Chapter 27
There’s been this overwhelming sense of dread that’s hung over me like a cloud all morning.
While I showered, while I dressed, the entire drive to the station, and it’s only grown heavier as I walk through the front doors of the building.
Hiking my bag higher up my shoulder, I try to push the memory of Martinez storming into my apartment two nights ago from my head, still hearing the threat he made before he left. I’d never seen him like that before, had never been afraid of him like I was then, but it was warranted. He was unhinged and on the hunt for revenge because his ego was bruised.
Despite the fear, I’m torn between thinking he truly meant what he said and wondering if it was just the alcohol talking. For all I know, he’s had some time to think things over and plans to apologize today for being a world-class asshole. However, I’m also prepared for things to stay exactly as they’ve been—with him being bitter and silently brooding every time I pass his desk. If huddling up with the other guys, talking shit about me is what gets his rocks off, it is what it is as long as his ass doesn’t show up at my place again. Eventually, the few people he’s bitched and moaned to will lose interest anyway, and things will go back to normal. In the meantime, I can deal with the pettiness.
And if I can’t, I’ve got no problem taking his ass to HR to let them deal with him.
My head whips left when I think I hear someone speaking to me, but the words are spoken too quickly to catch them. A detective I’ve maybe said two words to since starting here is grinning behind his coffee mug, avoiding eye contact as he swivels back toward his computer.
“Green light.”
I turn to the right, and I know I’m not mistaken this time. Only, the words were spoken by someone else. Another detective who’s name I hardly know, but he certainly seems to know something about me.
“Green light?” another voice calls out, and my stomach twists in knots as I hear it again.
“Green light.”
I hadn’t realized it before because I’d been purposely keeping my eyes to the ground, just wanting to get through today, but… they’re laughing.
All of them.
“Green light.”
I stumble, bracing myself on the flimsy wall of an empty cubicle when I’m shoulder-checked by someone, and now the phrase seems to be coming from all directions. Some are whispering it, some have gotten bolder, shouting it from across the room. And it’s all aimed at me—their laughs, their jeering.
I glance toward my desk again, wondering if I’ll walk the last few yards to reach it, or if I should just tap out, double back toward the door.
“Green light, bitch.”
This time, the deep voice in my ear is familiar, and I’m already glaring when Martinez walks past, smiling back at me from over his shoulder.
What the hell has he done?
I’m winded, feeling like I’ll pass out from embarrassment as our former codeword to each other echoes across the room. Which means, he isn’t just telling his close circle anymore.
He’s told everyone.
My bag slips down to my wrist, and I admit something to myself. I’m not strong enough for this. I can’t sit at my desk all day, being taunted with those words, pretending this is all okay.
Someone catches me around my waist when I stumble again, and I’m horrified to see that it’s Stevens, flashing a menacing grin. “You can’t leave yet, sweetheart. You’ve still gotta tell me when and where?”
More laughter explodes behind me.
“C’mon, Layla. Relax, we’re just teasing ya,” Stevens adds, but I’m grateful when I burst through the doors and sunlight hits my face. My hands shake as I climb back into my car, then start the engine.
Martinez can’t keep doing this. He can’t keep getting away with treating me like literal shit.
Swiping tears from my cheeks, I drive home in a daze, wishing I’d never gotten out of bed in the first place. I rush up the stairs toward my apartment before my father can notice I’ve come back and start asking questions. I just want to be left alone.
My bag hits my floor with a thud, and I push both hands through my hair, breathing erratically as the details of my disastrous morning replay in my head.
Yes, things between us went way left, but no way Martinez was always this much of a dick. How the hell could I have missed that? How did I even let myself get entangled with a man like that?
An impulsive thought hits me, and I’m seated at my desk the next instant, ignoring my mascara-stained cheeks in the reflection of my computer monitor before I turn it on. In the short time it takes the screen to brighten, and to get to my messages, I consider that what I’m about to do might be wrong. But with my emotions running high, and seeing red like I am, I don’t even think about stopping myself.
Layla: Are you there?
My heart races while I wait, tapping my foot beneath the desk as rage spreads all over. When three dots start to bounce in the chat box, I draw in a relieved breath.
Unknown: Always.
With this being the first time I’ve spoken to Damien since our night together, when he revealed so many things about himself, our connection, I should be addressing far more important questions. However, my thoughts are singular, laser focused.
Layla: How do we do it? What’s the process?
Unknown: Process?
My fingers hesitate over the keys, knowing I’m crossing the line even entertaining the idea that’s taken over my thoughts.
Layla: How do we collaborate? How do we… make art together?
I haven’t come right out and said those dark, wicked words bleeding through this message, but he knows exactly what I mean. I’m certain of it long before he responds.
Unknown: Ah, I see. Last time, you relayed the details, but they were vague, which meant I was left to improvise. So, if you’re feeling bold, a name would be far better.
