Anna
When I wake up, the central heating has timed itself off and the apartment is gripped by an icy autumn chill. I open my eyes onto the darkness, wondering if perhaps the events of last night were a dream. My bedside clock tells me that it’s just past four in the morning. I roll over, almost expecting the bed to be empty. Of course Eric isn’t dead; of course he didn’t try and kill me; of course a hitman didn’t come to my apartment and tell me that I’m in danger. That’s mad, something out of a movie. Not something that happens to vets-in-training.
But when I roll over, there he is. Samson Black, lying on his back, eyes closed. He sleeps how I imagine soldiers do. He doesn’t seem completely at rest. The bottom of his eyelids don’t quite reach the bottom of his eye, so that a sliver of white shows through. I get the sense that if something happened, his eyes would be open in an instant. His body doesn’t seem relaxed. Dormant, but not relaxed. Waiting.
I don’t remember coming to bed, which means he must’ve carried me. Am I a fool for letting a hitman carry me to bed? What if he isn’t the man I think he is? But it’s strange . . . looking at Samson gives me the same sense of calm my safe place does. I think of the turnstile and the field of dogs, and I imagine Samson is standing there with me, and instead of disturbing the scene he somehow makes it more attractive.
As quietly as I can, I climb from the bed and pad across the apartment to the living room. Samson stirs, but doesn’t wake, and I’m sure even in his sleep he knows the difference between a dangerous noise and a safe one. I’m thinking about him in the same way I think about animals, I realize, and I wonder if that’s unfair. But it’s how my mind is trained and, anyway, Samson makes a whole lot of sense if I think about him as an animal. Hitman of the genus, killer of the species, night-stalker of the habitat New York City. His relatives are clients and victims and killers; his tools knives and poisons and guns; his prey bad men and women beaters.
I pour myself a glass of water and pace the apartment, without really meaning to, just pacing up and down, thinking. The night is never truly silent in New York. People shout and laugh and scream into the sky; horns honk and somewhere a few blocks over, music plays loudly. A dog barks and a cat squeals. I drain the water and place the glass on the counter, and then continue my pacing.
It’s not a dream. It’s real. Samson Black, hitman, is in my bed, sleeping. Samson and I had sex earlier tonight. I can still feel the ache of him deep inside of me, proof that it really happened. Shouldn’t I be terrified? That’s the question which returns to me again and again. Shouldn’t I be scared, panicked? He’s a killer, a stone-hearted killer. But maybe it’s that I can’t accept that as a fact. He’s a killer, sure, but stone-hearted, cold-blooded, and all those other adjectives which are routinely hurled at men of his trade? I’m not so sure. Sitting on the couch with him, talking, learning about him, I saw something that wasn’t cold or stone. It was downright warm. Human. And he killed Eric, and he’s protecting me. I’m not scared of him. Confusing or not, that’s the truth.
I slump onto the couch, stretching my legs out on the coffee table. But it’s more than not just being scared, I realize. It’s more than just being comfortable. I’m not just at ease around him. I’m horny, curious, longing. I want him. I like thinking that beyond my thin walls, lying on my bed, is a hitman. I remember Elle telling me once about how she and her ex-boyfriend liked to do BDSM stuff. I never understood it myself, never understood how you would want a man like that in your bed. But I think I understand it now. The danger itself is exciting, and the fact of Samson is way more dangerous than a few whips and chains.
I like it, I think, stunned by myself. I like how strong he is and I like knowing that he killed Eric. I like how in control he is and how he must be able to handle any situation. I like imagining him stalking the streets, stalking his prey. What is he? A wolf? No, because wolves are pack animals. A cheetah, then, or perhaps even an eagle. Soaring through the sky, alone, darting down to sort his business and then ascending once again.
Sort his business.
The phrase lingers in my mind. Business. That’s the crux of it, I think. It’s business. Not pleasure or sport or survival, but business, which means money. A question occurs to me I feel silly for not thinking of before. Who hired Samson? Somebody must’ve hired him. He’s a hitman, and hitmen don’t work for free. No, someone out there gave him a large sum of money to dispose of Eric. I try to imagine who that might be, but I draw a blank. It might even be someone I don’t know, someone who had their own gripes with Eric. But Samson told me he killed him to stop him from hurting me. He was bragging about it in prison. Which must mean that whoever hired Samson didn’t want Eric to hurt me.
I shake my head, shaking the thoughts away. I’m tired, dreary, and I tell myself that the question can wait until morning.
The important thing is that I’m safe and Samson is here.
