Chapter Forty-Six
Adriana
“Another round?”
“Do I look like a quitter to you?”
“No, but you sure as fuck look like you might want to get out of here. What do you say?”
“Not yet,” I say, taking my nearly empty glass, swirling the dregs, and tossing back my head to get every drop. Four down, many more to go, and it’ll be a long time before I’m ready to leave with Mr…. whatever the fuck his name is. “But soon.”
It won’t be ‘soon,’ but soon keeps the free drinks coming. And soon will probably happen, probably, just to get Reaper out of my head. It probably won’t work, but maybe for a few moments I can forget how the man I loved dragged my little sister into a drug war and got her killed.
Vanessa would still be alive if not for him.
She lived through hell; she was an addict; she made bad choices, but the worst choice of all was taking that monster back into her life, giving him a second chance, and allowing herself to become a part of his violent world.
“Are you even listening to me?” Mr. Whatever says.
“Totally,” I say, picking up the fresh drink the second the bartender sets it in front of me; it doesn’t take long to make a whiskey, you just pour it from the fucking bottle.
“Then what was I talking about?”
I blink, run my eyes over him, and spot a tattoo on his large forearm. A coat of arms. Marines. “You were talking about your time in the military,” I say, hazarding a guess that, with men like him, is usually ninety-nine percent accurate.
“Damn, you’ve got the attentiveness of a real Marine,” he says, nodding approvingly.
“I try.” I put my empty glass down on the counter and wink at him. It only takes two more winks before Mr. Attentive Marine notices and gets the bartender to get me a refill.
I lift the glass to my lips when something catches my eye on the television mounted above the bar. The sound is turned down, but the red "brEAKING NEWS" banner scrolls across the bottom of the screen. My hand freezes halfway to my mouth.
The image shows police cars, ambulances, bodies covered in white sheets on a sidewalk. The caption reads: "MULTIPLE FATALITIES IN SUSPECTED GANG SHOOTOUT."
My chest tightens. The camera pans across a building I recognize — the den where the Triads run their operation. I want to look away, but I can’t, caught by the idea that Reaper might be there, that I might see a shape in a body bag that resembles the man I once loved.
And still love. Probably.
Despite my best fucking efforts and aching, bleeding heart.
"You okay?" the Marine asks, following my gaze to the screen.
I force myself to take a sip, but the whiskey tastes like ash. "Fine. Just the news, you know? Always so goddamn depressing."
The reporter's mouth moves silently as crime scene tape flutters in the background. I catch fragments of the closed captioning: "...ongoing investigation...suspected retaliation...authorities believe this may be the beginning of a larger gang war..."
My heart hammers against my ribs. This is what I wanted, isn't it? For Reaper to get what's coming to him. For him to pay for what happened to Vanessa.
So why do I feel like I'm going to throw up?
So why am I wondering if it’s him in one of those body bags or under one of those white sheets?
Why does that very thought make my heart feel like it wants to collapse in on itself? A thought that sparks joy — retribution for my sister — and sorrow that the very idea of getting what I want could break my already shattered heart.
"Hey," the Marine says, his voice softer now. "You sure you're alright?"
I turn away from the screen and face him fully. He has kind eyes, probably saved lives overseas, and probably deserves better than being used as a distraction by a woman who can't let go of the man who destroyed her family.
I lean forward and kiss him. Light, testing. His lips are warm, and he tastes like beer and peppermint gum. He responds immediately, one hand coming up to cup my jaw.
But it feels like nothing; worse than nothing — it feels wrong, like I'm betraying something I don't want to name.
I pull back and drain my glass in one burning gulp. It is bitter, ashen, betrayal.
The camera pans across the scene again, and I see a familiar face in the background. Tear-streaked, red-cheeked, eyes disturbingly kind and innocent for a woman who birthed and raised a monster — Mrs. Eng.
The reporter approaches her.
“Turn the fucking sound on,” I say.
The bartender shrugs, doesn’t move, except to go about mixing up a fucking Tom Collins for some asshole at the other end of the bar who looks like he needs a good kick to the face.
The Marine looks at me, concern shining in his eyes. Fuck, I wish I could want him. He seems decent. Kind. Like a real human being who won’t get your little sister hooked on drugs or murdered.
