57. Shane
57
Shane
M y tires hit the tarmac, burning rubber against the road as I work effortlessly to remain calm. My palms grip the handlebars, and I speed through intersections and stop signs, dodging oncoming traffic left and right and zipping through spaces anywhere I see fit. I nearly get clipped by the front end of a Ford pickup, but swerve to right myself and gain speed again. No red light will keep me from reaching the Institute.
Richard Sheldon always swore his innocence because he was indeed innocent. His repetitive phrase, the disillusion of a pretty face, came directly from the killer himself. Gabriella Marxon’s murder was covered up to perfection, and the reasons for Montana’s untimely arrival consumed me, drowning me in confusion.
Realization hits me like a ton of bricks, attempting to steal my focus. My mind runs an endless loop of all of our interactions as the overwhelming fear of what may happen to her damn near cripples me. How could it be? All this time, was she looking for him? Had she assumed it was Conductor Hopkins? Was I right that she’d only been using Wesley as a pawn to get closer to him? Was this why she sought out the cello and this new life from the dark places we thrived? Was I simply a piece in the game like Wes? I throw that thought out immediately. It’s not possible after what we’ve shared—how we’ve loved…again.
Montana knew more than she let on. She’s calculated and divisive. Strong and determined.
The new life she sought wasn’t an escape from a reality in which she saw no end. It couldn’t be. No, it was an undertaking to define justice.
Her bus couldn’t have been that far ahead of me. She was more than likely just dropped off only minutes before I left the house—
My body suddenly jerks to the side, my helmet eating concrete with a loud crack as the sound of screaming metal slides across the pavement. My body finally skids to a stop in the middle of the road, the smell of iron and rubber enveloping me. I’ve been hit.
I groan in pain. With the wind knocked out of me, my chest seizes, and I lose the ability to inhale. Feeling helpless, I lie back for a moment and stare up at the sky. Blue skies and white puffy clouds float swiftly above, calm and peaceful compared to the havoc below. It’s entirely reminiscent of a time when I’d been on a similar street. Ready to die. Ready to give up. It’s the slow decay of hope that kills the living, not the beasts subjecting us to their bite.
My chest finally relaxes, and I inhale deeply. Rolling to my side, I claw at the pavement, feeling the abrasive burns from the road rash on my arm and shoulder.
“Oh my God, are you alright?!” an older woman yells, rushing to me from her car.
I push off the ground, getting my feet beneath me and hobble to a stand, feeling my waistband for my gun. It’s gone. I search the scene, taking in the destruction of my bike and the shattered taillight, before spotting it a few yards away.
“You need to go to the hospital! That man hit you out of nowhere!” she continues.
Another woman rushes over. “Sir? I’m a physician's assistant. I can help you until paramedics arrive.”
I ignore them as the surrounding cars pile up at the intersection, some even honking impatiently at the stop in traffic. I flip off some man in a minivan as I limp toward my gun. Picking it up, I tuck it in the back of my waistband, my shoulder suddenly soaring in pain.
It’s out of place. Fuck. I can’t ride like this.
I look toward the women, both now staring at me silently with fear in their rounded eyes.
“You ever set a shoulder?” I ask the lady who claimed to be some doctor’s assistant.
“Uh, no,” she mumbles, shaking her head. “B-but I’ve seen it done. The paramedics will be here soon. They’ve already been called—”
“Set it,” I demand, interrupting her.
“No, I can’t,” she says, backing away from me. “They’ll be here any minute—”
Unfortunate circumstances have me resorting to my usual violent self. Raised and loaded, I point the handgun at her head in the middle of this busy intersection.
“Set the fucking shoulder.”
Fear for her life has her at my side in seconds. Working my arm at a weird angle, she does as I asked, twisting and pulling until my shoulder finally pops back into its socket. I breathe through the pain, clenching my teeth together tightly and groaning through it. With one more deep inhale, I hold my arm tightly to my body and limp over to my bike.
“You’re going to need to wrap that!” she yells at me.
I toss my hand behind me, acknowledging her lovely suggestion, before the adrenaline kicks back in, and I lift my bike from the road. Scraped, dented, and missing a taillight, I start it back up, revving the engine as I tear away from the intersection to get to my girl.