But I will ask him about it at some point, I resolve, just not now, not at four o’clock in the morning.
I return to bed and lie down, the covers draped over me. For a long time, I close my eyes and try to sleep, but after around half an hour of lying there, without sleep, I grow restless. I look through the darkness at Samson, sleeping contentedly, and wonder: Do all killers sleep with such clear consciences?
Then I roll over, take his arm, and wrap it around me. He groans softly and pulls me close to him, his body protecting mine.
Spooning, I fall asleep in minutes.
###
I stand at the bedroom door. Eric is before me and Dad is behind me. Dad sits on the couch, a bottle of whisky in his hand. The smell is potent and I can see it; it curls into the room like smoke and spreads around him, smoke-hands extending toward me. He grins like a gargoyle. Eric is naked, his body big and cruel and looming. He, too, grins at me.
I don’t know where we are, but I know it’s not real. Even as I stand here, I know that somewhere, a woman just like me sleeps in the arms of a killer. But right now it does not seem to matter so much. Dad and Eric, two men who, in their own ways, have taken chunks out of me. Dad with his words and Eric with his fists.
“Are you joking?” Eric laughs. “Are you fucking joking?”
“What?” I grunt. “What do you mean?”
I try to run, but then I look down and see that my legs are welded to the floor. I panic and strain my foot up, but it doesn’t budge. I twist my body and see that Dad is laughing silently at me. When I turn back to Eric, he is standing over me, his body impossibly huge in the dream, bigger than it ever was in real life, the body of a monster.
“You want to go to college?” Eric spits. The saliva spatters against my face. I try to remember when this happened, but I draw a blank. It’s more of an amalgamation, I guess, all those confrontations with Eric coalescing here, now. “Why in the name of Christ would I let you do that, Anna? We’re married, we have a duty to each other. You need to work, not mess around with animals. Come on, really, do you think you’re ever going to be a vet? You have to be smart to be a vet, Anna, really smart. And let’s face it. You haven’t got the brains for it. It’s ridiculous. Am I clear? Nod, right? Nod but don’t speak. I don’t want to hear you speak.”
I almost nod, almost give up my life to this man. In reality, I did nod when he asked me this; I nodded countless times. I nodded and I hated myself but I nodded all the same.
But in the dream I look up into his face. “No,” I say. “I want to be a vet. I don’t care if it seems stupid to you—”
His fist crunches into the side of my head. I can’t fall back because my feet are welded, so my body flops violently back, and then springs forward, my bones cracking, breaking. I want to run, but my feet, my feet . . .
I turn to Dad, but he just sits there, grinning.
“Don’t look at me now,” he says, whisky dribbling down his chin. “You’ve always chosen men against my wishes, Anna. You’ve always been a whore. And now look at you, beaten and defeated and pathetic. A waitress at the beck and call of a monster. And you look to me for help? Stupid, pointless girl. Your mother’s death was your fault, you know.”
This is a ridiculous statement. Mom died of cancer. But still it wounds me. I see it in the man’s eyes. He believes it. On some level, he truly does blame me for Mom’s death.
“You’re useless,” Eric says. “You’re a useless whore. Dress like a whore, act like a whore. We’re married now, okay? Right? So I own you. The second you get that through your stupid whore head, this will get a hell of a lot easier.”
“I want to be a vet,” I say. It seems like the only retort I have. A dream which I can hold onto no matter what happens to me. Eric can hit me as much as he likes and Dad can insult me as much as he likes, but if I can somehow hold onto this one thing, something of me will survive.
But then my mouth opens again, against my will, and I say: “It’s okay. I suppose I don’t have to be a vet. I suppose . . .”
Eric smiles, rubs my head, moves his hand down . . . down . . . and I let him.
Dad nods. “Whore,” he sighs.
It’s too much. The past is too heavy. I tear my feet free from the floor and scream, scream as loud as I can, my neck straining with the effort, my throat sore. I scream and scream and scream—
“Woah, woah.” The voice is a man’s, New York accent, steady and strong. Arms grip me. Eric’s?
I struggle, and the man takes my hands and holds them in his.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, his breath tickling my ear. “It’s okay, Anna. You’re safe. Nothing will hurt you now. Nothing will ever hurt you again. I promise you that.”
“How can you promise that?” I murmur, once the light of the morning sun becomes clear to me, the clothes spread over the floor, the paperback novel on the side table. I’m not with Eric or Dad. I’m with Samson, and that’s infinitely better.
“Because if anyone tries to hurt you, I’ll kill them,” Samson says.