SIXTY-TWO
Harry
Another heist. Another party.
With each of these events I feel my restraint wavering. No matter if Richard is choosing the lushest venues in all the city – I don’t want to fucking be here. With each moment I’m kept within the confines of the Circle I feel my body suffering. But if I’m forced out … if I beg for the mercy to leave … I’m sacrificing more than just my occupation.
I’m sacrificing my life.
Sacrificing the opportunity to save Gigi from the darkest pits of hell.
Allowing Richard and his greasy fucking men to get away with the unspeakable.
After Poppy and I rescued that young girl from the derelict barn, we were able to reunite her with her family. But she’s just one of many we’ve yet to find.
I fear the men are going to start upping their techniques, especially if they know their trafficking rings are being targeted. Or perhaps they’ll start making their risks worthwhile. Have more elite women, a higher price to outweigh the risk.
There’s only one woman who comes to mind. My eyes find Gigi, and my body doesn’t know whether to drop its shoulders sadly or scream for her to come closer. She’s struggling lately, as if she’s mentally and physically sick, and I’m too fucking petrified to consider what that means.
I watch her, hating that my gaze always happens to find her immediately in a crowded room. The action is so effortless it’s downright painful.
What she did with Andy should be unforgivable, and I should hate her for it. But fucking hell, I don’t.
Even after everything.
After every sick, sadistic thing she’s done. I fucking crave her.
Love for both the woman and the monster sits on the surface, threatening to devour me.
I can’t bear speaking with Andy right now, but I’ll get there in time. Something within me knows he’s struggling with something far greater, and I wish I had the time to prioritise him. But after the stunt at Chequers I’m prepared to leave him in agony for a while longer.
Gigi schmoozes the elite, her signature pistol strapped around her thigh. I know it’s still imprinted with our initials. Times were so much simpler back then. If Richard wanted to put a bullet in my brain for fraternising, I’d happily take it at this point, hence the weight of everyone’s safety fucking drowning me.
Poppy walks through the open doors, and I catch the flash of orange hair as she approaches the bar. Her eyes find mine, and she nods subtly in understanding. I just texted her about another lead to investigate tonight after the bar closes its doors.
Returning my gaze to Gigi, I frown as a man approaches her. Her exterior shows a blush, but as if I can see straight into her soul, I know she’s oozing paranoia. He’s far too young to be one of the men hunting women in the inner circle, but I still refuse to let my guard down.
“Harry?” a voice says, straying me from my thoughts.
Struggling to deter my gaze, I ask, “Hmm? ”
“Did you hear what I said?”
I turn my head, locking eyes with Brody, the new recruit. “No.”
“Oh.” He lifts his shoulders and asks sheepishly, “I was wondering if you could help me sharpen my aim in the shooting range. I’ve been struggling a little, and …”
His voice is drowned out as I turn back to the corner of the room to find the small woman with silky brown hair. I stiffen when I realise she and that man have both disappeared. My head whips towards Poppy, and she shoots to her feet.
A part of me begs, fucking prays, for me to leave Gigi alone. After everything she did. With everything she continues to do. But an even bigger part of me screams at me to find her.
“Just gonna grab a smoke,” I tell Brody, leaving his side.
I walk towards the end of the bar and near the pool tables, trying to find my target. The lights down the hallway towards the bathroom are dark and low. She could’ve gone down there, but my nerves aren’t racing like they usually do in these scenarios.
Stepping out through the fire exit, my ears perk up at the sound of shuffling. My stomach fucking plummets as a scream breaks the silence.
“Where are you?” I yell.
“HARRY!” Gigi’s voice is frantic. “Help—leave me alone!”
My feet slam into the pavement as I rush towards the noise, skidding to a stop when I reach the corner. Gigi is digging her dainty heels into the floor, slamming her shoe down on a body that isn’t there.
I rush forwards as she stumbles back. Looking around the alley for signs of the man, I ask, “Why didn’t you use your Glock?”
