Bad for You

Six

SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD

“ C i stai provando?”

Franklin doesn’t appreciate my sass and charges toward me, swinging his sword like he’s in some B-grade martial arts movie. But like always, he fails to connect with me as I easily dodge him.

“Too slow, old man.”

Insult someone’s pride—works like a charm.

He should know better. He’s been my sparring partner for years. He’s taught me all I know. But the thing he never anticipated was that I would eventually outfight him.

I came here a broken, scared little girl, a piccola as Gianna still calls me, but now, I’m an uncontrollable force that will stop at nothing to get what I want.

And what I want is a simple request.

What I want is to find my mother. I don’t know what I would say to her when I do, though. I guess I just want to look at her eyes…look her in the eye as I cut out her heart, just as she did to me.

I’m not being melodramatic. Thanks to Franklin, I know how to do such things.

The second thing is to burn Saint Maria’s Orphanage to the ground, but not before torturing Father Merry in the most creative of ways.

Again, thanks to Franklin, I can give a man a very artistic Colombian necktie in ten seconds.

But I would savor my time with Father Merry just as he did with me. Just the thought has my body tingling in excitement.

Once upon a time, these things were my main reasons for enduring the tests Gianna laid down for me. For years, she fed me. She schooled me. And in return, she pushed me to my breaking point—until I no longer could feel my body physically and metaphorically because her grand plan was soon to be revealed.

She adopted me all those years ago for one purpose and one purpose only—to be a killer.

I’m Gianna’s secret weapon. No one suspects a young girl to be able to do what I’ve been trained to do. However, I wait for her to reveal my purpose in her grand scheme because I know she has something big planned.

I say I’m ready.

But she says that I’m not.

So I wait.

I train.

And this is the reason I stay here. I cannot go until I get what I want.

And pay no heed to the longing I feel whenever he ignores me, which is all the time.

This brings me to my last and most important want.

Lennon Shepherd.

But he would rather slit his own throat than talk to me ever again.

That night all those years ago changed everything.

The boy can hold a damn grudge. But I know it’s more than that.

He felt betrayed. He put his trust in me—something he’s not done since—and in return, I made an example out of his compassion, making him appear weak, which Gianna despises.

That day changed things for me as she didn’t look at me like a feeble young girl. She saw my spirit and trained me accordingly.

She trained us both.

But day by day, he slipped further and further away from me and before long, I only ever saw him when we trained.

He made clear we would never be what we once were. And I was the one to blame.

I try not to care, but when I see him, I know I’m fooling myself because I care. I care a lot.

Lenny is now eighteen years old.

He has always been attractive, but he has grown into himself and no longer is the boy I once knew.

Lennon Shepherd is all alpha man.

His mussed brown hair is long on top with shorter sides. The longer strands of hair fall in just the right way, framing his chiseled face, a face I usually want to slap as he lifts those full lips into a knowing smirk when he catches me watching him.

He always seems to have a five-o’clock shadow. Never clean-shaven, which just adds to his bad-boy vibe.

His arms are inked. The pieces on his body are well-thought-out and map imperative events, objects, and times in his life that impacted him.

He’s literally a work of art.

To complete that perfection, he has a silver hooped nose ring that just seems to accentuate that strong, perfect nose.

His style is typical Lenny—Hawaiian shirt with the buttons halfway done up to expose that broad chest, ripped black jeans, silver rings and chunky linked bracelets, and boots. Something which sounds so simple looks anything but on Lenny, and that’s because of the attitude he sports. He turns heads the moment he enters the room.

He knows it.

The girls he’s snuck into the house also know it.

The thought of those girls has images of them floating in the pool, belly-up, crashing into me, and a giggle slips past my lips.

On cue, just like always, the sound alerts Lenny, and he turns to look at me.

He may hate me, but the connection we’ve had since the moment we met still runs strong. Most days, the angst between us makes me want to kiss and slap those cheeks.

When our eyes lock, he looks at me how he always does—with the perfect poker face.

His expression doesn’t change.

He gives me absolutely nothing.

And I hate him for it.

How can he be so unaffected by me? While I am burning up inside.

The sun catches the compass pendant from his neck. I wonder if he’s found what he’s looking for. His shirt seems to be unbuttoned more so than usual, revealing a tanned expanse of his broad chest. I know what he’s packing beneath that shirt.

His body is that of a fighter—lean and muscled.

That, coupled with a face carved by the devil himself and not many can withstand the charms of Lennon Shepherd.

And boy, does he know it.

“Messa a fuoco!” Franklin yells and takes advantage of my daydreaming as he rams the butt of the sword into my stomach, winding me.

