Chapter Three
Selena
––––––––
"W here exactly are you taking us?" I ask after we turn down another side street.
"I'm still deciding."
Running my hand over the seat belt, I give it an anxious tug. "You don't need to kill me. I'm not going to turn you in to the cops."
His laugh has an edge. "Of course you'd say that."
"I really won't. I don't have a reason to."
"You watched me slit a man's throat."
"Exactly. If anything, I should be thanking you."
He takes the next corner faster than before. I catch him glancing at me. His frown pulls at his jawline, but it doesn't make him less handsome. I bet he even looks good when he ugly-cries. Do hit men ever cry? "You really wanted him dead."
"Sanford was an awful person," I say with a shrug. "I guess if I'm upset about anything, it's that you killed him before I could."
"God, you're naive," he snarls. His foot slams the brake pedal; I bounce in my seat, grimacing at how my head rattles. "Don't talk so casually about murder. Just because you held that gun doesn't mean you'd squeeze the trigger."
"I would have eventually," I argue.
"Not if a hundred fucking years went by." He's brought us near the Santa Monica Pier; I can see the Ferris wheel in the distance, the rotating seats blinking in a rainbow of colors as the sun sinks behind the reddish clouds over the ocean. He cuts the engine. "Some people are born to kill, you're not one of them."
"Guess we'll see."
Jamison clenches the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. Twisting his neck with patient speed, he scrutinizes me. "You said something like that earlier. Elaborate."
Is there a reason to hide this from him? I can't see one. If he's debating on slicing my throat and tossing me off the pier, this info won't escalate it. "Sanford hurt my best friend. I thought I'd kill him, get my revenge, and that would be that. But he told me there's someone else to blame. A guy he works for named Caruso Oakley."
"Forget it."
"Forget what?"
"Finding this Caruso guy. It's a waste of time."
"It's not!" I shout, loud enough that my ears ring. Jamison goes frozen, studying me, taking in my burst of raw rage. "How dare you say that? You don't know anything about what Valoria went through, how much she was tormented, how she... how she suffered." Don't cry, don't cry. Sucking in a gulp of air to wash away the heat pushing at the back of my eyeballs, I point at him. "If there are other people responsible for what happened to her, then I'm going to hunt them down. It's as simple as that."
He holds my glare, quietly challenging me. He releases a sigh that sounds like a steam engine, shaking his head in a gentle sway. "You're hopeless. Go home, it's the only way to guarantee you get to sleep peacefully on your own pillow."
"Instead of what?"
"A coffin," he says flatly.
He's trying to rattle me, but he doesn't understand how cemented I am in my decisions. "Until I avenge my friend, I'll never sleep peacefully."
Jamison grits his teeth. "I just said you could go home alive and you didn't even hear me. You're focused on your damn revenge."
"Because it's all I care about."
"You should care about living," he thunders.
"Well, I don't. If you're saying you're letting me go, though, I'll be on my way." Grabbing the handle, I start to open my door.
Jamison reaches over me, so close his shoulder rubs over my chest, and yanks the door shut again. We're nose to nose; I see the flecks of onyx in his rich brown eyes. "Learn to have a little fear, Selena. That's my free advice for you."
"I don't want anything from you."
"You want to become me."
I balk at that. "I don't..."
"You want to become a killer," he whispers thickly.
"Not that I want to, that I have to," I mutter.
He runs his gaze to my lips. "What you desire is insane, you know that."
I swallow at how the word desire sounds when it comes from him. "I'd never pretend what I'm doing isn't crazy," I admit.
"That's a start. Maybe you're not as hopeless as I thought." Sliding back behind the wheel, he starts the car but doesn't take it out of park. "Do you know where Caruso is?"
I shake my head. "I didn't even know he existed until today." My brain pings. "Do you know? Have you heard of him? Does he have anything to do with why you murdered Sanford?"
"Hold on," he says. "Before I answer anything, there's a more important question that has to be asked."
"Okay," I say warily. "Which is?"
There are whirlpools in his eyes. They make them blacker, colder, unavoidable. I stare into them, wondering if I'll be able to break free if he doesn't turn away. "I don't want to kill you. I also don't want you turning me in to the cops."
"I wouldn't—"
He holds up a finger nearly against my chin. "If I let you leave, you're going to fumble your way around the city, trying to find Caruso. You might not mean to turn me in, but a wrong move could put you on someone's radar and drag me down with you." He drums all ten of his fingers on the wheel, tracing the grooves, still holding my stare. "The question you need to ask, is do you really want revenge? At any cost?"
"Yes." I don't need time to think it over.
He nods slowly, and I swear to god, he actually looks... sad. But then it's gone, and the car is rumbling forward over the pavement, away from the pier with its glowing lights and ominous ocean horizon. "Then you need my help."
I recoil in surprise. "I didn't say that."
"You did." With a final, sobering look, he faces the street. He doesn't look at me again for the entire ride. It's for the best, because when I turn to the window, some of the tears I held in earlier start to leak out. Frustration, fear, elation, terror, defeat... and hope.
I don't need his help. I don't need anyone's help.
I can do this alone, I'd planned to from the start. But if Jamison insists on getting involved, then for now, I'll bite my tongue.
Especially if this keeps him from killing me.
***
T he tattoo shop is wedged between a PC repair store that doesn’t look like it’s seen a customer in a decade, and a laundry mat with windows so dirty they might as well be tinted.
Jamison parks in front, then climbs out without waiting to see if I’ll follow.
“Hey, what are we here for?” I ask, chasing after him.
“Before I can officially help you, I need to get the all clear.”
“From who?”
He pushes the tattoo door open. The name is scribbled on the glass in a flowing cursive font: Hot Ink. I’ve only been inside one of these studios once before. The memory starts to wriggle up my throat, choking me. What stops it is the sight inside.
The walls and floor are stained black, a matte texture so nothing reflects and everything has a dullness. There are a few displays of sample art on the wall near the door, just above the lone cracked leather couch. Otherwise, the lack of color feels intentional. It’s almost like this shop doesn’t want to sell you anything.
It's nothing like the one I went to with Valoria.
In the center, against the back wall, is a desk just big enough to fit the lithe woman with hair as black as the walls. It’s long and thick and it covers her eyes as she stares down at whatever she’s looking at in her hands.
“Iris,” Jamison snaps.
She lifts her head enough to squint at him and me. “What?”
“You’re not supposed to be on your phone, do you want Tusk to lay into you again?”
“He doesn’t care what I do as long as I watch the camera. You’re the only one that gets pissed.” Her attention darts to me. “Who’s the girl?”
“Nobody. Don’t talk to her.”
“I’m Selena," I pipe up.
Iris stares at me, but a single withering look from Jamison and she remains quiet. He points at me then at the sofa. “Sit and wait.”
“Fine,” I sigh, sitting on the sofa. It crunches beneath me like a bag of chips. Jamison peers at me intently, like he’s trying to convince himself I won’t go anywhere. I make myself smile and he glares harder. “Relax, I won’t get any tattoos while you’re gone.”
Iris snorts into her hand, looking away with a smile.
He ruffles his hair, taps his foot, then heads into the back left corner. I didn’t notice the door there because the handle is the same shade as the wall paint. It melds with the shadows perfectly. When he opens it, I see a flash of light; it illuminates the hard edges of his face, his deep scowl. His unease.
He’s worrying over what he’s about to do.