An unsolicited image flashes inside my head. It’s of Martinez lying cold on the ground, bleeding out as his unfocused eyes stay fixed on the ceiling. Again, my fingers hover over the keys. Several times, I type and erase the name Diego Martinez, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Not even if it feels like he absolutely deserves death and the emptiness that would soon follow.
Layla: This was a mistake.
Unknown: There’s no such thing as mistakes. Give me a name, Layla. It’s as simple as that. Give me a name, and I’ll take care of the rest.
I stare at the screen for nearly a minute, sorting through the mess of thoughts and emotions that have more tears streaming down my face.
Unknown: It’s him, isn’t it? Did he hurt you?
The question has a memory of Martinez’s threat echoing inside my head. His promise that I’ll eventually piss him off to the point that he’d deem the resulting jail time completely worth it.
The only thing I’m unsure of is whether he means he’d hurt me or… kill me. Still, I’m no killer. Or whatever it would make me if I came straight out and asked Damien to do me this favor.
Layla: Just forget you heard from me. I’m not… this. I can’t be a part of what you do.
Unknown: You’re right. In every way, you’re better than me.
At first, I’m unsure whether the statement is meant in jest, teeming with sarcasm, but then I remember who I’m talking to. Damien is the most straightforward person I know, and sarcasm isn’t in his nature. A realization that has me lowering my head because… it means he actually believes he’s right. He actually believes I’m better than him. But if that were true, I wouldn’t have even considered reaching out to ask for this favor.
Layla: You’re wrong. I’m damaged goods. You just haven’t realized it yet.
I hate that Martinez’s words are echoing inside my head, his declaration that Damien would one day see how fucked up I really am and want nothing to do with me.
Unknown: I already see you, Layla, and all the fucking scars on your soul. Scars you think you hide so well, but I see you. I’ve always seen you.
A tear slips down my cheek when he seems to be directly addressing my unspoken thought.
Unknown: There’s not a single thing wrong with you, and fuck anyone who thinks otherwise. And as far as our… art… is concerned, I get it. You’re conflicted because your goodness makes what you’re asking of me beneath you. But what you’re forgetting is… it isn’t beneath me.
My stomach twists reading his words, feeling their depth and sincerity pushing deeper into me like a blade.
Unknown: I’ll gladly be the one who walks into the darkness for you. Confirm it’s him, then let me take care of the rest.
His pressing has the knot in my stomach doubling in size, and I can’t do this.
Layla: I have to go. This conversation officially never happened.
Only, it has happened, and I can’t take back what I just nearly did, shining light on the brokenness I try and fail to hide. Damien is wrong about me. My scale is skewed toward wickedness, and I’m suddenly aware of something.
The closer I get to him, the less light I see. In me. In others. Which means I’ve reached a tipping point.
Do I run and save my soul from damnation?
Or do I take his hand and choose darkness?
The choice is mine, but as I think deeper, glancing toward my bed as ghosts of the two of us fucking on my sheets fill my vision, I ask myself another question.
Have I not already chosen?
Damien
Tuesday—work, carwash, liquor store, exits with a brown bag in hand, home.
Wednesday—work, cleaners, home.
Thursday—work, liquor store, exits emptyhanded, grabs carryout, stops off at a house that isn’t his.
For three days now, I’ve been tracking Diego’s habits, getting a feel for how his day flows, noting when he’s at his most vulnerable. Days one and two, his routine was exactly what I’d expect, but today, he’s deviated.
I sink deeper into my seat as he exits his car, heading toward the front door of a townhouse in a small complex I’ve driven past a time or two before. The food he picked up dangles from his fingers as he checks his watch, and then knocks.
What the hell are you up to?
Eventually, the door swings open, and a dark-haired woman stands on the other side. I don’t miss how her face lights up when she sees him. Nor do I miss how she locks her arms around his neck, followed by a little girl who can’t be much older than three latching onto his leg. The woman releases him, and he hands her the food, so he can scoop the little girl into his arms. Half a second later, he’s inside and the door closes behind him, but I’ve seen enough.
The kid is clearly his, and my guess is he led Layla to believe his dealings with the girl’s mother are water under the bridge. Meanwhile, that’s definitely not the case.
I still don’t know what this asshole did to warrant Layla even suggesting that I take him out, but honestly? I don’t care. I’ve been wanting to end him since I first saw him touch her, since I first saw his sad attempt at fucking her. He didn’t know it then, but he’s had a date with death for a while now.
Only, now, Layla sees it too.
She’s been quiet the past few days. She’s hardly left her apartment, and when she does, she returns with food. I recall how she tried to take it all back—her request to indulge in our peculiar form of shared art—but when it comes to her, I’m like a dog with a bone. I’ve got Martinez’s scent, and I’ll see this shit through to the end.
Because this… this… is what I fucking live for.
Hours pass, and once the light inside the woman’s home goes dark, it’s safe to say Martinez is in for the night, concluding my recon mission.
I know his work schedule, know the places he frequents throughout the week, and more importantly… I know where he lays his head at night.
I can’t help but smile as I pull away.
This shit is almost too easy.