Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
CALVIN
I’m caught between ‘Atlas is a fucking murderer’ and ‘At least he told me before we were married and I was too entwined in him to want to leave.’
God, this is a fucking mess.
How could the man I was getting to know, the man whose company I’ve been enjoying for weeks, the man who seemed like a breath of fresh air be… a fucking killer?
A contract killer.
Fuck, he was paid to kill people.
What if some of those people were innocent, and just because someone waved enough money in his face, Atlas said, ‘Yeah, I’ll kill that grandma who bakes cookies for her grandkids on Saturday mornings’?
Okay, that might be a step too far. He said he was a killer, yes, but I didn’t get the impression he went after the innocents. But what does that say about me that I’m justifying what Atlas told me?
What the fuck am I going to do now? I was falling for him, seeing a whole ass future with that handsome, mature, fucking fit older man and he drops in my lap that he killed people for money.
Or is it kills? He didn’t say it was in the past. After the shit with Mitchell, I’ve had to learn to listen to what wasn’t said rather than the actual words that came out of people’s mouths. He said he was a killer, not that he used to be a killer. As in, he’s had current victims.
Guess it’s better than me finding out on my own, right?
I didn’t know Mitchell was a drug kingpin with a body count in the stratosphere—though the cops could never definitively prove it—until I saw him being perp-walked out of the architectural firm he helped found.
All of my co-workers saw and looked at me like I was in on his bullshit.
So, Atlas being upfront? A plus for him.
But he’s a damn killer!
It’s all so confusing, but what confuses me more is I wasn’t afraid of him.
The news was a shock and I think I almost passed out trying to affix that label to him, but I didn’t feel as if he’d hurt me.
If anything, I felt giddy that he shared such a big secret with me, knowing what it could have cost him.
But he’s a damn killer!
Fuck me, this is a mess. I just—
“Calvin!” Shameka shouts, slamming her hand down on the desk.
I startle and look up at her. “What?” I respond with much attitude.
She looks at me as if I’ve grown two heads. “I said your name like five times. You didn’t hear me?”
No, girl, my brain was fuzzy because my boyfriend told me he’s a contract killer. But at least he told me, right?
I keep those thoughts to myself and just say, “Sorry, my head was somewhere else. What’s up? You need help with a patient?”
“Nuh-uh,” she says, leaning her elbows on the desk. “What are you thinking about? That handsome man of yours?” I flick up an eyebrow and she grins with a squeal. “Now can you tell me about the date? I want to know everything!”
I wanted to give her all the tea right after the date, but with the bombshell Atlas dropped on me, I’d preferred to keep it to myself.
But she’s been trying to pull details out of me for the past few days and I’ve denied her. If I don’t throw her a bone, she’ll just hound me until I lose my patience and word-vomit all over her.
A smile tugs at my lips as I think about the actual date. We had a great time. Atlas was… thoughtful, sweet, respectful. Better than any date I’ve had in my life. I can tell Shameka about that part, right?
“Well,” I say, leaning back in my chair, “he took me to that new fusion restaurant downtown.”
Her eyes widen. “The one with the live music?”
“That’s the one. It was a great time.”
I go into detail about the date from start to finish, making sure to leave out Atlas’s shocking confession. It takes effort to keep up the charade of being blissfully in like with Atlas while I wrap up the evening.
When I’m done, Shameka has her hand over her heart, her eyes shining. “That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. I knew the older man would be right for you. When’s the next date?”
Swallowing thickly, I arrange the spotless desk to give my hands something to do… and so she won’t see my eyes are wet with unshed tears. Thinking about possibly not seeing Atlas again stabs at my heart, the pain more excruciating than I’d care to admit.
I get myself under control and meet her eyes. “I’m not sure. We’re still taking things slow.”
She nods, her expression all sappy and shit. “Let me know the next date and all the juicy details.” Shameka winks, and I snort. “Now I really do need your help. Mr. Sams isn’t eating again. You’re the only person he listens to.”
I sigh and push out of my chair, my break over. “He told me I reminded him of his son before they were estranged. I think he’s trying to make up for the fact that he wasn’t a great father.”
“Aw. That’s sad. Whatever helps, though. He might not have long left, but he still needs to eat.”
Mr. Sams has been with us for three months, and is in the end stage of liver failure. He’ll be moved to hospice as soon as the facility has an available bed. In the meantime, Shameka is right, he needs to eat.
I pat her on the back and walk to Mr. Sams’s room. When I step into the doorway, he looks over at me and his weathered face lights up. “Calvin, my guy. What’s shaking?”
Chuckling, I walk over and sit in the chair beside his bed. I pull the tray close and open his soup and jello. “Not much. Shameka says you’re not eating again. What’s wrong? You in any pain?”
He laughs, but it turns into a wheeze and he has a coughing fit that goes on for almost a minute.
When he has it under control, he rests back against his pillows, breathing raggedly. I check his vitals, making sure he’s okay and I don’t have to summon the doctor on call.
A heavy sigh leaves his lips. “I’m going to die alone, Calvin.
My son hates me, my wife is dead. Siblings are too old to travel this far.
I really fucked up my life. I want to die where someone actually likes me.
” He pats my hand with his calloused palm.
“You’ve treated me like I mattered for the past few months.
