6. Gigi
6
GIGI
I ’m still feeling jittery about the way I left things with Mack when I pull the Body Bus into the driveway of the minuscule ranch home I rent in a tiny, forgotten pocket of south Minneapolis. The house is one of the many small dwellings that went up in this neighborhood in the wake of World War Two. With a footprint of far less than one-thousand square feet, it’s amazing to me that it was originally designed to hold an entire family. These days, it feels better suited for one single woman who isn’t too big on having a lot of stuff. I’ve lived here for a few years, and I love it so much that I’ve pushed off any thought of saving money for a down payment on a house. As if I could afford that, anyway.
Throwing the bus into park, I let out a little sigh of happiness that I’m finally home from this crazy day. As much as I love my job, I’m not naturally much of a people person. I can’t wait to just go inside, lock my door, and not have to perform for anyone until tomorrow.
And yes, before I leave the bus, I grab the Magic Wand, stuffing it into my bag like a dirty secret.
My next-door neighbor, Carrie Ann, waves a greeting to me as I start up my walk. Carrie Ann’s house is a carbon-copy of mine. She’s a single mom. She lives with her four-year-old daughter, London and her mom, Janice. Janice is nowhere to be found, but London comes sprinting up to me, with the joy on her face that only a young child can exude. “Hi, Gigi!” she yells, barreling toward me as I crouch down to intercept her hug.
“Hey, there! How are you today?”
“Good!” She beams at me. “Grammy and me went to the zoo today! We saw monkeys! And a tiger!”
“Wow, that sounds great!” I enthuse. “Much better than my day, for sure.”
Carrie Ann comes up behind her. “Mom’s inside, taking a nap,” she tells me. “Keeping up with London wore her out, I think.”
“Mom!” London protests. “I don’t wear her out!”
“Okay, okay,” Carrie Ann says, putting her hand on her daughter’s head. “Grammy probably just didn’t sleep that well last night.” She winks at me, and I suppress a smirk. “How are you doing, Gigi?”
“Good,” I say automatically, unwilling to get into the less than positive parts of my day. “But I’m probably about as tired as your Grammy, London. I want to go inside and sleep for twenty-four hours!”
London giggles. “That’s too long!”
“Not for me.” I tip my head to one side and do a couple of loud snores, which sends her into fits of laughter.
“I could use a twenty-four-hour nap, myself,” Carrie Ann says. “I’m not likely to get one anytime soon, though. Am I, London?”
“No! Because you have to get up to play with me!” London explains.
Carrie Ann raises her eyebrows at me. “Bet you’re glad you only have a cat.”
Just as I always do whenever someone mentions me having kids, I deflect and change the subject. “Well, he definitely doesn’t mind joining me during nap times, that’s for sure. Speaking of which, I’d better get inside and feed the beast. Good to see you, London! Say hi to your grandma for me.”
“Okay!” she sings, and bounces away.
Carrie Ann gives me a wave, and follows her daughter. I turn away and head back toward my house, my brain switching gears back to the evening ahead and the uninterrupted me-time I’m looking forward to.
As I approach my front door, at first I don’t notice the shiny object glinting in the early-evening sunlight. But as I get closer my steps slow as I see that there’s what looks to be a fancy switchblade with rhinestones, embedded in the wooden railing. What the fuck?
I glance around me, but other than Carrie Ann and London there’s no one else outside on my street. Reaching for the object gingerly, I take hold of the hilt and pull it out of the wood to examine it. The blade has been sharpened expertly to a fine edge. Pretty, but deadly. It’s hard to tell whether the knife is meant to be a threat or a gift. But it makes me uneasy either way.
Inside, I close the blade and set it on my kitchen counter. Suddenly, being home alone isn’t quite as enticing as it was a couple of minutes ago. Feeling vulnerable, I rush through the house, checking all the door and window locks to make sure they’re secure, and closing all the curtains. When I’m done, I go back to the living room and I flop down on the couch. Within seconds, my cat, Tedward the Destroyer, comes ambling in and jumps up next to me. Tedward is a long-haired tabby with a white chest, beautiful jade eyes, and a personality that matches his name. He is a destroyer of toilet paper rolls and catnip mice, and he hates all humans except for me. And right now, he’s exactly who I want to see. He steps into my lap, flopping down into it. I sink my fingers into his fur, letting the vibrations of his purring soothe me.