“Motherfucker,” I curse under my breath, directing my curse at Lenny, who pulls a sarcastic pained face before walking inside.

“You know better, bambina .”

Franklin has been a father figure to me, which is the only reason I allow his term of endearment. If anyone else were to call me this, I would cut out their tongue.

“I hate him.”

“Good, use that anger in how you know.”

He’s right.

Picking up my sword, I circle Franklin, and all is right in the world once again.

I may be a skilled fighter, but matters of the heart? Gianna has failed to teach me how to fight that battle and win.

Franklin and I train until my body aches and sweat coats every inch of my flesh. But the pain makes me feel alive.

Just as I trip him and place the tip of my blade to the hollow of his throat, Gianna appears. Like always, I didn’t hear her approach, another thing she taught me.

Light on my feet, but heavy as I swing my blade.

“Very good, piccola , but watch your footing.”

Before I can argue that nothing is wrong with my footing, she bends low and sweeps her leg out, tripping me over. I land near Franklin on the grass. I don’t bother getting up.

Her face appears above me, smiling in victory.

She’s just as striking as she was the first moment we met. And just as deadly.

During my years here, I’ve learned very little about her. She holds her cards close to her chest. I never pushed because I learned early on that Gianna doesn’t do emotion.

Her face is beautiful, but it’s a mask because beneath that facade lays such malice. She is unfeeling. And I fear I am now too.

She has educated me, and thanks to her, I’m a good pupil in both education and martial arts.

But I am still very much a naive girl for everything in between.

I think back to the kind man, Aldo. All those years ago, he was the one who was supposed to be my savior, but Gianna took me instead.

I wonder what happened to him.

From being unwanted since I was born to having two people want me; something is not right. But I cannot ask Gianna. I wouldn’t get an answer, so I don’t waste my breath. But I can’t help but wonder why she adopted me instead.

“Get up. We’re going out,” she says, offering me her hand.

I know better than to accept.

I stand of my own accord, dusting myself off.

Another rule of Gianna’s—cleanliness is next to godliness.

“You look a fright. Go get cleaned up. I will call for you in an hour.”

She turns to leave with no further explanation.

Leaving the house is not a common occurrence, especially at night.

But I know better than to argue because when Gianna speaks, it’s an order.

My fingers glide over the silk ruffles of my ball gown.

It’s hard to believe this is me who stands in front of the mirror. I’ve never worn anything like this before. But when I entered my room and saw the red dress on the bed, it was clear Gianna had something big planned.

She gave me no direction on how I was to present myself. She never has.

What I see on TV about girls my age getting ready for milestone events such as prom or birthdays is so foreign to me.

They look so happy.

Their smiles are so big.

But I can’t feel what they do because I do not know how.

I know something is wrong with me. Perhaps I’m broken to be without feeling.

But when I see them laugh and cry, I feel absolutely nothing. I want to experience this rainbow of emotions, but I cannot.

I step closer to the mirror, leaning forward so my face is inches away. I burst into staged laughter, wiping away my imaginary tears. I force myself to feel…something.

But I don’t.

I use my fingers to tip my mouth into a wide grin, hoping to express something remotely human.

But I look like a fraud.

Only when I release my mouth do I feel myself.

I’ve not mingled with peers because I’ve been homeschooled. I don’t leave the house because I have everything I need here. I don’t have any friends, bar Cat, but that’s by choice because I dislike people. I watch them on TV, and their exchanges look like so much work.

I don’t know how to laugh and gossip about boys or do makeup because I just don’t care about trivial things that mean nothing to me.

The friendships I read about or watch play out in movies seem so fake. There’s so much drama, and all for what? From what I can see, most people don’t like each other and only formulate friendships because it seems to be society’s way of acceptance.

I don’t want to fit in.

I just want to be me.

If that makes me a freak or a weirdo, then I would rather that than be someone I am not.

My long brown hair is loose, and my makeup is light.

I have Gianna to thank for my simplicity. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and she is without makeup or fancy hairdos.

Her confidence is all the wardrobe she needs.

The strapless red dress has a sweetheart neckline that pinches at the waist before ballooning into many layers of tulle.

It’s rather extravagant, making me wonder where we’re going.

I have two minutes to spare as I slip on my heeled knee-high boots. With nowhere to carry my blade, I have hidden it inside.

I’m always prepared for battle—another lesson learned.

I make my way down the staircase, head held high regardless of the fact the heels hurt my feet. But in pain comes discipline, so I focus on that because I have a feeling a lot more pain is to be had tonight.

