Chapter 13
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Haz
I approached my apartment door like there was a bomb inside that could detonate at any moment. Half expecting it to be slightly open the way I’d found it this morning, I was nauseatingly relieved to see it was still latched shut.
Well, maybe the nausea was from the persistent headache.
But it sure ratcheted up a notch when I saw my door closed.
Swallowing back the uncomfortable lump in my throat, I turned the handle and pushed.
My apartment had gone unlocked all day. I had no choice since whoever helped themselves to my things busted it.
Peering through the opening, I looked around the little bit I could see. “Hello?” I called out into the quiet, still space.
No one answered, and I pushed farther into the apartment. It wasn’t as though, if someone were in here, they’d just answer. But what else was I supposed to do?
It seemed the place was empty, so I pushed the door shut behind me and then stepped over the mess littering the floor to go into my closet-sized bathroom and check behind the shower curtain.
Satisfied the only thing in there was the mildew that never came clean, I relieved myself, staring at the toothpaste in the toilet bowl the entire time.
After washing my hands, I tugged off the orange beanie I’d worn to cover up my stiches and lifted onto my toes to see in the mirror over the sink. We won’t discuss how I’m too short to fully see myself in it.
Teetering on my toes, I caught sight of my messy hair and closed my eyes as the vivid memory of Kieran gently washing it in the bath last night came over me. He scolded me the entire time about leaving dried blood in the strands and not at least attempting to shampoo it myself.
The attention made me hard, even if he was grumpy. His gruff voice but gentle fingers had me practically salivating. The way he’d cupped warm water in his palm and poured it over the soapy strands while shielding the bandage with his other left me warm and fuzzy.
The ache in my toe joints forced me back in the moment, and I turned my attention toward the bandage, gently peeling up the corner to look at the stitches beneath it.
They were black and slashed through a raised, angry red welt.
I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be looking for, but with the way my head throbbed, I thought I’d see something else.
After pressing it back into place, I peeled away the bandage on my hand because I’d just gotten it wet.
The cut there was less raised than the one on my head and had some sort of white strips stuck across the red line slicing through my palm.
It was sore from working all day, but it seemed okay too.
Since I didn’t have any of the white gauzy stuff the doctors had wrapped around my hand, I left it the way it was.
I wasn’t sure where to even start in here, but for once, I was grateful my apartment was about the size of a shoebox.
At least there would be less to clean. Procrastinating, I went into the kitchen, which was more of a kitchenette, and pulled a juice from the fridge.
I dug the pain relievers I’d taken from the bottle in the break room at work and downed them, hoping it would take the edge off the throbbing in my skull.
The slide of the cold juice into my empty stomach was uncomfortable, but I forced it down anyway.
I started with the kitchen counter, cleaning up the cereal tossed everywhere and throwing it into the trash along with the ripped-apart box.
The bread I’d gotten for peanut butter sandwiches was everywhere too, the slices smashed.
A couple were even stuck to the cabinets.
Once the kitchenette was free of wasted food and mess, I attempted to fix the cabinet door hanging from a hinge. It came off in my hand and crashed to the floor. I scrambled back, trying not to become its casualty, and ended up tripping over some of the stuffing they’d gutted from the couch.
Grabbing a broom, I started sweeping, tossing the clothes thrown everywhere into a pile against the wall as I worked.
The edge of the broom caught on something half under the overturned couch, and I tugged it free, frowning at the yellow envelope I usually kept under the mattress in the bedroom.
When I picked it up, I realized it was torn and the papers I kept inside were gone.
The broom handle smacked against the floor when I let it go, and a wave of despair crashed over me.
These papers were probably the only thing of value in this entire apartment, and they were gone.
I let out a strangled sound, the envelope crinkling as I ripped it completely open, hoping to find something inside.
Tossing down the yellow shreds, I spun around, searching the space for where they could be scattered. Intense anger overcame me, layered with frustration. It propelled me around the room, tossing shit everywhere while searching.
