FIFTY-FIVE
Harry
I should kill her.
No doubt she’d kill me first given the opportunity.
Gigi’s Glock lays idle on the bedside cabinet, calling to me while she sleeps. She put it there, within arm’s reach, as if she’s safe, but I’ve always claimed she has no one to protect her from me.
My fingers twitch at my sides as I imagine picking up the weapon and pressing the barrel to her temple. Pulling the trigger would loosen the restraint tying me down.
To her.
My fucking weakness.
Despite the shadow that swarms her and the pinch in her brow, she’s so innocent while she sleeps, igniting my fragile hope for a woman who will inevitably put me in exile.
Before I can get ahead of myself, I exhale a tortured, “Fuck.”
Busying my hands, I charge out the hotel room and light up a cigarette. Dangling it between my lips, I call reception for my car and wait outside the hotel exit, dragging out the nicotine as I stand on the steps, welcoming the burn in my lungs as the sex-filled haze starts to dissipate.
The valet driver turns the corner in my G-Wagon, and I drop the remainder of my cig to the floor, stubbing it out with the sole of my shoe.
I thank the bloke, handing him some cash as I climb into the driver’s seat.
Suit jacket abandoned, my shirt is unbuttoned to the centre of my chest, unveiling blank ink and scorched scars. With the reminder of what I’m potentially about to face, darkness threatens to crowd my vision, forcing me to blink quickly. My hands shake with the mental pressure of keeping it at bay.
Waiting for my partner in crime, I anxiously check my watch and tap my fingers against the steering wheel, my teeth grinding with a nervous tic.
Where the fuck are they?
As if on cue the passenger door opens. I keep my eyes forwards as they occupy the front seat. Releasing a heavy breath, they press the back of their head into the headrest.
“Took you long enough.”
Poppy scoffs and turns to me, her blue eyes boring into the side of my head. “I’m here, aren’t I?” she asks. Tearing her eyes over my outfit, she laughs bitterly. “Looks like you were pretty occupied anyway.”
Starting the engine, I turn to her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your belt, St. James. Your fucking belt is undone.”
Panicked, I chance a look down at my trousers, and she cackles, pulling down the vanity mirror to check her lipstick.
Poppy purses her lips then says, “I was teasing you. But you just gave yourself away with that little slip-up.”
A growl vibrates in my chest as I pull off from the side of the road. “Why did you never tell me you were engaged?”
She turns to me, lost in thought. “Huh?”
“Why’d you never mention it? Seems like a pretty big deal.”
“It isn’t.” She shrugs. “I don’t plan to go through with it. I’m just here for the payday.”
What are the fucking chances Poppy and I are working close together like allies?
The answer is: minuscule.
I had every intention of keeping the information from my search into the trafficking rings under wraps … until one day, when I went to search for a new lead, someone snuck up behind me, catching me off-guard. And I almost slit Poppy’s throat. Turns out she’d been following the leads as well, having also thought something sadistic was occurring in Richard’s inner circle.
Through the months of Gigi losing herself, I ran myself into the ground, the burden of having to save her mentally, while I physically pulled these girls from the hands of disgusting, vile businessmen, almost drowning me. If my movements are caught by Richard or his minions I’m calling for a death sentence. Poppy knew the risks too, but she claimed she didn’t have much to live for anymore. She’d rather die on the front line than refuse to help.
Her father’s dying. Fucking cancer. He’s bedridden, having gone through several rounds of chemo. The doctors have confirmed it’ll eventually kill him. Knowing his days are numbered, he now spends his time looking out his window at the English countryside. Poppy feels indebted to him.
At least we have that feeling in common.
It almost made me feel remorse for her.
Almost.
I’m still extremely cautious about trusting her.
I drive down the motorway in silence, the radio playing late-night club music. We found leads to a ring outside the city, and my car’s currently eating up the distance towards the place that’s about to be a slaughterhouse.
“Who’s the unlucky lady anyway?” Poppy asks, pulling me back to the present. “Please don’t tell me it’s who I think it is.”
I stiffen in my seat, my hands flexing around the wheel. “Who do you—?”
“I’m not a fucking idiot. I know you and Thomas have been fucking since I became your trainer for Pixies. ”
“Christ.” I grunt, running my hand down my face in exasperation. My palm lingers on the bottom of my face, and I grip my chin hard, trying to force my thoughts clear.
“But to think you’re still hitting that …”
I whip my head towards her, and she whistles low, shaking her head.
“That is not someone I want to get involved—”
“Let’s get one thing straight,” I tell her. “You and I are not friends. This is not fucking team-building. We’re just getting the job done, and then we’re parting ways. Got it?”
She lounges back in the seat, crossing her arms over her chest in defiance.
My composure starts to waver the closer we approach, and by the time I’ve turned off my headlights and the tyres are crunching on gravel, my nerves are in tatters. I always claimed spilling blood calms my rage, but when I’m oblivious to what I’m about to face, the idea makes me feel fucking lethal.
No one hurts a woman on my watch … besides Poppy, that is.
We’re still working on being civil.
I pull the G-Wagon to a halt, pulling up the handbrake as we sit adjacent to the dark cabin lit by a flickering porch light. As I unsheathe my daggers, Poppy ties her burnt orange hair above her head.
She leans into the back seat, grabs her baseball bat, and throws it between her palms. “Let’s knock ’em dead, St. James.”
My palms shake relentlessly as I attempt to flick the lighter against my cigarette. The flame disappears, and I attempt again with further determination, trying to draw in my composure for a fraction of a second. As I’m finally able to catch the flame I draw in a heavy exhale, craving the nicotine in my lungs.
Bringing two fingers to my lips to take a drag, I taste the bitter tang of blood. It coats my entire body, dripping from my palms, coating my face, and even spoiling my chest.
Throwing open my car door, I slump back in the leather seats and relish in the moment of calm, the little sanity I have left threatening to crack as flickers of the crime scene play out in the forefront of my mind.
My fists curl, my palms blistered from how tightly I held my blade and smashed it into the fucker’s skull.
And his cheek.
And his jaw.
Even gouged his fucking eyes out.
The passenger door opens, and Poppy sits down in the seat. I exhale the smoke building in my lungs as I watch her in my peripheral, noticing her orange hair is now blended in with the blood of our victims.
“Where are you taking me?” a sweet, gentle voice asks from the back seat.
I’ve trained most of my life to withhold my composure, but it fucking snapped when I saw the teenage girl being held at her mercy.
Poppy and I became a weapon of mass destruction, beating those bastards to within an inch of their lives. And then I smashed their fucking skulls to a bloody pulp to make sure they got the message.
The seventeen-year-old girl changed into the fresh clothes we brought with us. The very clothes I keep at my home for situations like this. Her hair is pulled back into a plait, and her hands are jittery as she clutches the fabric.
“Home,” Poppy says breathlessly. Her eyes meet mine, yet she speaks to the girl in the back seat. “We’re taking you home.”