And that’s confirmed when Lenny appears at the bottom of the staircase. He wears a black suit. White shirt. Black bow tie. A red rose is pinned to the silk lapel of his jacket.

When he sees me, something happens that hasn’t happened in a very long time—his poker face slips, and I see something other than hate behind those blue-gray eyes.

It’s soon gone when I ascend the last stair.

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do I.

We simply stand and wait for further command.

Even though we don’t speak, we never have an uncomfortable silence. It doesn’t make sense, but there is comfort in the silence.

I focus on something other than his scent. He always smells good. I often smell him before I see him. It’s a Lenny thing.

But his mouthwatering fragrance can go to hell when he mutters under his breath, “There is a girl hidden underneath there after all.”

“Fuck you,” I counter, refusing to look at him.

“Aw, sorry, my bad. I was mistaken.”

“Go fu—”

“Enough,” Gianna says, entering the foyer.

She appears breathtaking in a fitted white gown.

She looks me over and gives nothing away. I wonder if she approves.

She rearranges the necklines to expose more of my ample cleavage. She brushes back my hair. There is no love to her touch, though. She uses me as a pawn in whatever game she soon plays.

When she looks down at my feet, I lift my skirt to reveal my shoes.

Even though they are dressy boots with a bow and zip, she understands why I chose these instead of heels.

“Perhaps you will survive the night after all.”

Her comment isn’t made for shock value—she means it.

I don’t react, though, because unlike the girls my age who respond to normal events with happiness and excitement, this is my normal. The thought of being in danger is my happiness and excitement.

She leads the way, and we follow her out the front door.

It’s a warm summer evening. Magic is in the air.

A large black luxury car awaits us. We step in, and the driver takes us toward the unknown.

Bach plays softly over the speakers. None of us talk.

Lenny peers out the window. I wonder what he sees.

He could leave at any time, yet he returns. I wonder why. He is of legal age to thrive on his own. He has his choice of girls to start a future. But he stays. I once hoped it was because of me. But that whimsical nonsense was forgotten long ago.

The prospect of being in danger excites me. It’s the only time I feel alive.

What would Dr. Phil say?

The drive is long, but I’m not anxious. Gianna has taught me that all good things come to those who wait.

Like all good predators, we must wait for the perfect moment to strike. Premature action can be costly, and there is no room for error.

We arrive at a large white mansion lit up by lights. A party is being held within the extravagant walls. Many expensive cars are parked outside, and the guests who arrive wear nothing but the finest threads.

Our driver pulls up behind a line of cars.

Gianna adjusts her pearls and exhales softly. “Italian only.”

Both Lenny and I are fluent, thanks to her teachings.

We both nod.

She doesn’t say another word as she exits the car. We follow, knowing better than to ask questions.

Being out in the “real world” is still foreign to me. I’ve taken comfort in being inside my home because I never had a desire to see what was outside the walls. I’ve been out there, and all it did was cause me pain.

But being here now, among all these people, I wonder if perhaps I’ve missed out on all these years.

All the teachings I’ve learned have been through books and Gianna. I never felt disadvantaged. But was that because Gianna taught me that she was all I needed to survive?

I quash down such thoughts because I don’t like them. Despite Gianna’s detachment, she has still been the kindest human. I accept what she offers because a starving dog always does.

Another lesson she taught.

But as I look around, I realize that perhaps I only starve because she never feeds me enough. I took what she offered and appreciated it because I had nothing else. But I guess any meal appears appealing if you’re always hungry, and I’m always hungry for more.

Lenny towers over the men double his age here, and I notice the heads of many women turning as he passes them. I barely suppress the urge to snap their necks.

Gianna air-kisses the cheeks of a man who smiles, but it’s not a pleasant gesture. It’s that of a predator, one I have seen before.

He does not recognize me.

But I recognize him.

He sat at that poker table the night I met Aldo. But unlike Aldo, he is a bad man, one who was there to engage in illicit acts against children who needed his protection, not his vile hands on their innocent bodies.

“You’re always full of surprises,” he says, eyeing me hungrily.

I’m going to rip out his eyes and feed them to him.

Just as I step forward, fingers wrap around my wrist, fingers I’ve not felt in a very long time.

The electricity radiating from Lenny’s touch will surely set me on fire. He has read me better than I thought, but I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s always known me better than I’ve known myself.

The move was discreet, so no one saw. Well, no one but Gianna.

This is a test, and I failed.

It won’t happen again.

Subtly removing myself from Lenny’s grip, I smile and fake innocence, just as any normal young girl would.

The man makes clear what he wants, and when he whispers something in Gianna’s ear, she looks at me as if weighing over his request.

