
My ass was grass. This was a major fuck-up, and I’d been trying all night not to think about what the result of my failure would be when The Voice found out.
In addition to failing, I was being held hostage by my target.
Jhay Byrd: dumbest fucking assassin who ever lived.
The elevator pinged open and coughed us out into a luxuriously pretentious penthouse. So disgustingly arrogant in its deep brown and beige decor, designed for a man’s palette. The ridiculously high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows with panoramic views of the Bay gave the illusion that the penthouse was a lot bigger than it actually was.
He lived splendidly, this man. How unfair that he’d completely ruined my life, but was free and alive enjoying his to the fullest.
Keeping my lower lip pressed between my teeth, I followed where he led, partly because I had no choice, and partly because I’d given up on everything. I’d gone from one person’s captivity to another. And while I’d like to think that this particular captivity would be a sweet captivity—what with the dangerously toxic, unexplainable emotions I felt for this man—Chad’s surly attitude was like a warning sign to abandon all hope.
He went from wanting our fucks to mean something to not wanting to hear my voice at all.
Setting down the plastic bag with our food on an eight-seater dining table, he led me down a short hallway, stopped at the first door on the right, turned the knob, and pushed it open, gesturing for me to get in.
I walked into the room and was overwhelmed.
In a good way.
In royal purple and beige, the room was capacious and beautifully decorated. Flanked by two nightstands with elaborate bedside lamps was a king-sized bed with a tall, tufted headboard. Two massive, teal armchairs and a coffee table made for a sitting area on the far right. Dresser, chest of drawers, a fifty-inch flat-screen TV on the wall.
I wanted to cry like a little girl, the room was so warm and welcoming. It’s like a long-lost bedroom. Mine. Made for me. Royal purple was my favorite color. How and why did he have a room in royal purple?
“Closet’s stocked with clothes for you. Undergarments and sleepwear are in the chest of drawers,” he voiced from behind me, remaining at the doorway like he wasn’t allowed in. “You have everything you need here. Need any assistance, my housemaid—when she returns in the morning from her day off—will be here to attend to you.”
Those words hit me, like a fist to the gut, and I whirled on him. “You decorated this room for me? Bought me clothes? Shit, you planned to take me hostage all along?”
Straight-faced, he corrected, “You’re not hostage.”
I threw my hands out, the duffel bag dropping to the carpeted floor with a mild thud. “Then what the hell’s all this?!”
“We played a game and you lost. I manipulatively left myself open on the chessboard and you, predictably, moved into all the traps.”
Ashamed of my stupidity, I dropped my gaze and accepted defeat. “You knew. All along you knew why I was here and you just…toyed with me. Let me think I was winning.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Chad leaned against the door frame. “To give you credit, you were working as a fake stripper in my club, right under my nose and I didn’t even smell you. That’s something. Because I have spies everywhere who sniff out my assassins from miles away. No one’s ever gotten…this close.”
“Why are you keeping me alive?”
He chortled at this, but it seemed more like he was laughing at himself, at his own madness. “Honestly, I’m not sure yet. For all I know, I might’ve hit my head real fucking hard somewhere and just don’t remember it.”
Because you want me, goddammit! Because I mean something to you. Say it, you proud asshole!
To hide a smile, I turned from him and went to sit at the edge of the bed, keeping my head down. “What else do you know?”
I stiflingly held in my breath, curling my fingers and clutching the duvet, praying like hell he wouldn’t say, “That you’re Tweety Byrd.”
Please don’t say you know who I am. Please don’t say you know who I am. Please don’t say you know who I am. It will change everything.
A long stretch of silence, then, “Only that I need to protect you.”
At that totally unexpected answer, I glanced over to the doorway at him. “Protect me? From what?”
Uncrossing his arms, Chad rubbed his eyes and straightened up. “Look, I’m too tired to get into that right now. I’ve had enough shit for one night. It’s late and I need to recharge. I suggest you shower and get some rest, too.” He turned to leave, then paused to toss over his shoulder, “And don’t bother trying to escape. You won’t succeed.”
Long after he was gone, I watched the empty doorway. Confused. My whole life just felt like one long, never-ending game, and I kept losing with each misjudged move. Sometimes I wondered what the whole point of my existence was. Why I was even alive.
As my eyes roamed around the room, I could admit to one thing: I was happy to be here. To be Chad’s captive, or chess piece, or whatever.
Back at Hugo’s restaurant, when Chad told me he would be taking me with him, I’d been too much in pain to jump up and down at the announcement, because those words were gold. It was as if it was what I’d wanted all along and never even realized. Why did Chad “taking me with him” thrill me so much, I had no idea. All I knew was that something in my stomach fluttered at the prospect. And now, here I was, in a commodious room decorated specifically for me.
And I felt something.
A good something.
A great something.
A path-breaking, future-changing something.
Flopping back onto the bed, I stared up at the ceiling, and grinned.
Seven years ago…
Somewhere in Russia
Saturdays.
The girl hated Saturdays.
Saturday was payday for Mr. D. The loathsome day of the week when she had to strip down, bend over, and let Mr. D cash in.
Paying for services she never asked for. She never asked to be taught how to fight. She never asked to be taught how to fire a gun, or how to throw knives. She never asked to be taught any of the vile, vicious things she now mastered.
