Twenty One
Dear Calla, Do you think people can ever really change? My ex and I broke up a few months ago. He’s sworn that he’s changed, but I don’t know that I can trust him again. ~Signed Heart broken
My stomach coils as I jump off the sofa and run to the front door. I expect to feel Shawn’s body slam into me from behind, crushing me against the door frame. I try to brace my body for the incoming pain of a bullet while fumbling with the lock.
“Calla.”
He hasn’t moved from the loveseat, but his voice is as threatening as the gun still in his lap. “My orders aren’t to kill you. But the guy on the other side of that door is ordered to kill anyone on sight.”
Something blocks the other side of the peep hole so that I can’t see out onto the street. Leaning my forehead against the door, I let out a strangled cry and drop my hand from the second lock.
He calmly gestures to the couch, but I don’t move right away. I can’t. I feel tethered to the door, not wanting to move away from the last bit of hope I have to get out of here. When he holds his palms up as if in surrender, I realize I have no choice but to play this through.
When I sit down, I brush the errant tears away with a hard swipe of my hand and glare at him to continue.
He nods like I made the right choice—like I had any choice at all. He traces his lower lip with a finger as his eyes narrow slightly. “For the record, it’s over.”
I don’t trust my voice to stay strong, so I shake my head, telling him I don’t understand.
“It’s over,” he says slowly like he’s talking to a child.
I’m on the verge of shattering as my body tries not to succumb to the panic attack thundering underneath my skin. I refuse to concede. I refuse to give in to the headache slowly pulling me under. I refuse to give this asshole a single word and lean back, waiting for him to continue. Thankfully, he doesn’t pause for dramatic effect.
“You even got a few months off for good behavior. Ruining your life was much easier than any of us had planned once we got access to your computer, so we thought we’d give you back the reigns with early release. I wouldn’t spread that around, though. Drew’s pops paid for the full three years, so they’ll demand a partial refund.”
A new wave of panic crashes down over top of me and funnels through my body as I grip the edge of the pillow. Closing my eyes, I lean my head back against the couch and Drew’s face appears with such vivid clarity, I could reach out and smack him.
“Don’t shoot the Sicarius,” he says, sounding defensive. “Drew may be my cousin, but he's always been the black sheep in my famly. Total sociopath if there ever is one. Unfortunately, my family happens to like that about his son. He reached out to my father who brought him into the folds of In Ruinam, offered a cool million to make your life hell, and I was assigned your case. I learned a lot these past few years, about you. About my family. About Drew."
He has a far off expression when he shakes his head. "Kid spent my wedding feeling up the entire wedding party." He blinks and turns his hard expression back to me. "Heard your boy, Ash, put that into motion. I was happy to repay the favor. Two and a half years later, here we sit with your discharge papers in hand.”
I try to cover up the shock of the connection by glancing down at the gun.
“I told you I’m not going to kill you. Not what I do.”
His riddles have unraveled the thick armor around me, and I can feel my bitch warrior stepping up. “No, of course not. Silly me. Everyone knows that assassins are hired to deliver meals to the hungry.” I throw my arms in the air and lean forward. “If you’re not going to kill me then hand me the damn discharge papers and get the fuck out.”
He snaps his tongue against the roof of his mouth a few times and shakes his head. “A Sicarius is the point person—the one who is in charge of the particular client’s case. I had to make sure that everything was handled perfectly so that you didn’t know you were just a puppet dangling on In Ruinam’s strings. And you didn’t, did you?” He asks crossing his arms, and tipping his head back.
“You thought it was odd that schools stopped asking for you to speak at their assemblies. You never would’ve thought that someone controlled the flow of your emails—that someone would have responded to these requests by telling the schools to ‘fuck off’.”
I close my eyes.
“You thought it was strange that you were fired in spite of all the good you did for the school. Not once did you think that someone like me emailed your principal using your account to tell him to stop jacking off in the boy’s locker room before school.”
My eyes snap open, but the room begins to sway as I fall back on the cushions. “No.”
