I have a list longer than my rap sheet of people I’m going to deal with just as soon as the opportunity presents itself.
Abel keeps me on a short leash, so for as long as I want to live, I don’t get to do shit. But soon, once my contract is up, I’ll have the freedom to deal with the wife-beater in 2A the same way I dealt with Lance. Then after that, I can visit the child abuser in 3C. Everyone keeps their shit so quiet, it’s not surprising the cops aren’t onto it, but I know about it.
I live here. I hear the crying.
Climbing the five-flight walk-up with an unconscious blonde should be more surreal than it is.
I should be concerned that Abel will put a bullet in my brain before the sun rises tomorrow. I should be concerned about the cops smashing my door in. I should even be worried about a lifetime prison sentence for carrying her away from her workplace without her consent, but with her blood seeping through her coat and onto my hand, the only thing I can focus on is Jess’ fluttering lashes and the soft whimpers that escape her plump lips each time we turn and start up the next flight.
I killed a man last night.
In cold blood.
But tonight, I’m worried about a pretty girl who needs medical care – but I can’t take her to the hospital. I can’t drop her off at the hospital doors, nor the cop shop. That’ll create a damn panic.
So what do I do?
I bring her home.
Bracing her weight in one arm and a knee, I work to find my keys and jimmy the door open. I live with a shitty lock – and a high-end security alarm system made up of pots and pans, water glasses, and a Glock .45 within hand’s reach at all times.
Shoot first.
Ask questions later.
Pushing the flimsy door open, I walk through and kick it closed, then two steps later, I’m in the middle of my apartment – kitchen, living, and bedroom all in one. The only door, other than the one I just walked through, belongs to the tiny bathroom. No bath. Just a leaky shower. One toilet.
I bet the blonde has no clue what living like this is like.
And thanks to a lifetime of living with a military dad who got off on kicking the shit out of me for infractions I may or may not have committed, my bed is made to the hospital standard.
Corners tucked in. Sheets spotless and wrinkle free.
Good ol’ Daddy taught me how to be clean. How to live a minimalist life. How to get in and out without anyone knowing. How to protect even the flimsiest home from invasion.
Lying her on my bed, I pull her skirt down for modesty, then move back to my door and set my homemade alarm system; it’s the bestno-money can buy.
I swing by my little kitchen nook before making my way to the bed and take out the first-aid kit more equipped than any regular home might carry.
Shucking off my coat, I lay it over the arm of my ratty two-seater couch and shake out the cold that penetrates my bones. I blow into my hands and glance down at Jess.Is she cold?She should be, but she wouldn’t know, since she’s still unconscious on my bed with pursed lips and a severe frown.
“Jessica?” Kneeling beside her, I brush long, almost-platinum blonde hair away from her face. “Jess? Wake up.”
She doesn’t. She doesn’t react except to pull her brows in tighter.
“Jess.” I stroke her cheek. The contrasts are blinding. My dark tan to her fair skin. My ink to her milky white purity. “Jess. You have to wake up. I can’t take you to the hospital. You need to wake up.”
I glance at my first-aid kit and consider the ammonia. It wakes even the most injured man after a fire fight.
Peeling her coat back, blood oozes through her shirt and stains further around to her belly. Looking back at her face, to the slightly relaxed V between her eyes, I bite off a curse.
She’s making me choose. Again. She continues to force my hand.
“Motherfuck.” Unfastening the bottom three buttons on her blouse, I push it back and fight the rage that sings through my blood. A toned belly gives way to blood that ain’t red anymore. To a cut about two finger lengths long that runs along her bottom rib.
He got her.
I never saw it last night, but he got her good.