Chapter 11 Violet
VIOLET
“Please, Vi.”
I release a long exhale at Dahlia’s pleading voice on the other end of the phone as I walk home from class.
It’s about forty minutes on foot, but I don’t mind. This is the only workout I get, and walking helps clear my head.
“Don’t try to be adorable, Dahl.”
“But tomorrow is the only day you don’t have an early shift. I just want us to have some fun at the movies and then go to your favorite kebab place.”
“Or we can watch something at home and I cook. I’d rather you spend that money on your expenses.”
“Boo. Just because we don’t have much to spare doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have fun once in a while.” She releases a sigh. “I know you’ve been stressed by work lately. I’m also exhausted, so I want to cheer us up a little.”
“Fine, but can you pick a family-friendly movie? I promised Laura I’d babysit Karly tomorrow. She’s struggling with her daycare and is scared of her ex suing for custody. Do you mind if we have her around more often?”
“Not at all! She’s a cutie.”
“Thanks, Dahl. I’ll pay for myself and Karly.”
“Don’t be silly, I’ll buy the tickets. I’ve got to go. My break is over. See ya!”
She hangs up before I can insist on paying.
Shaking my head, I slide my phone into my back pocket as I juggle two of my human sciences books in one hand. Classes are kind of kicking my ass, mostly because I don’t have much of an attention span, but I’ll be able to keep my scholarship if I improve my GPA.
In my peripheral vision, I catch a glimpse of Mario, and for the thousandth time in the last couple of days, I consider talking to him. Or falling in step to walk beside him.
But something tells me he wouldn’t like that.
A couple of days ago, after I gave him his usual drink at HAVEN, I asked how he was, but he just looked at me with that detached expression and ignored me.
And I didn’t push, because, well, I’m pretty sure I caught the glint of a gun beneath his jacket.
Guess he’s not interested in talking to the person he’s pseudo stalking.
Shocker.
The actual stalker, however, was nowhere to be seen, having delegated the entirety of his work to Mario.
There were no notes left in my journal, nor was there a motorcycle in front of HAVEN.
Jude just…disappeared.
Not entirely, since Mario is literally tailing me right now, but Jude’s physically not there.
Which is a relief. Even if it’s only been a week.
Ever since he forced me to watch a cold-blooded murder, splashed me with a stranger’s blood, then promised to fuck me if I didn’t get my shit together, I’m glad I don’t have to look at him.
I mean, yes, I told him to fuck me, but, really, I was just in a post-panic attack adrenaline high and kind of just talked nonsense to escape.
Because he’s right. Jude looks like the type who fucks like he speaks. In angry spurts of violence that I definitely couldn’t handle.
Hell, I think I was in some sort of a daze when he thrust his finger in my mouth and kind of made me suck it.
A bloody finger.
With the blood of a man he just killed.
The fact that I only thought of that after I left should be a bright red flag.
Because I don’t find dangerous men attractive. At all.
I’ve met enough of them to know they’re the scum of the earth.
Jude Callahan’s stoic face, rigid personality, and weapon of a body shouldn’t be at the forefront of my mind.
The afternoon air is cool against my skin, the hum of traffic merging with the rhythm of my footsteps against the cracked sidewalk.
The streetlights’ shadows cast long figures in the afternoon sun that stretch and curl like grasping hands as I walk past them, my mind focused on what I’m going to cook for dinner.
I have several hours before my shift, so maybe I’ll make Dahlia lasagna. She always says it’s my signature dish and usually finishes a few servings in one night.
I balance the weight of my backpack slung over one shoulder. I have to find fresh meat, even if it’s a small quantity and…
The roar of an engine splits the quiet.
I barely register it when a black van speeds toward the sidewalk.
No—it’s rushing toward me.
It surges forward, tires screeching against the asphalt coming fast. Too fast.
I’m frozen in place, waiting for the death I’ve often spoken to before bed.
In a blur of motion, something lunges toward me—Mario—slamming into my side. Hard.
I hit the ground, out of the van’s path. Hot, burning pain lances through me as my knees scrape against concrete, my breath shattering in my lungs.
And I watch with my mouth agape as Mario spins, reaching for his gun—
Another roar cuts through the traffic. This time, from the opposite direction.
The van does a U-turn in the distance as a motorcycle tears down the street, a faceless figure clad in black behind the handlebars.
Crack!
The gunshot rings out, and I flinch, pulling away on unsteady knees toward the wall for cover.
Crack!
