Kim

Russell left the room right after the scene where Romeo and Juliet make the pact to stage their joint suicide. Now Benji is having the hardest time remembering the lines bemoaning Violet's death. He keeps stuttering, can't form complete words and keeps shaking her too roughly, making her open her eyes every once in a while. I think he's just nervous about kissing her in farewell.

Mom's not paying attention to the play anymore. She keeps glancing at the door, gripping my hand so hard it hurts.

"Where is he?" she says shrilly, causing the man in front of us to turn and glare at us, since this is not the first time she's spoken aloud.

"Calm down, Mom, please," I whisper. "I'm sure he's right outside sorting out whatever it is. Watch the play. Benji worked so hard."

She nods, but her eyes still keep darting to the door as she tries to settle down and watch the play.

On stage, Benji finally remembers his lines and gets up the nerve to give Violet the farewell kiss. Then he stabs himself in the stomach and pretend dies with way too much noise and pomp. Once he's finally lying motionless on the floor, Mom is shaking so hard her chair is rattling. Just one more reason why this play was such a bad fucking choice. She's worried out of her mind about Russell and now she had to watch Benji die on stage.

"Kim," she mutters in a strangled voice. She doesn't have to say anything more, I hear it in her voice.

"Let's go outside," I say calmly, and stand up and lift her shaking body out of the chair, while Violet is lamenting the loss of her lover on stage. I'm glad I'll get to miss this part. It feels too much like the last two days of Tank ignoring me felt.

"Just breathe deeply, Mom," I whisper to her. "Russell's right outside."

She stumbles on the step leading to the door and almost takes us both down, but I manage to keep us upright. Like I always do.

I hope Russell really is right outside. I hope Tank is too. And I hope Benji didn't notice us leave the auditorium.

I'll go right back in once we find Russell and clap the loudest.

But the hallway is deserted and dark. No Russell, no Tank. Mom starts shaking even worse, her teeth chattering.

"Where is he? He said he'd be right back?" she says in a panicked voice.

She's clutching my right arm in both of hers, pulling on it. I know this scene, I know the panic in her eyes, in her voice, I recognize the shaking. We've been here before. And it's very hard to calm her down when she gets to this stage. I brought her pills, but I doubt they'll do the trick now. Damn Russell. Why'd he have to just disappear like that without telling us he's leaving? Now Mom's in a state of agitation that might require a trip to the ER and Benji's night is ruined. And for what? Can't his stupid job wait for one damn night?

I somehow manage to get my phone from my right pocket with my left hand, which isn't easy, since Mom is now hanging on me with almost her full weight.

But Russell's phone just goes straight to voicemail. I call three times, but each time it's the same.

Loud applause is echoing from the auditorium. Benji must be looking for us in the crowd. I can picture that wide lopsided smile of his turning sad because we're not there.

I hug Mom as tight as I can with just one arm, telling myself it's not her fault. I don't blame her for this, I don't even blame Russell, I just wish it wasn't happening.

"He's not picking up?" she asks in a shrill voice. "Something happened to him. Oh, please, no. He would've told me if he was leaving. Oh, please, no. Something happened."

"Come on, Mom, let's go outside for some fresh air," I say and start guiding her down the hall to the back exit. The auditorium doors will open soon and people will start coming out, on their way to the dining hall for refreshments, before the organizers start pressuring them to donate.

She stumbles along, repeating, "No, oh, please no," over and over again. I haven't seen her this agitated in more than ten years.

She's hyperventilating, her heartbeat so fast and erratic I can feel it through her fingers where she's clutching my arm. And she's shaking all over.

"I bet everyone's gonna love your coconut chocolate muffins at the banquet," I tell her once we're standing outside. "I bet they'll be the first to go."

I helped her make three dozen this morning, and they were delicious. She's famous for them. Everyone was asking whether she'll be making them again this year.

And I tell her that too, but she doesn't hear me, doesn't understand. She's just repeating, "Please, no" over and over again.

I didn’t bring my purse tonight, but Mom is clutching hers. I take it from her and dig around for the car keys, but they're not there. Russell drove here, so he must still have the keys. I could call a cab, I suppose, but Mom needs help now. I'm afraid she'll have a stroke if this attack goes on any longer. I'm sure there are some doctors inside at the event, but I'm afraid to leave her out here alone, and taking her back inside would just be torture.

So I dial 911 and explain to them that I need an ambulance right away in a voice so calm I can't believe it's my own. But I've made this call a dozen times before, the first one when I was seven years old. They assure me they'll send an ambulance right away, but in my experience it could take an hour or more.

