5. Delancy
Delancy
I t’s the end of November and my least favorite month is on the horizon.
I haven’t seen Noah in a few days, even though I’ve heard her through the walls plenty of times. I’m not avoiding her on purpose. I’ve been busy helping my brother with a QBM task. He rarely needs my help, so I forced myself to answer his call.
My demons are restless.
I need to kill again.
But it’s still too soon after my last assignment. Fucking Vickie’s mouth did nothing to ease my urge for violence. In fact, I think it made it worse because I felt guilty afterwards.
Guilty that it wasn’t Noah.
Maybe the shooting range can help. Guns aren’t my favorite weapon to kill with, but they’re useful for sniper hits when I’m unable to get close to a target.
I rarely accept sniper hits since I’m unable to pose the kill as an accident.
It opens me up to the vulnerability of a job being traced back to me.
Still, I like to keep my shooting skills sharp.
The biting cold slices through my leather jacket as I weave in and out of morning rush hour traffic on my black and orange KTM 990 Duke motorcycle.
My fingers are already numb despite the gloves I wear.
I hate winter. The cold reminds me of my childhood—being left to die outside in the snow.
I tried to run. I made it out the front door of our house before a pair of large, strong arms caught me and plunged a knife into my stomach.
When I was found, frostbite was beginning to kick in, and I was minutes from dying.
I was told I was lucky to be alive. Everyone said my guardian angel was protecting me that night.
No.
This was no divine intervention. God wouldn’t let me live just so I could spend the rest of my years killing and seeking revenge for my mother’s death.
Perhaps it was the devil who saved me.
I’ve already killed the men who forced me to slit her throat. For years, I stalked them. Played games with them to ignite fear in their every waking moment. I put them on edge for months before making my move.
The man who tied my mother down to the chair was first. I kept him in the basement of an abandoned home, deep in the mountains of the Catskills.
No one could hear his screams as I left him there for days to piss himself, starve, and lose his mind.
Before his organs failed, I returned. I gave him water and food, just enough to survive while I carved small, but deep cuts all over his body.
A slow, agonizing death.
The man who put the knife in my hand was next. I cut off his hands and applied a tourniquet so he wouldn’t bleed out. I strung him up to a wall and played a game of knife-throwing. I left him there with knives embedded in his legs, stomach, chest, and arms until the life slowly drained from him.
I saved the man who chased after me and stabbed me for last. I dumped him out in the woods in the middle of a big snowstorm and hunted him.
Just when he thought he’d lost me, I'd fire a shot his way.
It took him nearly five hours before he ran out of steam and collapsed into the snow.
His skin was blue and frost bitten when I approached him.
I stabbed him in the same spot he did me and left him there to die.
The bobcats and cougars ate well that night, leaving me barely any remains to dispose of the next day.
His blood is still warm on my hands. It’s been eight months since I finally ended his year-long torture.
The moment I turned eighteen, I’ve been on this path of vengeance and there’s one more name on my list—the man who ordered her death. Killing him will shift power within the New York City mafia scene.
My shoulders ache, and my body desperately needs sleep. I tried to catch up last night, but Skittles spent hours watching some ridiculous reality TV show. My banging on the wall did nothing but prompt her to turn up the volume at full blast.
I want to strangle her.
The thought quickly turns sexual as I imagine my hands giving her a lovely necklace while I fuck her into the mattress.
Get a grip, Delancy. Stop thinking about fucking your neighbor.
The thoughts are becoming too frequent. The more I see her, stalk her, hear her moans from the other side of the wall, the more I crave to be near her. Or perhaps it’s the way we banter because I’ve never met someone who is as fast with the quips as her. I’ve met my match, and it’s exhilarating.
This is a sign to move out and retire the Astoria safe house, but for some reason, my stomach turns at the thought of leaving.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” a familiar silky voice sounds from behind me.