I don’t want to die in a place where I don’t recognize anyone. ”
Fuck, my heart hurts for him. He told me a little of his past, how he was a strict father who drank too much and rarely spent time with his wife and kid. His absence affected his son to the point where they don’t even have phone calls and Mr. Sams has no emergency contact.
With more strength than I would think was in his frail body, Mr. Sams grips my hand tight.
“If you have someone you love, whether it’s family or a girlfriend—” I give him a look and he laughs cautiously— “sorry, boyfriend… then you gotta hold onto ’em.
There can’t be anything in the world that should come between you.
Don’t be like me. Don’t let your days pass you by until you’re in a hospital bed, your insides on fire and regret living rent free in your head. Hmm?”
I try to smile, but I’m sure it comes out as just a twitch of my lips. “I hear you, Mr. Sams. Now come on, eat your jello. It’s lime, your favorite.”
He scowls. “I hate lime almost as much as I hate lemon.”
“Well, tough. It’s all we got.”
Mr. Sams laughs again, but pulls his tray closer to him and he eats it all.
Once done, he pushes the tray away and sinks further into the pillows. Then he’s snoring, his hand resting over his heart like it’s weighed down with his regrets.
As I make my rounds, I think about what Mr. Sams said. Is contract killing too big an obstacle for me and Atlas? Can I look past what he did before he met me? He said he only killed people who deserved it, but according to whom? What gave him the right?
What’s to stop him from doing it again? How can I be sure I’m safe with him?
I immediately discount that thought. If I’m safe with anyone, it’s Atlas. He told me his secret and left me alive. He didn’t threaten me not to tell anyone or he’d kill me next. He just… gave me space.
At any time, I could have called the cops on him, blew up his spot and had him carted away, and he would have… let me.
A cold-blooded killer would have silenced me so no one would know their secret if I threatened to expose them.
Mitchell taught me that.
When he came to the emergency room after hurting himself, I knew Atlas had a secret. Now I know it and… it makes sense. He’s mysterious and secretive, but it was never in a bad way. Just… perplexing.
Now I know why, and why he didn’t tell me when we met.
But… he did tell me. I know who he is and… I’m still alive.
So… fucking… confusing.
“Calvin,” one of the nurses says before I finish my rounds. I turn and see her at the nurses’ station, holding up the phone. “Call for you.”
I hurry over, wanting to get my rounds over with so I can relax and think about this Atlas dilemma.
“This is Nurse Hayes,” I say into the phone.
The phone line is quiet, so I say, “Hello, this is Nurse Hayes.”
I’m met with a whole lot of dead air. Then the annoying sound of heavy breathing.
Irritated now, I say, “Hello? Who is this?”
It’s quiet for a few beats, so I huff and start to pull the phone from my ear. Then I hear a crackle and in a low voice, almost a whisper, someone says, “See you soon.” Then they hang up.
A chill runs over my body. Only one person would say some ominous bullshit like that. I look left and right, thinking Mitchell will pop around the corner at any minute to finish me off.
Then I remember that fucker is locked up for the next seventy-plus years. He won’t be seeing me unless I decide to visit his penitentiary, and I’ll never do that.
But the fear doesn’t leave me, even when I take several deep breaths and give myself a hell of a pep talk.
Sighing, I step into my last patient’s room, pasting on a clinical smile. Mrs. Johnson waves me over and points to the television. “Hey, Nurse Hayes.” A shiver runs through me as I imagine Atlas calling me that, how nice it sounds on his lips. Fuck I miss him.
Maybe we can talk about… all this. It wouldn’t be so bad to talk, right?
“Mrs. Johnson, what’s your pain level?”
She stares distractedly at the television, waving me away. “Fine. Check out the news.”
“I asked for a level, not if it’s fine,” I say calmly, though I want to wring her neck. She’s my most troublesome patient, and today I’m not really in the mood. “If you want me out of your hair—”
“Calvin, look!” she says reedily, her voice holding a tinge of urgency that has me snapping my head toward the television. “That’s the next state over.”
I read the headline and all the blood drains from my face.
“Turn it up,” I say numbly, dropping her chart on her bed and inching closer to the television.
Mrs. Johnson does what I said and the news anchor’s voice comes through loud and clear, making my heart pound so hard I can feel it in my ears.
“… escaped this morning. Sources say the escape wasn’t meticulously planned, but was a spur-of-the-moment action.
One correctional officer is dead and two are in critical condition.
Mitchell Northman was sentenced to racketeering, transporting drugs across state lines, conspiracy to commit fraud, and weapons charges.
He was sentenced to seventy-five years in federal prison.
He was suspected of murder, but authorities weren’t able to make those charges stick.
Mitchell is considered armed and dangerous, so if you see him, do not approach.
Call law enforcement and clear the area. ”
My hands shake as I stare at the mugshot of my ex-husband, his handsome face peering at me with the promise of revenge in his eyes. Sweat dots my forehead and my breathing comes out in heavy pants, making me lightheaded. I sway on my feet, close to passing out.
My heart in my throat, I stumble back and fall into the chair beside Mrs. Johnson’s bed. She calls to me, but her voice is dimmed, not to be heard over the pulse thundering in my ears.
It was him. And I’m fucked.
I left him when he needed me most. He told me as much when he wrote to me from his jail cell after I sent him divorce papers. I thought I’d never see him again, that I’d be safe for the rest of my life.
Now, I’m not so sure.