My chest was heaving, room spinning, and sweat dotted my brow when I sank onto the edge of the tipped-over couch. Those papers weren’t here. Whoever broke in took them.
But why?
Yes, they were important. To me. To anyone else, I couldn’t see the value. When I aged out of foster care at eighteen, I’d literally left with the clothes on my back and that manila envelope in my hand.
I was only a few hours old when my birth mother left me at the entrance of the hospital. I’d been naked, the umbilical cord still attached. There was no note, nothing at all but a blanket.
I had no name. No parents. No identity at all.
Over the years, not much changed in the way of possessions.
Nothing was ever really mine. The clothes I wore were hand-me-downs and shared among the other orphans.
The bed I slept in, temporary until another came along.
When I was old enough to work, the money I earned was constantly stolen until I learned to hide it well.
The only thing I had that no one could really take away was my name.
Yeah, it was given to me by the state, but it was mine.
My birth certificate and social security card were proof.
Some might view the official documents I was given when I became an adult as yet another rejection—the state saying I didn’t belong to them anymore.
To me, it was my independence and proof that my place in this world was now mine.
Having that tangible identity meant something to me. And it had been ripped away. While I knew my name was still mine, it felt like I was back there—in a place where I didn’t exist at all.
I ruminated between rage and sorrow, ending up as an odd mixture of both. As I gazed around my invaded space, a need for vengeance arose. They’d taken something from me, and I wanted it back.
And I wanted to know why they thought they could take it at all. Because I was small? Poor? Alone in the world?
I was all of those things, but I was not weak.
Forgetting the shambles around me, I stormed across the hall to my neighbor’s door. I knocked and waited, then knocked again. Silence greeted me, and I gazed up at the dingy ceiling. Of all the times he decides to not be home… Rett was always home. He hated going out.
A noise in the stairwell at the end of the hall had me twisting around, hoping it was him. The door flew open, slamming against the wall, a large body filling the doorway.
It was not Rett.
Unless he’d gone radioactive and tripled in size.
The man stopped, seeing me standing there, his eyes lighting up with recognition. “There he is,” he announced, and—oh, goodie—he wasn’t alone.
Two other men of equal radioactive size came out of the stairwell behind him. All three of them had guns and weren’t bothering to cover their faces.
You know what that meant, right?
Yeah, they didn’t care if I saw their face because they didn’t plan on letting me live.
I wasn’t about to inquire about why I was recognizable. They didn’t have faces that welcomed a chat. No, I hightailed it back to my apartment and slammed the door.
I scrambled to lock it, but—oh, that’s right—the lock was busted.
Instead, I threw the chain across, knowing it was pathetic, but, hey, an extra two seconds were an extra two seconds. This would also have been a good time to call the police. Except for two things:
My phone was out of commission.
And…
I lived in a shanty town that the cops barely gave two shits about.
Oh, and yeah…
Snitches get stitches. (And wind up in ditches)
The chain on the door pulled across when the door opened. The man on the other side said a very bad word. If I had a mother, I might be offended.
Wood splintered, the chain ripped clean off the frame, and the door crashed in with a boom. My instinct was to duck and cover my face, but who had time? Since the only door was being blocked, I ran toward the window.
A gun popped, and this time I hit my knees, one of the sharp coils from the sofa stabbing through my jeans and into flesh. I bit down on my lip as tears rushed to my eyes and another bullet embedded itself into the sofa.
That rage I’d been feeling before? It came back times ten. Escape suddenly forgotten, I shot up with a roar, snatching a fork as I moved and launched it at the man shooting at me.
It hit him in the face and bounced off. An incredulous look crossed his face. “I have a gun, and you fight back with a fork?” he said, his voice slightly accented.
I picked up the old TV tray I’d been using as a side table and swung it around, whipping it in his direction. He cursed and batted it away, and I dove for the broom, swinging it like a bat at his middle.
It connected, and the entire wooden rod vibrated, pain shooting into my hands.
