Chapter Twelve
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath,
my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not,
my wrath did grow.
William Blake
I lay frozen for a moment.
Shocked.
What just happened?
But before I can articulate my questions—namely, what the heck?—John’s neighbor is already off of me, whipping two guns out of his pants and into his large palms. They hang loosely at his sides as he casually moves my stunned body behind the cover of a parked car using the lower part of his right leg, yet somehow remaining gentle.
I watch with wide eyes as he pulls the triggers on both of his guns at once. They emit a forced whish, quiet in their danger thanks to the silencers fastened on the tips of each barrel. Though I shouldn’t, I peek an eye out the side of the car to observe the damage.
On the ground of the empty street lays a man. His eyes are scrunched closed, his lashes resting forcefully against the tops of his cheeks. For some reason, that’s the first thing I notice about him.
Not the blood flowing from his hand, which pools around the fallen gun that lays on the ground besides the twitching tips of his fingers.
Not the crimson liquid seeping through the leg of his jeans, gushing onto the gravel that rests below the coarse fabric.
Not the way his mouth is spread open, his tongue pushed slightly past his thin lips as he groans out in pain.
Not the clutch of his uninjured hand against his wounded kneecap as it tries but fails to stop the bleeding.
Those observations come after.
But for the briefest of moments, I focus on his closed eyes, and I see myself in them. I’m there in the way they shut out the world and the pain that comes with it, and I don’t know why I’m just seeing this now.
I’ve done so many things I’m not proud of, and perhaps I’ve been so driven in my goal of reuniting with Mina that I’ve blocked out everything.
If I opened my eyes, would I even recognize myself?
And more importantly, do I even want to open my eyes?
I don’t allow myself to dwell on these questions any longer than it takes to think them.
Instead, I focus on the sight of John’s neighbor as he stalks forward, poised and lethal with the weapons nestled confidently in his hands. His face is an eerily blank mask, void of reaction and the amusement that I saw on it merely seconds ago.
And I don’t know which I find more unsettling—his odd bout of amusement earlier or how calm he is in the face of danger.
It’s almost as if he’s danger himself, and he finds getting shot at nothing more than a cute activity to deal with.
I see it in the way his calculative eyes gleam, dark and anticipatory as he stalks leisurely toward his prey. His peaceful demeanor is disturbing. He reminds me of a panther when he eyes the attacker and slows his approach.
And for a brief moment, I wonder if this man bleeds like the rest of us.
If he feels pain like the rest of us.
If he’s even human like the rest of us.
Once bending over and pocketing the attacker’s gun, he pats the attacker down, grabs his bad leg and begins to walk, dragging him along the pavement and leaving a long trail of deep crimson liquid behind him.
It doesn’t even strike me as odd that I’m not startled by this. Getting shot at? Yeah. That’s a first for me, and it was definitely surprising. But watching John’s neighbor drag a body behind him, like he’s pulling on the handle of a particularly large suitcase? Oddly not disconcerting.
This is why I would make a wonderful lawyer. Most of the things that should bother me don’t. Maybe that’s messed up. Maybe it’s not. Either way, I consider it a survival skill that I’m grateful for.
After taking a few more steps, John’s neighbor turns his head over his shoulder and considers me, as if he’s just remembering that I’m here. As if I’m merely an afterthought. He makes eye contact with me and evaluates my face before roaming his eyes over my body, cataloguing me from head to toe.
I don’t think he’s checking me out, nor do I think he’s checking to make sure I’m okay. He’s just staring at me. Studying me. Evaluating me. Judging me. And when we make eye contact, there’s an unspoken agreement that we won’t call the cops.
I know why I won’t. I can’t bring any unfavorable attention to me, not when I’m so close to filing for custody over Mina. Any step backwards is a step I can’t afford to take.
But I don’t know why he won’t.
After all, he didn’t do anything wrong.
This was classic self-defense.
It was hardcore and over the top, but it was self-defense nonetheless. Perhaps his weapons are unregistered? I look at the expensive brownstone homes behind him and immediately dismiss the thought. Possession of unregistered weapons wouldn’t be a problem for someone who can afford to live here.