Eventually, she nods.

The man steps forward.

The smell of cigars and heavy-handed cologne brings me back in time.

He loops his arm through mine, escorting me away.

I don’t turn away, but I hear something which warms my heart.

“You cannot fight her battles,” Gianna says in Italian.

Lenny tried to help me, and I need to prove to him that I don’t need his help. I don’t need anyone.

Confidence courses through me, and I allow this asshole to believe I’m his willing fuck doll to do with what he wills.

I don’t care if he is Gianna’s friend.

I don’t care if this is his grand home and this is his lush affair.

And that’s because I don’t care—period.

I’m so broken; I don’t think I can ever be repaired.

So tonight, he dies—and dies by my hand.

My first kill…

Is this why Gianna brought me here? Dressed me in the fanciest silks to take the life of a man who deserves to be dead?

We ascend the staircase, and it disgusts me that no one seems to care when a man escorts a girl half his age upstairs. Perhaps this is because they’re just as vile as he.

We walk down a long hallway, and I admire a marble statue of a cherub playing a harp. So pretty. Such pretties disguise what lurks behind this wealth.

He opens a door. A very extravagant bedroom is behind the white door.

We step inside, and I smell the same cologne he wears. This is his room.

He closes the door and leans against it with a grin.

He takes his time examining me, making no secret of what he’s thinking. The look reminds me of all the times I was brought down to that basement. Of all the times my body was desecrated in a place that should have been holy.

“You don’t understand English?”

I simply smile.

I wonder if he knows Aldo. I want to ask, but I cannot. I need to just exist.

He pushes off the door, raising his hands like he means no harm. But I know what those hands can do. “We’re just going to have some fun,” he says, but clucks his tongue. “Don’t know why I’m bothering. You can’t understand a fucking word I’m saying.”

He laughs.

I continue to smile.

The closer he gets, the more intense the memories invade my mind.

Squeak…

Squeak, squeak…

Squeak, squeak, squeak…

Was it his turn once his friend had finished?

“We can’t save them all.”

That’s what Aldo said to me, and he was right.

In this world, we can only save ourselves.

The asshole stands in front of me. He looks like any man you’d pass on the street. He doesn’t look like a monster, a vile beast mothers warn their children about. And it’s because of this fact that he is the most dangerous monster of all.

But at this moment, I realize that so am I.

He underestimated me because, to him, all I am is a pretty prize, which is why Gianna dressed me this way. Looks can be deceiving, and in this asshole’s case, he is about to be betrayed in the most violent of ways.

He brushes the backs of his fingers along my chest, watching for any cues.

I continue smiling.

“Good girl,” he hums, leaning forward and planting a kiss on the side of my throat. “You smell like strawberries. I bet you’re ripe for the picking.”

Vomit rises because who the fuck speaks this way? Is it supposed to be romantic? I don’t know because I don’t do romance, but I can’t imagine anyone would care to be compared to a fruit.

In this instance, I don’t understand a word he is saying.

His kisses trickle down my neck and over the tops of my breasts. He reaches around and unzips my dress. I stand completely still.

When my dress pools by my feet, he stands back and looks at me.

I’m in a black strapless bra and matching underwear.

“So innocent,” he mistakenly says because he has just revealed that he sees me as no threat.

What an idiot.

He rubs over the front of his pants, his dick swelling.

Gianna had a good mind to teach me the difference between men and women and all the sex talk which a child is to learn to keep them safe against men like this stronzo .

But my safety was breached long ago.

He unzips his pants and withdraws his hard cock. He begins stroking it before beckoning me with the other hand.

I fake nervousness as I walk over.

He plants a hand on top of my shoulder, forcing me to my knees. He grips my chin and opens my mouth wide.

“Have you sucked dick before?”

“Fuck you, you filthy swine,” I sweetly say in Italian.

“I bet those big cocksucking lips have made many men come.”

Is this the only thing men think women are good for?

In the movies, in books I read, men do not speak to women this way. But is that make-believe? This is real life, and all I’ve ever experienced in this lifetime is men who use and abuse women for their own perverted needs.

“Come now, I don’t have all night.”

He draws my face toward his crotch, his fingers still forcing my mouth open. I have no other choice.

The moment he hits the back of my throat, memories assault me, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I wish to erase them forever and not have them a part of me.

But they are.

They’ll never leave me.

They make up who I am, and I realize I must use that as fuel to take back what was stolen from me.

He uses my hair as reins to roughly direct the tempo, and when he pulls out, only to shove himself back into my mouth, I gag.