Such a high fucking bar I have.
The Marine raises his voice at the bartender. “Turn the sound on, buddy. This is important.”
The bartender blinks, snatches the remote from under the counter, flips on the sound, then resumes mixing the drink.
The unmistakable voice of Mrs. Eng floods through the speakers.
It’s garbled, panicky, the same shock and terror I’ve heard countless times over while interviewing victims of unspeakable crimes.
Yet despite the fear, every few words her voice drifts into an almost melodious song, as if the remnants of karaoke night still burn in her blood.
The report looks absolutely flummoxed, and simply holds the microphone out to her, like she’s nothing more than furniture in a pantsuit.
“It was horrible. So horrible. And I’m so disappointed in my…
” Mrs. Eng says, then stops, realizing that she’s talking on TV and her Triad son probably wouldn’t appreciate having his mother rat him out to the city.
“I’m disappointed. It was scary. There was shooting.
And screaming. And people dying. I wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for Reaper… ”
The reporter blinks, comes out of her stupor and realizes she has a job. “Reaper? Do you mean you saw the Grim Reaper?"
“No, this was… a man…” Mrs. Eng pauses, swallows, her Adam’s apple working overtime. Tears brim at the corners of her eyes… “He came back for me. I was trapped, but he got me out, but he… but they… they shot him… they shot him and they took him.”
I freeze, glass shaking in my hands.
He risked his life. That selfish, sister-killing bastard risked his own damn life for Mrs. Eng, a woman who tested his patience and his eardrums.
“Are you okay?” Marine says.
I shoot him a blurry death glare that clearly communicates he should shut his mouth if he wants to keep the full set of teeth — shocking for a man who served multiple tours — that sit in his kissably un-kissable mouth.
Then I blink, once, twice, and his blurry features become clear for a moment, then blurry again, as I realize my cheeks are wet with the tears that are streaming from my eyes.
Fuck you, Reaper. Fuck you. Why the fuck did you have to do that?
Why did you have to act like you have a heart?
Why did you have to save her life?
Why is it that I can’t let you go?
Mrs. Eng swallows, puts her hands over her eyes to hide her tears. “They shot him. They shot him, and they took him.”
I turn away, try to swallow, and realize it’s impossible with my heart in my throat.
I gesture at the bartender several times until he realizes I want him to mute the damn thing.
I want to scream in agony, in a rage at the helpless feelings flowing through me; I’ve never felt this way before.
In every case, every time I’ve faced into the darkness of what human beings are capable of, I’ve felt a strength burning within me that lit the way forward. But now?
I feel so alone.
With every tear that traces its way down my cheek, I feel in its wake his lips, his touch, his kiss. I feel his love. It’s still there. It’ll always be there, burned and etched into the hardened contours of my heart.
Fuck him.
Fuck him for having a heart. Fuck him for putting others above himself. Fuck him for not being the awful son of a bitch I want him to be.
“What is it?” Marine says.
“It’s…” My words end in a choke.
“Are you involved in this?”
All I can do is nod. Nod, and swallow mutely while I fight to breathe, to control the tears flowing down my cheeks, to not feel like I want to die because my heart is coming to life with such unspeakable pain.
A second passes where that Marine just watches me, his eyes taking me in, sizing up my story in a way that makes me feel more bare than if I were naked. Then, he reaches out and puts a gentle, calloused hand on my forearm. I sigh. Breathing clear for once.
“Is someone important to you caught in this gang war?”
I nod again.
“Wars have casualties. They’ll steal people from you in ways that will break your heart for the rest of your life… But if someone important to you is caught up in this…. Do you need help?”
I meet his eyes through the veil of my own tears and nod. The motion sends a few teardrops flopping from my nose to the bar. I sob at the sight — my weakness, my pain, scattered as evidence across polished wood.
“You’re not alone,” he says. “If someone you care about is in danger, I’ll help you.”
My tears pause. My eyes raise. I can swallow. I can speak. Something — a memory of a flame — burns inside me. It might be hope. It might be something more desperate. But whatever it is, I cling to it. I need it.
“You will?”
“Is the person you care about the same one that helped that old lady? The one they shot and took prisoner?”
“He is.”
“Then let’s get him back.”