There’s nobody here. I’m safe. It’s okay. Isn’t it?
“It has to be a coincidence,” I murmur to Tedward. “It has to be.”
His name was Dylan. He was good-looking in a bad boy, he-knows-it kind of way, charming in a caveman kind of way, and had a hard time taking no for an answer.
Dylan was the first guy I had really let myself think about getting serious with. I met him in a totally stereotypical way — in a bar. He came on strong, and I had had just enough alcohol to be flattered and a little turned on. He love-bombed me from the start. By the end of the first week, he told me he was in love with me. By the end of the second week, he was telling me I was going to be the mother of his children. The sex was off the charts. I was falling, and falling hard.
But Dylan had a jealous streak. Back then, I didn’t have the Body Bus yet, but I was working as a tattoo artist at a local shop. He hated that I worked in a profession that meant I got up close and personal with men on a daily basis. At first, he told me it was because I was so beautiful that it made him nervous for my safety. But little by little, he started accusing me of unintentionally leading my male customers on. Then, he started saying that I was doing it on purpose. He told me that if I wanted to be his woman, I’d have to stop being a tattoo artist, because that was a profession for sluts.
So, I broke up with him.
To say that Dylan didn’t accept the breakup was an understatement. He started harassing me. Texts and phone calls at all hours of the day. He’d alternate between pleading with me to take him back and saying some of the most horrible, disgusting, vile things I’ve ever heard. When I finally blocked his number, the harassing turned to straight-up stalking. The final straw was the day I found all four of my car’s tires slashed — with the blade still sticking out of one of them.
A switchblade, with a decorative handle.
It was at that point I had to admit to myself that I needed help. Though I hated doing it, I called in the cavalry, better known as my brother.
When I told Con what was happening, I saw a look of fury cross his face like I’d never seen before. It was the first time I really realized why the Royal Bastards had given him his road name. I realized that my big brother was capable of things I’d never dreamed of.
I never knew what happened to Dylan. All I know is that Connor said he took care of him. Dylan never contacted me again after that day. I never let myself think too much about why.
But sitting here right now, I have to admit to myself that I always assumed that what Con did was… permanent.
So whoever left this knife for me — assuming it is a threat — it can’t be Dylan.
Can it?
I spend a nervous evening eating frozen pizza in the dark, watching old comfort shows on my laptop with Tedward. A couple of times, in between bingeing episodes, I give in to the impulse to Google Dylan’s name. But there’s nothing about him on the internet. His name just isn’t there. Nothing about his life. But also, nothing about his death.
When my eyes are so dry from screen time that I can hardly keep them open, I get up and pad to the kitchen. Opening my junk drawer, I quickly stuff the switchblade all the way to the back. I wash my face and brush my teeth in the bathroom, and do one more round of lock checks before I go to bed. Bathroom window: check. Bedroom windows: check. Kitchen: check.
But as I’m walking back into the living room, something stops me in my tracks. A rattle at the front door. Soft, at first, then louder.
Frantically, I run on tiptoes back to the bedroom. I grab my phone from the top of the nightstand with one hand, and with the other pull open the drawer and get out the pistol I keep in there. Shaking, I find the contacts and hit my brother’s number.
“Connor,” I half-whisper. “There’s someone trying to break into my house! Please come!”
“Lock yourself in your bathroom with your gun,” he orders. “I’ll be right there.”
I should do exactly what he says. But I can’t just wait for the intruder to break in and come find me. So terrified I feel like I’m going to throw up, I tiptoe back into the living room. A shadow moves across the window next to the front door.
“I’ve got a gun!” I shout. “Leave or I’ll use it!”
A loud, derisive male laugh cuts through the air. The knob rattles again, but this time it’s accompanied by the squeak of metal on metal. He’s using a crowbar to jimmy the door.