“Daddy’s good girl!” he hollers in delight.

But his comment triggers something in me. It reminds me of who I am. Who I am a spawn of.

Half sinner.

Half saint.

And now, I am Daddy’s girl as I reach for the knife in my boot.

This bastard is too lost to his pleasure to realize what I’m doing as I suddenly pull back. He looks down, a look of annoyance plastered on his face, but that soon turns to horror when he watches me ram the knife into his cock.

A stunned breath leaves him, which will be one of the last he takes as I stab him in the crotch over and over again. Blood squirts from the wound, showering my face and upper body.

The bloodlust soon rouses the demons inside me, and I happily dance with them as I slice off his cock.

A wheeze slips past his lips as he drops to both knees, grabbing his dickless crotch.

“Bad dog,” I mock in English as I want him to know I’ve been privy to this charade the entire time.

I slap his cheeks with his severed dick before tossing it over my shoulder like the garbage that it is.

“Please, no, I have a wife and kids.”

I’m not sure why he shared this information with me. Was he thinking of them when he forced himself down my throat?

He appears to be in shock while I, still on my knees in front of him, do as I wanted to—I stab my knife into his eyeballs and remove each one with ease.

Anything is easy if you know what you’re doing. All you need to do is cut the optic nerve, and that sucker will pop out like an avocado pip.

I suddenly burst into laughter at the analogy.

“Open up,” I say, slapping his cheek, and as he wheezes, I toss his eyeballs into his mouth and shove them down his throat with two fingers.

He collapses onto his side as he is now the one to gag.

I slowly stand, looking at my handiwork with pride.

I know I should feel disgust for what I’ve done.

But I don’t.

I’m hungry for more.

The door bursts open, snapping me from my bloodlust state. I turn and see Lenny.

“Hi.” I wave with the bloody knife in hand, smiling wide.

“Hi,” he finally replies, closing the door behind him.

He looks around the room as if surveying for danger, but doesn’t he realize that I’m the threat?

“What a mess you have made, tesoro mio ,” he says, and his term of endearment catches me off guard.

“It’s not a mess,” I counter, dropping to one knee and yanking on the hair of the man who is on the brink of death. “It’s fucking art.”

I allow Lenny to see me for who I am as I slash my knife across the man’s throat and watch blood spurt from the wound. I watch the life drain from him and feel nothing. Only when he takes his last breath do I stand, but not before spitting on his corpse.

Lenny stands by my side.

The silence envelops us once again.

But I realize this is the first time he’s spoken to me without hatred. Actually acknowledged me. Is this what I have to do to repair the damage I did?

He links his fingers through mine, and I allow him to lead me to the en suite. He directs me to sit on the toilet, and I watch as he reaches for a washcloth and runs it under the water. Once it’s wet, he begins washing my face and chest with it.

The warmth feels heavenly, which is ironic, considering what he’s washing away.

He runs the washcloth under the water many times and meticulously cleans me. The gesture does something to me.

It fills my heart with something other than hate. Perhaps I’m not dead inside after all?

Once I’m clean, he coaxes me to stand.

I open my eyes and accept the mouthwash he offers. I gargle, and when I spit it into the sink, I’m thankful I can no longer taste him in my mouth.

Peering at myself in the mirror, I don’t look any different even though I am.

I just killed a man, a man who hurt others. A man who would have hurt me.

Does that make his death okay?

I grapple with that moral question as Lenny returns with my dress in hand.

I didn’t even hear him leave.

I redress and look exactly how I did before I entered this room. But nothing is the same inside. I don’t know if I passed Gianna’s test, but honestly, I don’t care. I’ll deal with the consequences and accept whatever punishment comes my way.

Lenny grips me by the shoulders and spins me to face him.

He is so much taller than I am.

But I don’t feel fragile in his presence, and that’s because he knows the damage I can cause.

He’s seen it.

But what he does next, I don’t understand.

The blood.

The violence.

The fury.

I do.

But as he presses his lips to mine, I cannot comprehend the feelings swimming inside my heart.

It hurts, akin to being kicked in the chest.

It also leaves me breathless.

But the pain—it hurts so good.

He pulls away slowly, and the kiss is chaste. I don’t understand why he did this. He reads my confusion as he runs his thumb across the apple of my cheek.

“I want you to remember this night for something else.”

Kiss and kill…

Kill and kiss…

My first kiss.

My first kill.

And I don’t know what’s worse.

His words touch me because he would rather replace the violence with something tender. He knows this changes everything. But is he attempting to save me before I am lost forevermore?

I don’t make a fuss and nod.

But little does Lenny know, he saved me long ago.