She only asked to be freed. And that was what she didn’t get.
Although she had graduated from the dark and musty 10x12 room to her own studio apartment on the heavily guarded compound, she was still a prisoner. Over the past three years, her cooperation and good behavior had gotten her extensions of freedom. She could now walk the courtyard and read in the gardens. She could talk to other inhabitants in the block she lived in—who, to her great surprise, were happy to be in that dreadful place. Not once had the girl ever heard them whine or complain about being abused or ill-treated. They all trained together and had fun. The girl trained alone with Mr. D. They all had everything they wanted. The girl had to earn her luxury each month. Which led her to believe maltreatments were being extended to her only, for a reason unknown to her.
Someone was vindictively making her pay for a crime she didn’t commit.
However, she never shared her ignominies, and she never asked questions. The last thing she wanted was to make her captor angry, upon which he would no doubt toss her back in the darkness. No thanks. She liked her new studio apartment very much.
It was nice, with a big, comfortable bed, a television, a bookshelf, and even a stove to cook her own hot meals.
She’d learned that, at this place, obedience made her life a lot easier. So, she behaved, kept her mouth shut, and was rewarded each month.
But Saturdays, she dreaded them.
Every single Saturday for the past three years, Mr. D came for his payment. She would stay up all night on Fridays, shivering, crying, just thinking about the imminent horrors of the approaching day.
Sitting at the edge of the bed in her apartment, with her legs squeezed tightly shut, and her trembling hands clutching the sheets, the girl waited for the knock at her room door.
And then it came.
Heart thudding in her chest, she got up and took shaky steps toward the door. One would think that after three years, she would’ve gotten inured to this by now. Except she hasn’t. Each and every time, she feared. Each and every time she trembled. And each and every time he rammed into her from behind, she would wish him dead in her head.
Over and over and over, she would wish him dead. Because what he did to her it hurt. What he forced inside her was huge. It tore her open, made her stomach hurt, and left her sore the next day. He would reach his clammy hands around and squeeze her breasts until she cried out in pain. That would make him pound her harder, manic, because that pleased him. Her tears and cries of pain pleased him. Her fear made him groan in pleasure.
So he inflicted.
He had his rush.
He came.
Then he would make her remain bent over while he rested. And in a few minutes, he would do it all over again. And again. Until sundown.
On Sundays, the girl would curl up under the covers in her bed, wide awake, with no appetite, and just stare at the white walls, daring herself not to cry. Not to let him break her.
Then came Monday, a new day of training she never asked for.
Taking a deep breath, the girl swung open the door and stepped back in confusion when she saw that it was her guard there, whom she still called The Big Man in Black because he wouldn’t tell her his name.
Alongside him was a beautiful auburn-haired woman. She was tall and slender and could easily pass for one of those models the girl saw on television. The girl figured she had to be someone of importance, what with how she was elegantly dressed in an ivory skirt suit, black gloves, and shiny black high heels. Her sheened hair wrapped in a neat up-do.
The girl couldn’t stop staring at the woman, she was so pretty.
“W-where’s Mr. D?” the girl asked.
The Big Man in Black’s face hardened, but it wasn’t at her, it was at her words. She knew this because she’d overheard him telling another guard how much he hated Mr. D. And as the years dragged on by, The Big Man in Black had grown fonder and fonder of her. He was the one who advised her that all she had to do was obey the rules and things would be easier.
One day she’d been bold enough to ask him, “Will Mr. D ever stop coming to take his pay?”, and his eyes had glazed over as he said, “Wish for it, girl. Wish for it, and I’ll give it to you.”
The girl had closed her eyes and wished for it aloud, and The Big Man in Black had turned and left without a word.
But he’d never granted her the wish, because Mr. D came for his payment the following Saturday, and the next Saturday after that, and the next. Every Saturday for the past six months since she’d made her wish, Mr. D showed up.
The Big Man in Black never delivered.
But as he stood there in her doorway with the important-looking redhead beside him, the girl knew undoubtedly that today was the day.
When he opened his mouth and said, “Mr. D won’t be coming for payments anymore”, tears gushed from the girl’s eyes, as her body rocked with sobs, and it felt like two mangled, flaming trains had been shoved off her shoulders.
The Big Man in Black had granted her wish.
She fought not to throw herself at him and drown him in a profusion of “Thank You’s”, because that wasn’t allowed, which meant she could get in real trouble.
The Big Man in Black motioned to the pretty woman beside him, who was smiling benignly at her. “This is your new trainer. You may call her Miss B.”
Wiping away her tears, the girl smiled up at the woman. Because there just wasn’t anything else to do but smile when someone so beautifully entrancing was standing in front of you.
Later on, the girl would learn that her captor and Miss B’s employer had insisted that the payment for her training remained the same.
So Miss B came on Sundays.
But this Sunday payment wasn’t dreaded. It wasn’t roughness or pain. It was soft, slow and passionate. Pleasure the girl never knew existed.
And, although she knew it was wrong of her, the girl couldn’t help looking forward to Sundays.
On Saturday nights, she went to bed extra early and fell asleep with a smile, excited and impatient for the imminent bliss of the approaching day.
Sundays were payday for Miss B.
The girl loved Sundays.