Mario jerks, his shoulder snapping backward, his balance faltering as the rider speeds past, disappearing down the street.
He’s hit.
Mario’s hit!
My breath comes in short, shallow bursts as I stand up and scramble forward, my legs trembling, blood dripping down my knees from where my skin met the asphalt.
Mario stumbles as the van speeds toward us again.
I don’t think as I shove him out of the way and then slam against the wall and slide to the ground from the impact.
A rush of air whips past me as the van swerves, nearly hitting us.
The world slows.
Then speeds up all at once.
The tires shriek against the asphalt as it peels away, disappearing around the corner as fast as it came.
It’s over.
Are they…gone?
My hands tremble as I push myself up, my chest heaving, the adrenaline leaving a metallic taste on my tongue. My knees sting, but my gaze snaps to Mario, who’s standing with his eyes narrowed on where the van and motorcycle disappeared as he sheathes his gun.
“Oh my God—your arm.”
It’s bleeding, a deep, angry wound blossoming across his upper arm, staining his jacket. His face is set in stone as he presses a hand to it.
I dig into my bag, my hands shaking, rummaging, searching—
My fingers wrap around the bottle of pills, and I offer a couple to him. “They’re not much, but they might help with the pain.” My voice wavers, my pulse wild. “You should go to the hospital.”
Mario stares at me, then at the pills.
For a second, I think he won’t take them.
But he snatches them from my hand and swallows them dry.
A brief pause. A shift in the air.
Now that I’m looking closely at him, Mario seems younger than I initially assumed. His black hair is damp with sweat, and his lips are slightly pale.
“Thanks.” His rough and unused voice rips through the air, speaking the only word he’s ever said to me.
It’s so unexpected that my lips twitch in a smile before I can stop them. “Don’t mention it. You saved me as well.”
He keeps staring, not saying anything.
“Do you need my help with going to the hospital…?”
He says nothing, just types on his phone with one hand.
“Are we back to silence now? Got it. So much for worrying.” I bend over and grab my books.
When I straighten, Mario’s staring at me through narrowed eyes. “You should be more worried about why professional killers shot at you.”
“P-professional killers? Why?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.” He squints more. “Who have you pissed off so much that they’d hire professional killers to eliminate you?”
“Aside from your boss? No one.” My nails dig into the books. “Isn’t this one of his sick games?”
Mario says nothing. A few moments later, a car with tinted windows rolls to a halt beside us, and I jerk back, the remnants of the adrenaline buzzing in my blood.
But then Mario opens the back door, his arm still dripping with blood, and tells me, “Get in.”
“No.”
“Please get in so I can drop you off and go get treated, Violet.”
“I can go home on my own—”
“Out of the question. Not when someone is out for your life. Jude would kill me if he knew I left you on the street after what just happened.”
“Pretty sure he’d do the same, though, so it’d be as if someone cut his expenses.” I try to joke with the only dark humor I know, but Mario isn’t laughing, and the driver is tapping his finger on the wheel impatiently.
So I sigh and slide in.
I don’t want Mario to get in trouble because of me. I’m sure he’d rather be doing something better with his time than following a boring girl like me.
And he needs to have his arm checked.
I’m shaking the entire ride, though. Because who would hire someone to kill me?
I’ve gone out of my way not to offend anyone—aside from Jude.
He must be the one behind this. There’s no one who wants me to suffer more than him.
My mind is still racing as I push the lasagna into the creaking oven.
I really hope it doesn’t break down. I’m scared that our current landlord will be like all the previous ones and not care about repairs.
In the past, we had to fix things ourselves while being told, ‘You’re lucky to find a cheap place so close to town. ’
I pull out the two remaining cans of ginger ale from the case and frown as I set them down on the counter. Dahlia buys these for me because I once said I liked the taste. Ever since then, she’s stopped buying her favorite soft drink—Dr. Pepper—so I buy it for her.
But I forgot today because I can’t stop thinking about the attack this afternoon and whether or not Mario is okay. He left as soon as he dropped me off, but I could tell he’d lost a lot of blood, judging by the mess on the car’s carpet.
Not that I should be worried about him, but he did save my life and got shot protecting me, so I can’t pretend not to care.
If anything, I feel guilty that he’s hurt because of me, and I keep having flashbacks from all the times Mama called me a curse.
As soon as I got home, I took a shower, dressed in a dark blue shirt that reaches my knees, and got busy with cooking so I wouldn’t allow those thoughts to take over.
But I find myself doing that anyway.
Overthinking. Overanalyzing.
Blaming myself.