He nods with a single chin dip. “I even organized a few guy’s night outs. No one really knew where we were going. By that point in the night they didn’t really care. Made sure they were high enough to not really give a shit. They followed the script perfectly, banging on doors, breaking into your home, acting like children who forgot to grow up. I had to make it that you never felt safe, you never knew when the next blow would come or what direction it would come from.”
He takes in a breath and counts on his fingers. “Book club requests, signings, job offers, hell I even emailed your parents and told them that they were, and I quote, ‘horrible human beings who wouldn’t know love if it flew up their ass and sprouted wings.’” He stares up at the ceiling. “I know, I know, doing you a favor was not part of my job description, but I have such a sentimental heart.”
My trembling fingers pulse against my mouth as I try to draw in a full breath. Tears continue to fall down my cheeks as my mind slips through the past year—of all the moments Shawn stole from me, of all the choices he didn’t let me make.
I can’t breathe. Oh my God. I can’t breathe.
The room blurs around me as pins and needles prick up and down the right side of my body. My skin feels too tight, like my body is pushing out against it. Jesus. I can’t breathe. I fucking need air. Numbers skip through my brain, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. But I can’t remember what to do. I’m shattering. I’m breaking. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
I stand, my fists curling on the sides of my head as I look around the apartment. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. I can feel the weight of Shawn’s stare, but I don’t look down at him. I can’t. Not until I remember. Not until I breathe. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. I scan the apartment another time and the black box is the first thing that catches my eye. Without thought—without pause—I walk over to it and pick it up in my hand. I turn it over and over, feeling the hard angles and the cool plastic. I let my thumb run over the thin lines and take in a deep breath, counting each line over and over. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
I close my eyes, imagining that I’m strumming the chords of a guitar. I draw in another deep breath, ignoring the quiet stillness of the apartment around me. My body feels weak and tired as the receding panic slips away. I open my eyes and stare down at the box—such a little thing that holds too much power.
Without thinking, I throw the box and it smashes against the kitchen wall, littering my floor with its broken pieces. The sound that it makes dulls some of my panic, and I feel strong enough to face Shawn.
Something flickers in his eyes, a gleam of approval, and I get the impression that he hated the box as much as I did. He flicks his eyes to the box and slowly stands. With the gun still in his hand, he walks over to its shattered remains while I flip the dead bolt.
He toes the shards of plastic and then makes a dramatic display of putting his gun in the back of his jeans and pulling his shirt over the belt loops. Bending over, he picks up an even smaller rectangle and brings it up in front of his eyes.
Clarity seeps through my fatigue, and I pick up the candlestick on the foyer table and throw it like I’m tossing him a basketball. While my mind plays through images of Shawn’s incapacitation, the candle clocks him right in the temple. He doesn’t even rock away from the blow. Instead he turns his head toward me in slow motion.
The past year has been a series of unfortunate circumstances with this man dictating almost every foul I ever suffered. He and his crew stripped down every ounce of safety I tried to establish and sought to ruin my life just because I tried to protect girls from monsters like Drew. Monsters like Shawn. Monsters like John. My indignation was a driving force behind my lapse in judgment, but Shawn’s lethal glare sobers me right up.
One second he’s standing there staring at me, the very next second he turns and reaches around to his back. I square my shoulders with his, ready to fight him with every ounce of strength. I know I won’t win. I know that there’s a chance he’ll use that gun to finish what he started a year ago, but I can only hope he’s ready to challenge the strength of my upper cut.
“Ladies first,” I whisper, goading him like a second grader on the playground.
His hand is still hidden behind his back, but I have no doubt his fingers are wrapped around the gun. By the crimson color of his cheeks, I think he’s surprised and pissed by my confidence. If the racing of my heart is any indication, I think my body is pretty pissed too. I just hope my body doesn’t retaliate by actually pissing all over itself.
I know the minute he makes the decision to kill me. He no longer looks angry. Instead he looks calm as the corner of his lips tip up into a smirk. I feel the blood draining from my face as he brings the gun around and points it directly at my chest. Confidence is a thin veil that won’t protect me from a bullet, but I sure as hell won’t make myself an easy target. I dive into the small living room just as I hear a click. While I’d like to believe the gun is out of bullets, I know by the position of his finger that he just clicked off the safety. The next click I hear will be a hell of a lot louder and a thousand times more painful.