Now that I have the situation at least partly in hand and help is on the way, I can think clearer again. Russell wouldn't leave us here without giving us the car keys. He's too thoughtful for that. And he wouldn't just leave without telling Mom he's leaving either. Mom's fears could be real. Something might have happened to him.

But I push that thought as far out of my mind, as I can while trying to comfort her, so she won't sense just how frightened I am.

Tank just disappeared too. He never reentered the auditorium after sending me back inside. I know, because I kept glancing around to check. He dresses like a biker, he talks like a biker, and he warned me not to ask too many questions about bikers just like one of them would. The way he lives his life—free from all sensible, down-to-earth considerations—that's not something you can fake. He's like that, because that's the kind of life he's always led. The only reason I didn't think he was actually a real biker was because he volunteers at Grey's. But that doesn't prove a damn thing.

Bikers threatened Russell. They threw a brick through our dining room window. And a biker—Tank—knew Russell would be here unguarded for a family evening. He knew because he asked me and I told him. I may be crazy in love with said biker, but my investigative mind can't ignore all those connections. Or the evil little voice in the back of my mind telling me Tank might've just used me to get close to Russell, so he could kill him more easily.

I didn't tell him anything concrete about Russell's work, didn't mention he was running for Sheriff, because I didn't trust him enough to know everything about me after he refused to bring me to his home or tell me anything more about his life other than that he fixes cars for a living. Or maybe it was more than that, maybe in the back of my mind I always knew I can't trust him.

I was right not to trust him. My first reaction to his advances was the right one. I should've stayed away from him, should've listened to my intuition on this one. It's never led me astray before.

* * *

Tank

Russell pauses a little in front of the torture room that Scar used just the other day to get the information about Seven's whereabouts out of the reluctant informer we captured. I can still smell the fresh blood over the old blood that covers the walls and floors of this cramped, concrete-walled room. We never clean it. That adds to the fear factor. As does the wooden chair with leather straps in the middle of the room, and the heap of rusty tools and knives in the corner.

"Take a seat, Russell," I tell him in one of my more menacing tones, then nudge him forward through the doorway when he doesn't move right away. The overhead light in the room is on, so he'll be able to get a better look at me now, but it can't be helped. I still have most of my face hidden and I put on a hat in the car, but he might still be able to recognize me, if Kim ever brings me home down the line. But I'll worry about crossing that bridge when we get to it. We might never get to it, if Russell doesn't cooperate today.

The jolt from my nudge brings him back to reality from whatever daydream seeing this room woke in his mind. He squares his shoulders, juts his chin out too far, the way men fighting fear always do, then strides to the chair and sits, his head still held high, his eyes defiant. I can see the fear in them, I can smell it all around him, so he's not fooling me. He shakes visibly as I slam the metal door closed behind us.

"I do not deal with criminals," he says. "So you best just get on with it and kill me now. No need for these theatrics."

A street accent of his is coming through his carefully chosen, politically correct words. Probably the one he grew up speaking, but honed away over the years. It's another sign of how afraid he is.

"There's always room for theatrics," I say and walk to the corner to inspect the heap of torture stuff. It's a lie. I can't stand theatrics, especially when it comes to killing. I'll aim for a clean kill every time. But I'm a liar through and through. The only person I don't lie to is myself…and Kim when I told her I'll love her forever.

I bend down to pick up a knife and hear the chair rattle like he's trying to make a run for it. But when I turn, he's still sitting down at the very edge of the chair.

I stand up with the knife in my hand and walk over to him.

"You're afraid, Russell. I can tell you are, so there's no use denying it," I tell him. "But I didn't bring you all the way out here just to torture and kill you. We're here, so I can make you an offer."

"Like I already told you—" he says.

"Yeah, yeah, you don't deal with criminals," I interrupt in a bored voice. "But you might with me. Just hear me out before you make your final decision."

He's all out of replies, so he just stares at me defiantly.

"See, your eyes tell me you're not gonna hear me out, that you've already made your decision," I say, shaking my head slightly. "But I'm gonna make you the offer anyway."

"Go ahead," he mutters in a tone that suggests he's done hearing me beat around the bush. It tells me he has a backbone, tells me he might actually be a man of his word if he decides to give it to me.

"One way or another, you're not gonna end up the county Sheriff," I say. "I think we already established that tonight."

He gives a barely perceptible nod.

"But right now, you have the choice of withdrawing from the race for health reasons or whatever, and slipping into retirement peacefully. Instead of bleeding out in that chair."

His eyes are still defiant as fuck, and he's on the verge of telling me to go to hell with my offer, but I'm not done talking.