Or perhaps it’s the mafia connections I suspect he has. But wouldn’t it be better to call the police if nothing shady is going on, rather than hide it and actually break the law and risk garnering the attention of the police?
I wouldn’t know, nor do I care.
Because honestly?
His reasoning doesn’t matter. As long as the cops don’t start paying attention to my life, I’m content. I have enough to deal with when it comes to Social Services, and I suspect this man feels the same, only with the mafia and police.
After a brief moment of contemplative silence, he says, “You can leave if you want, but there may be more of them.”
My jaw drops, because there’s so much wrong with this situation right now. First, we were shot at. Then, he shot our attacker. Now, he’s dragging the guy to his home with one hand, like he’s Thor and it’s the easiest thing in the world.
He even has his phone out in one hand, casually sending a text.
And on top of that, he just gave me permission to leave.
As if I need it.
If it’s even possible, I hate him more.
Yet, I follow after him, because he’s right. There may be more attackers, and he looks like he can handle them. Then again, the attacker didn’t shoot at me, did he? I wince. He was either shooting at me, or he had really bad aim. It’s likely the latter.
Either way, John’s neighbor saved me.
So, what should I do?
I was planning on walking back to the dorms. It’s a twenty five minute walk, but after what just happened? Fat chance. Instead, I pull out my phone, call an Uber, and continue to follow after John’s neighbor.
I pick up my pace and settle beside him, where I plan to be until my Uber arrives and I feel safe. Averting my eyes from the man he’s dragging, I focus on my phone. An alert pings, letting me know that the driver is on his way.
I wince when I see the estimated cost of the trip, though my Uber account is still linked to John’s black American Express card. I suppose this will be the last time I use it. It’s not the first time I’ve been tempted to book two one-way plane tickets to Fiji and run away with Mina, but I know she deserves better than a life on the run.
I sigh, and for the first time in a while, I wonder if that’s me.
If I’m better than what she has right now.
Maybe I’m not.
After all, I just left my sugar daddy’s home after catching him having sex with my older look-a-like, and my sugar daddy’s hot neighbor followed me outside, saved me from a bullet that was probably meant for him, and is currently dragging a wounded attacker back to his $40 million brownstone.
You can’t make this type of crazy up.
And I doubt Social Services would approve of any of this.
“How’s your day been?”
I swivel my head to John’s neighbor, and my mouth drops in shock. “Are you for real?”
He shrugs and continues to talk in that low and inexpressive voice of his, “When you left John’s, you looked upset.”
His tone alone is enough to make me want to throw my head back and laugh.
How does he do it?
How does he manage to say something like that, something borderline on caring, and still sound like he couldn’t care less about a thing?
Instead of laughing, I let out an unattractive snort. “So, now we’re talking about our personal lives?” I pause, before saying in rapid fire, “How much did you make last year? When was the last time you’ve had sex? Do you like it on top or on the bottom? Have you ever done ana—”
“John’s your personal life?” he says, as if we didn’t just have this talk recently. He’s still adamant that I’m not with John, only this time he’s right.
“Not anymore,” I mutter.
Between us, the attacker groans out in pain. We ignore him, and a few seconds later, he passes out again from the pain. After another minute of silence, we’re almost back to the brownstones. They’re within seeing distance when John’s neighbor speaks again.
There’s a smile in his voice that, per usual, doesn’t quite make it to his face when he says, “I like it on top.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help but grin.
But the smile escapes my lips when I see John exit his home, the redhead trailing closely behind him. When she sees me, she narrows her eyes and looks me up and down, a frown tugging on the edges of her lips. She looks even more startled than I was when I noticed how similar we look.
John frowns when he sees me, too. He looks between me and his neighbor, his eyes full of suspicion, before tugging on the redhead’s hip and placing her protectively behind him. Making himself a shield between us and the redhead is an oddly alpha male thing to do for someone who gets mani/pedis twice a week.
I smirk at the thought, but once I catch sight of John’s neighbor’s intelligent eyes, I stiffen. He studies what he can see of the redhead before stealing another glance at me. He’s obviously smart, and as I see him piecing everything together, I wait.
I wait for the judgment that everyone else gives me to inevitably come.
But it doesn’t.
And darn it, that confuses my heart.