She’s silent.
I turn to look at her completely as her body tremors. Her eyes are screwed shut. Even though I can’t see them, I know if I could I’d see her exterior broken, revealing the fragile girl underneath.
I approach her slowly as if she’s a cat about to pounce. “Hey,” I say softly. Her breathing increases, and I catch her cheek, turning her face back in my direction. “You’re okay. I’m here. Look at me.”
She shakes her head.
“Look at me.”
I know I should hold back from pressing her to open her eyes again, having been through relentless training on how to approach victims of assault. But since my self-restraint knows no bounds with her, I stroke my thumb over her cheekbone.
“Please open your eyes, baby.”
Lips parting, her eyelashes flutter, giving way to beautiful brown eyes. They’re deep, mesmerising, and utterly sane. She instinctively leans into my touch, and for a fraction of a second I wonder if she’s finally come back to me.
“Gigi,” I say, my voice wavering.
A darkness crowds her vision, and suddenly, in a lightning-fast motion, she’s retrieved her Glock from her holster. She stretches out her arm, watching me down the neck of her gun as she points it straight at me.
Straight at my chest.
Hot tears fill her eyes, and I just know she’s stuck elsewhere. Somewhere in the past – in her subconscious, possibly. Fighting the demons that torment her head. A battle of emotion rages through her, and she sobs with the force of holding back.
“Why can’t you leave me alone?” she asks, her voice sounding distant, like it wasn’t meant for me.
She’s warning me not to approach.
But I do. Because I’m a fucking fool around her.
I take cautious steps forwards, stopping when the barrel’s pressed over my heart .
“Kill me,” I say.
With her palms trembling, I hover my hands over her skin, carefully turning off the safety of the gun. Gigi visibly stiffens at the sound. Her gaze is still zeroed in on my chest, yet the tremor that lingers is one of raw emotion.
“Like Romeo and Juliet,” I remind her.
Every day I see a woman trying to face her torment alone, her very soul struggling below the surface. From the moment I laid eyes on Gigi it became my destiny to protect her. But perhaps fate is short-lived. It’s only fantasy after all.
She requires a pulse, a surge of adrenaline, to bring her purity back. Maybe this is it. Maybe my life, the one she threatens to end every day, could be her fix.
I’d allow it. For her.
I’d welcome Death, greet him proudly, having risked my life for something worthwhile. Since life isn’t worth living without Gigi gracing this earth with her pure, genuine smile.
“You’ve ruined me,” I confess. “Save me the misery of feeling for you. Save me from suffering a life of torment knowing no other woman in existence could ever compare to you.”
It was fucking foolish of me to waltz into her room when I was at my lowest, knowing I had nowhere else to turn but to the woman who is my demise. And I’d love to admit it’ll be the final time I come crawling back to her or beg for her to take care of herself. The only way that would be possible would be if she ended my torment here and now.
Tears choke her, deep sobs rocking her body.
“So. Fucking. Embarrassed.”
“Pardon?”
Her watery gaze rises from the gun to my face, utterly blinding me with the sight. Appearing as if she’s seen a ghost, she whispers, “He’s so fucking embarrassed.”
Reality hits me like a blunt sword, and I force a swallow.
Is that how my words have tormented her?
My poor, sweet girl.
“I didn’t—”
“That’s what you said.”
I clamp my mouth shut, because she’s right. I did say that. And it seems as if my words are buried deep below a surface I’ll never be able to retrieve them from. No amount of forgiveness would work. It’s evident in the darkness of her eyes, as if she’s struggling with sleep.
As if sobriety sparks her senses true, she takes a cautious step back and holsters her pistol as if she never touched it.
“Took you long enough to get over here,” she says, a laugh following.
I know what she’s doing. She’s pushing the pain away by putting on a fa?ade, a cocky exterior, since the alternative – lowering her barricades and giving someone a glimpse into her heart – is far too painful to bear.
And it fucking breaks mine.