I’m at a stall, preparing my weapon, and slowly turn to find my lovely rainbow bright. As if thinking about her summoned the woman who haunts my thoughts, twenty-four seven.
“Kevin, you look like a disaster this morning.” My eyes travel up and down her body. A beautiful disaster. She’s wearing leggings and an oversized t-shirt that hangs off her shoulder, revealing a purple sports bra to match the purple mess of hair piled on top of her head.
“Stop calling me Kevin!”
“Did someone kidnap you from bed?” I sniff the air between us and ignore my cock jerking at her jasmine and citrus scent. It’s an expensive perfume. Her favorite. “No time for a shower, Smelly Cat?”
“Fuck off with that. I smell fantastic!”
She reaches for my gun, her fingertips skimming over the metal, but I snatch her by the wrist before she’s able to grab it.
“Whoa there, Killer. Keep those slutty paws off my baby.”
Surely, she wasn’t trying to grab my gun to shoot me.
“Slut shaming?” She tugs her arm from my grip. “How sexist of you, Laptop.”
This little brat.
“What are you doing here? Are you stalking me?” I ask, secretly hoping she is stalking me.
We’re all the way in the Morrisania section of the Bronx. This city is massive, and I run into her here?
I’m not a fan of coincidences.
Not to mention she walked into the gun range owned by New York City’s most notorious mobster. Does she know the danger that surrounds her?
“Why would I stalk you, Del? We literally live next to each other.”
Fair.
“I’m here to learn how to shoot a gun, dumbass.”
Interesting. Why would a bartender need to learn how to shoot? Is she planning to carry? Gun laws in the Big Apple are strict. Though, she doesn’t seems like one to abide by the laws.
“Guns are dangerous,” I say as if she’s a child. “They go bang bang real loud.”
She growls, and it’s rather adorable. It’s why I enjoy messing with her.
Her anger is intoxicating.
“Who’s teaching you how to use a gun, anyway?” I look around and see a couple of big guys standing behind her. They’re regarding me as if I’m about to strike out and murder Noah.
Wait... are they her bodyguards? Those men sure are acting like they're protecting her.
“It’s none of your business who’s teaching me or why I want to learn, you nosey motherfucker.”
The snark catches me off guard and a laugh slips past my lips.
“What’s so funny?”
I quickly recover, shaking off the shock of finding another human amusing, and say, “You’re letting one of these yahoos teach you?”
“What? Can you do it better?”
I offer her the cockiest smile, which seems to piss her off based on the red in her cheeks deepening and return to my stall to pick up my gun. Pointing at the target on the far end, I fire five shots, then hit the button to bring the paper to me. I tear it off and hand it to Noe.
Her mouth drops open.
“Who the hell are you?”
The corner of my mouth turns up and that funny feeling of amusement returns. Fuck, why do I like it?
“Teach me,” Noah says, her eyes lighting up with... lust.
She’s... turned on?
My gaze drops to her tits, and I wonder if her nipples are hard underneath that top.
“Stop ogling me and teach me how to shoot, Del.”
If she were mine, I’d punish her for being such a brat.
A bossy little brat. I take a step back, waving my hand at the stall for her to step in.
I attach a new shooting target paper to the hook before sending it to the back and reload the magazine as Noah gets into position.
She eagerly reaches for the gun when I set it down.
I tsk and slap her hand, garnering a frown from her. I grab the supplied shooting earmuffs and plastic eyewear.
“Always wear protection.”
I smirk, placing the glasses on her face. Her mouth forms an ‘o’ as if understanding the double innuendo. I try to put the earmuffs on her too, but she snarls and snatches it from my hands to do it herself.
“Treat all guns as if they’re loaded, never point it at another person, and keep it aimed at the floor, your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.”
She rolls her eyes at my safety lecture and fidgets on her feet. She may be putting on a strong front, but I can tell she’s nervous.
I place my hands on her shoulders and turn her to face the target, tapping my toe on the instep of her feet.