"But if you make the choice to die, you won't be the only one dying tonight," I say. "You'll just be the first. Your poor depressed wife will be next. I'll probably show her pictures of your mutilated body first, just to get a kick, because as you rightly figured out, I like theatrics."

That gets his attention. There's mostly fear in his eyes now, though some defiance is still left. Hopefully the rest of my threat will wipe it away.

"Then I'll pay a visit to your poor retarded son, though I'll probably wait a few days for the death of his mother and step-father to sink in before I let him join you guys. I’ve never killed anyone who stutters as bad as he does, I wonder how that’ll sound."

Disgust is warring with fear in his eyes now. Or maybe I'm just seeing that because I feel it. I hate saying these words. But it's all just theatrics. I won't do any of that. But he'll never know it. I'm too good a liar.

"As for your gorgeous step-daughter, Kim. I won't just kill her, she's too pretty for that. I'll take her home with me for awhile, then take her in all ways. I'll probably have to keep her in a cell a lot like this one, since that bitch has spirit. But she won't anymore, not after I'm done with her. I'll make her mine until there's nothing left of her."

Fuck, now I'm nauseous. Especially since this is just a twisted, dark version of what I want from her anyway. I never understood men who needed to possess a woman in that way, like she’s just one more thing they own. But I've seen a lot of that over the years from men who couldn't have it any other way.

"I'll keep her until I break her. Until she doesn't lift her pretty blue eyes from the ground anymore, and she never asks for anything ever again," I elaborate. "I'm sure you've seen plenty of women like that in your long law enforcement career."

I know I've seen plenty of them. His eyes and shaking bottom lip tell me he has too.

"And she'll know you could have saved her from it," I add. "I'll make sure of that. Your wife will know that too before she dies."

Judging by the way his hands start shaking, I'm guessing that's pushed him over the edge. But he's still not saying anything. Though I doubt that's because he wants to call my bluff. It's just that programming in his brain, that assertion about not dealing with criminals he kept repeating before.

"And I'm not even asking you to do anything illegal to prevent all that," I point out, just so we're absolutely clear. "All you have to do is announce your retirement tomorrow morning and name Joe LaVerne as your successor."

He's the guy the Dogs have under their wing, a fact that's not a secret to Russell, judging by the sharp look he gave me when I said the man's name.

"Oh, and no one can know what happened here tonight," I add. "Never. Or all those things I described will come true. Only in that case, your wife will watch you die. I'll give you some time to decide. But not very long. The more I think of her, the more I want Kim right now."

Now that's God's honest truth. The first one I spoke since we entered this room.

"So whatever you decide, you'll be doing me a favor," I conclude, to drive the point home.

I've always been a talker. If I wasn't in an MC, I'd make one hell of a car salesman, as has been pointed out by plenty of my MC brothers before. Silver tongue, Ms. Brown used to call it. Let's hope it buys me Russell's agreement tonight.

I walk over to the door and lean against it, start cleaning my nails with the knife I'm still holding. I can see Russell glaring at me, but I ignore him. It's best to make him think I'm fine with whichever choice he makes.

But the silence starts to drag very soon, the air in the room congealing into a solid mass pressing against me. I said I won't ever try to see Kim, if this man forces me to kill him tonight. But that might prove a lie too.

Every hour I spend away from her makes the next one harder to bear. Maybe if we had a couple more months together the break-up would be easier to face. But that's bullshit too. Staying out of her life will be impossible. And I won't be able to even if Russell dies tonight. So the old bastard better decide soon. There's no falling out of love with Kim.

"If I do this, my family won't be harmed?" he asks. It's a proud man's way of saying yes to a thing he thought he'd never do.

"You have my word," I say, peeling off the wall.

"Do we have a deal?" I add to hide the fact that I just fucking jumped in delight at his answer.

"Yes," he says. "I will resign tomorrow and retire. I will not sacrifice my family for my pride or my career."

"Good man," I say and toss the knife onto the heap of torture tools in the corner. "Come on, let's go give them the happy news. I'm sure your wife will be overjoyed at having you around the house more."

He eyes me sharply, quite possibly hearing the tone of joy in my voice. But I don't fucking care. As long as he keeps his end of the bargain, I'll keep mine too.

"Just so we're clear," I add as I open the door. "I'll kill the retard first and make you and your wife watch if you go back on your word. And, hell, I might make all three of you watch while I rape Kim. I'm a man of my word, so I hope you are too."

His face is the color of the grey walls around us.

"I am a man of my word," he assures me in a toneless voice. And I hope he really is, I hope for it like my life depends on it. Because it kinda does.