“You’re going to pay for that,” the man grunted, forgetting he had a gun and charging me.
I swung the broom again, and he caught it, yanking it toward him so he could grab me instead.
I threw up my knee, jamming it into his nuts.
He twisted, an attempt to evade, but by the color seeping from his face, I knew I did some damage.
Before he could recover, I lashed out, sinking my teeth into his arm.
I bit so savagely that the taste of blood flooded my mouth and my jaw screamed in pain.
He roared and shoved me away. My body went flying backward into the small fridge.
A second man stepped into the apartment. “What the fuck is taking so long?”
“That little shit bit me!” the first one snapped, showing his partner his bloody arm.
“For shit’s sake, Cross, just shoot him,” the other man bitched.
To my right was a drawer with random utensils, and I yanked it open, sending the entire thing crashing to the floor. A bullet hit the fridge just as I bent to grab the sharpest knife I had, which wasn’t great, but A for effort, right?
Another shot popped off, and I flung the door open, using it as a shield. The sound of the bullet hitting the metal on the other side sent a lightning bolt of fear straight to my heart.
What the fuck was I doing? I’d never win in a fight against these men. There were three of them, and they had guns.
I peeked around the fridge door and nearly got shot in the face.
If you’re wondering why no one had come running to help—it was every man for himself in the slums. I was kinda glad Rett wasn’t home. He was probably the only one who’d actually try and help and would probably eat a bullet for the effort.
“Who are you?” I yelled, hoping to distract them while I caught my breath.
“Your death dealers.”
“I don’t think I want to die today.”
They laughed.
I shot up and threw the knife. My aim was decent, and it caught one of the men in the shoulder, lodging right in his bulging muscle.
I didn’t wait to see his reaction. I lunged over the tiny counter, feeling the cut in my hand rip open when I landed on the other side. More bullets lodged themselves in the wall, counter, and one shattered the window.
My hand closed around a shoe lying nearby, and I chucked it across the room and took off for the window. The bullets followed the shoe, and I jumped on the tiny table to scramble out the window.
The glass was jagged, the frame small, but I shoved through it anyway, pain slicing through me as I went.
A few more shots, then a couple curses. “I’m out of bullets.”
I dropped onto the fire escape, and the man I bit put his arm and head out the window. Since I was already on my ass, I reared back and kicked him with as much force as I could muster.
His head flew to the side, and I scrambled to the ladder, scurrying down, not bothering to look up until I was a few stories down.
When I did, they weren’t there, and I found their absence almost as scary as their presence.
I continued down, ignoring the pain I felt all over, skipping the last section of ladder to leap into the alley.
“This way!” a deep voice said, appearing around the building.
I took off in the opposite direction, racing to the end of the alley to slip through a small opening in the fence. It shook and clanked behind me as I kept going, steering around the corner and out of sight.
I didn’t stop. I ran until vomit chased itself up my throat and my feet ached from slapping the pavement. I weaved through alleyways and cut through a construction site. I ran until I couldn’t anymore and ducked into a boat docked at the marina on Lake Erie.
Below deck, I fell onto my ass, my lungs working overtime to get air.
I’d run farther than I intended, but once that survival instinct kicked in, it was all I could do.
My entire body was sweaty and hurting, but I was too pumped full of adrenaline and whatever else to be able to check myself for injuries.
Instead, I rolled onto my side, pulled my knees in, and rested my overheated cheek against the cold floor. The boat swayed with the water’s movement, and the only sound was my ragged breathing. I couldn’t stay here long. I couldn’t risk whoever owned this boat coming aboard and finding me.
But I could stay long enough to catch my breath and try to process the fact that someone was trying to kill me. I realized then that my name wasn’t all that was mine.
My life was too.
And whoever those guys were, they wanted to take both.
I curled a little closer into myself, trying to feel comforted by the gentle rocking of the boat. But all I could think about was how I wished I’d taken Kieran’s phone number.