From my position behind the coffee table, he can’t see me but that hardly matters with the size of my apartment. I army crawl when I hear his slow, steady footsteps. On top of being a homicidal lunatic, he’s also being an asshole, slowing his step so that I can hear every sound of his foot fall. I round the corner of the chair to make my way into the kitchen just as I hear him scream. The scream is unlike anything I have ever heard. It’s raw and guttural, stopping me in my tracks. A primitive type of paralysis takes over as I lie there with my mind racing through scenarios. His screams stop mid-breath, and a gasp sneaks out from between my lips.
It isn’t until I feel a long, wet something on my cheek that I finally move. I shift back, letting out a petrified scream, before staring into Simba’s eyes. While my baby has always been intimidating to other people, this is the first time I’ve ever been scared of him. His snout is caked in blood, and while his tongue lolls to the side of his mouth, it’s also caked in blood.
“Hi, boy,” I whisper, my voice sounding weak and shattered.
He steps forward with his ears back and his head low, looking ashamed but calm enough to be touched. I run my shaking hand down his back, and he presses his head into my chest. Putting my face into his scruff, I close my eyes and let the tears finally come, feeling my entire body tremble against his great weight. He whines and presses in even closer to me.
When someone pounds against the door, Simba is the only one to react. He leaps right back into action, jumping over the coffee table and putting his front paws up on the door. I’d forgotten about the guy standing guard—the one who has orders to kill on sight. I disappear further into myself, feeling depleted of strength as Simba’s loud growl fades in my perception. I need to move. I need to stand, but the shaking in my body feels permanent. I can’t pull in a full breath let alone face down another asshole.
More than anything, I can’t face down the body on the other side of this chair. I know Rethers is lying there. I know he’s still alive since I hear his raspy breathing, but I can’t make myself move.
Closing my eyes, I grab hold of the arm of the chair and stand, taking a few seconds to steady myself. I sway against the armchair and grip the backrest, slowly opening my eyes. Simba is still up on his hind legs screaming at the door while someone pounds on the other side, jiggling the doorknob. But it’s the person lying on my rug that pulls my attention. The first thing I see is blood. Nowhere near the amount of blood I would expect, but my eyes seem locked on the pool of blood seeping through his pants.
My dog bit Shawn’s ass.
I skim over the rest of his body, making sure there aren’t any other puncture marks. Although I never had a chunk of my ass taken off, I don’t trust that Shawn has actually passed out. I can’t imagine being able to lie still without a portion of my ass. With the way he’s sprawled out, I can’t get to my cell phone or gun without stepping over him. He’s the type of villain who would jump up when I least expect it just to make sure I’m scarred for life.
Simba continues to bark and howl at the door, and his claws leave long puncture marks down the frame. Guess I’m not getting my security deposit back. He loses his balance and shifts his paws, and it’s then that I see the Shawn’s gun. He’s batting it around with his hind legs. Knowing the safety is off, I lunge for the weapon, creating a plan mid-flight. Simba spins around on me, and all I see are his teeth. I brace myself for his bite as I wrap my fingers around the gun. The bite doesn’t break the skin, and he quickly apologizes with a long lick up my other cheek.
The person on the other side of the door is in an all-out war with my doorknob. The screams on the other side are dull and distant like I’m listening to neighbors fighting. I stare down at the gun in my shaking hands and reconsider my plan.
Without any alternatives, I glance at Simba. He’s sitting, waiting for me. His brown eyes show a vulnerability, a fear, I've never seen before.
“I won’t let them hurt you.”
He tries to lick my palm, but I instinctively pull it away.
“I won’t.”
I glance over my shoulder to see Shawn still feigning sleep. The gun should make me feel better, but panic is the only emotion I can make sense of. With my hand on the doorknob, I close my eyes and send up a silent prayer, begging for strength, but also begging for forgiveness for what I have to do.