“Spread these and bend slightly. Toes should align.”
She follows my instructions and once comfortable in her stance, she leans back.
“Lean forward, not back,” I whisper, my breath brushing her ear. She shudders at the sensation. I smooth my hands over her arms, adjusting them to line up with the target. “Hold the gun with both hands. Cup this hand over the other.”
Her breathing picks up, and she’s leaning into me again. I don’t immediately correct her posture, instead enjoying how amazing her body feels against mine.
“Index finger goes along here hovering the trigger guard until you’re ready to shoot.” I trace the pad of my finger along hers and she shivers again. “Close one eye and line the target with the notch at the end of the gun. Once you have it in view, fire.”
I step back and wait for her to adjust. After a few seconds, she closes her eyes and pulls the trigger.
She winces at the recoil, which she likely felt in her wrists.
“Did I hit it?”
“Not even close. Try again and this time, keep your eyes open.”
She sighs, frustrated, which makes me want to smile again. Who even am I?
“How many are in here?” she asks, manhandling the gun, pointing it at me while trying to figure out how to eject the magazine.
“Eleven more. And didn’t I say to never point a loaded gun at someone?” I growl, pushing the barrel away from my chest.
“Unless I want to kill them?” She smiles and winks.
I ignore my cock hardening as I picture Noah standing in front of someone, the barrel of a gun to their head, and shooting them point blank.
Blood splattering over her face and chest. Better yet.
.. I imagine her straddling a man with her thick thighs, holding a knife over her head before plunging the blade deep into his chest.
I shake the images. Noah may be chaotic and feisty, but she’s no killer.
“Focus, Skittles.” She flips me off. “Think about what makes you angry—”
“ You make me angry.”
“Take that hatred and anger and divert it to the gun and the target. Vengeance is a powerful state of mind.”
The smile on her face drops at my words. Shit. What did I say? What memory did I just trigger?
An array of emotions passes over her beautiful face. Ones I’m quite familiar with: sadness, rage, retribution.
She positions herself in the stall—correctly this time—and lifts both arms. After stretching her neck side to side, her shoulders relax. She’s focusing on the target, following my instructions to the tee, and a strange swell of pride takes over me.
The gun fires once… twice… three times. Noah giggles and fires five more bullets.
“Okay, Scarface, calm down,” I say, snatching the gun from her trigger-happy hands.
I prompt the target to return and tear the paper from the holder.
“Well, would you look at that? You actually got some shots on the target this time.”
She yanks it out of my hand, her eyes going wide the moment she spots a bullet hole smack dab in the paper man’s groin.
“Holy shit! I did it!” she squeals and throws her arms around my neck.
I stiffen and hold my breath, not sure what to do.
It’s been decades since anyone’s properly hugged me. It’s different from the physical touch that comes with fucking. Hugging is so… personal.
My hands hover at Noah’s sides, not daring to touch her. Because once I start, I won’t be able to stop, and that thought terrifies me.
Noah must sense my unease and releases me. She steps back and glances over her shoulder at the two goons. They’ve got their palms on their guns, ready to shoot as if I’m about to attack Noah when she was the one who launched herself at me.
“Sorry,” Noah whispers. She holds her head down, ashamed. It’s strange because I’ve never seen this woman ashamed of anything. She always radiates confidence when around me. I want to lift her chin and tell her she did nothing wrong. That it’s me. I’m the one too fucked up to hug her back.
I hastily grab my gun and secure it in my holster, then collect my ammunition and leather jacket. Without saying a word, I leave.
“Delancy, wait!”
Noah’s voice trails after me, but I’m already halfway to the door.
Fuck!
I let her get to me. I let her distract me. This is why I can’t get attached to anyone. I lose focus, and I’m too close to finally killing the man who ordered my mother’s death, and I can’t let a woman fuck it all up.
Even if that woman ignites the very spark of life that’s been dead for twenty years.
She’s making me want to live again.
And I hate her for it.