Tedward flees to the back of the house. Adrenaline floods my veins. There’s only one choice I have now. Racking the gun, I aim for where I imagine a man’s chest would be, and fire through the door. The man lets out an explosive curse, but not a yelp of pain. I pull the trigger a second time. There’s a muffled crash and a thud, and then the pound of running footsteps off into the night.
My heart is hammering hard in my chest as I drop to my knees. The gun clatters to the floor next to me. I suck in deep breaths, concentrating so hard on calming myself that at first, I don’t hear the rumble of the engine that signals my brother has arrived.
“Gigi!” he shouts as he thunders up the walk. “Gigi!”
Stumbling to a stand, I unlock the door and fling it open. Connor takes my front steps in one bound and grabs me by the shoulders. “You okay?”
“Yeah, they’re gone.” I glance both ways down my street. “Did you see them?”
“Fuck! No.”
“You must have just missed them.” I bend down to pick up the crowbar at our feet. “They were trying to get in with this.”
“You keep saying they. How many were there?”
“Maybe just one. I just heard a man’s voice.”
“Son of a bitch.” Connor takes the crowbar from me and grips it tightly, looking like he wishes he could swing it at someone. “Any idea who it could have been?”
“Come on in.” Connor follows me inside. I tell him to sit, then go to the kitchen and grab the switchblade from the drawer. I return to the living room, handing it to him. “When I came home today, this was sticking out of my front railing.”
Con sets the crowbar down beside him on the couch and takes the knife from me.
“Weird,” he mutters. “Doesn’t look like a blade a guy would carry.”
“Yeah. At first, I was wondering whether it was some weird gift or something.” I hesitate. “Con, you remember Dylan? The guy who —”
“I remember,” he says, cutting me off. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s just… He’s gone , right? Because this feels like something he would do.”
Connor shakes his head. “The Dylan situation was permanently resolved.”
An engine comes roaring down the street. Through my window, I see a truck squeal to a halt in front of my house. “What the hell?” I exclaim.
Connor stands. “I called Mack for backup, just in case. That must be him.”
Seconds later, there’s pounding at the door. Then Mack appears, filling the doorway with his large frame. He’s wild-eyed, looking like he’s ready to tear someone’s head off. When he sees us standing in the living room, the wildness in his eyes goes down a fraction.
“What happened?” he asks, his eyes locking on me. “Jesus, G, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “There was a potential intruder, but he’s gone.”
“Jesus,” he repeats, running a hand through his wild hair. “Fury, you scared the fuck out of me!”
I only have a split-second to be surprised that Mack would be that worried about my well-being. Connor tells him what happened in a few short sentences, glancing at me for confirmation. Mack’s eyes narrow in anger as he listens. “You think it’s that fucking asshole Scorpion?” he asks me.
“It might be,” I admit. I don’t know who else it could be, though I can’t imagine how he figured out where I live if it is. But could the person who tried to get in just now be the same person who left the bejeweled knife? My head is starting to spin.
“That settles it,” Connor growls. “Just having protection on you while you’re working ain’t gonna cut it, G. We’re gonna have to have eyes on you all the time.” He turns to Mack. “I’m callin’ Magnus to let him know you’re on guard duty for G twenty-four-seven, starting immediately. From now on, you two are joined at the hip.”
“What? No!” I shout. I look at Mack, expecting him to protest, but he doesn’t say a word.
But Connor isn’t taking no for an answer. “Mack’s the only one I trust to keep you safe, G. Until I can get to the bottom of this, he goes where you go. Case closed.”
“And I don’t get any say in the matter?” I say sarcastically.
“Nope. Mack’ll sleep on your couch for the night,” Connor tells me. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll get some guys over here to fix your door. Call me if anything else happens, no matter what time it is.”
“Ugh,” I mutter. “I’d rather take my chances with the stalker.”
Mack gives me a disgusted look. “You’re welcome.”
“Fuck off,” I shoot back. “Con, this is just for tonight, you hear me? I am not having him stay here with me until God knows when.”
“We’ll see,” Connor says, with a determined look that I don’t like one bit.