I round the final corner, racing up to the Institute and driving up on the grass near the main stairs. Sprinting as fast as my broken body will allow, I chuck my helmet to the ground and burst into the building, running down the hollow corridor until I find the practice room. Her room.
She scrawled her name on the sign-in board as if she was waiting for me to find her.
Pushing through the door with my good shoulder, I practically fall to my knees when I survey the scene before me. I was too late. Blood trails across the granite tile in a smeared mess. Chairs and music stands are scattered across the room, blood splattered across the black chalkboard, and two bodies lie motionless near the back. No, no, no!
“Montana!” I scream, shoving through the mess of stands and chairs to reach her.
I collapse at her curled-up form, her body cold and her head bleeding near her brow. I curse, picking up her limp body and holding her in my arms. She feels so small. So delicate. So unlike the fiery woman I’ve grown to love time and time again.
“Monty, baby, wake up,” I rasp, gently slapping the side of her face. “Please, baby! Wake up!”
My eyes fall to the man behind us lying motionless in a pool of blood, and panic crawls up my spine. He’s so large in comparison to her. The idea of her fighting him off has a sickness coiling in my gut. If I hadn’t been hit, I could’ve been here in time.
“Shane,” she mumbles from her bluish-hued lips. A rush of relief washes over me, calming the panic crawling up my throat.
“It’s me. It’s me, I’m right here.” I rock her in my arms, holding her body tight to mine and rubbing the freezing flesh of her shoulders to warm her. Her limp arms lie vacant in my lap.
She tries to sit up, but I hold her in place. “Woah, woah, easy. You’re hurt.”
“Did I do it? I-is he dead?” she whispers, her eyes wincing in pain.
I peer behind us, noting a tiny silver blade sticking out from his neck. His eyes are set wide in horror, and his hands remain locked before him, outstretched for help. A gurgling groan rumbles through his chest, and I stand immediately, ripping my gun from my waistband and pointing it at him.
“Wait! No!” Montana says, her arm reaching out toward me.
I steady my weapon, ready to unload the entire clip into his skull, but halting at her command.
“No, don’t. You weren’t supposed to be here! I don’t want you involved in any of this,” she says breathlessly, fear drenching her tone. “Please.”
Hesitation grips me, but I finally lower my weapon and help her to sit up in my lap again.
“He killed her, Shane,” she comments, gritting her teeth. “Gabriella, Josiah’s sister. He brutally murdered her and got away with it.”
I search her face for understanding as the past catches up to me. “You knew her? How?” Anger grips me, and I demand answers.
She shakes her head. “No, I didn’t know Gabriella. I knew Ella Marx.”
The pieces begin to fall into place as I make the connection. Gabriella Marxon, Ella Marx.
“I knew certain things no one else did. Who she was to the public, and who she was to the underground world,” Montana continues, “and I watched from the sidelines as they buried an empty casket, the police happy to have found their suspect guilty without ever needing to stain their uniforms. Swept under the rug, hands brushed clean of an investigation that would never take place because of a manipulative murderer who was a master in disguise.”
Richard Sheldon. The homeless madman at the Macrae Mansion. Easy target. Easy arrest.
“I respected Ella. After we met online, she was like a mentor to me as a young girl needing quick cash. Sex was easy for me, but finding ways to capitalize on an illegal system was overwhelming. She taught me how to navigate CyprusX and bring in what I required. We bonded in our circumstances and the fact that both of us needed this illegal site to keep ourselves afloat.”
All this time, she had held Gabriella’s secrets in order to maintain her image to the public, not wanting to further desecrate her memory. The weight of knowing must’ve been so heavy for her to carry alone.
“Ella and I would share stories of various clients and their odd requests, but the last one she shared before her disappearance never left me.”
“It’s how you found Conductor Hopkins,” I confirm.
“It’s why I picked up a cello, knowing Mick Geigon was the only member nearing the age of a possible retirement.”
“You infiltrated, hoping to gain access…I knew Wes was a stunt.”
“I knew it’d be easy to use him to get close to his father, gain access to the house…”
“You were playing with them from day one,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. “You were digging to get to the dirty truth.”
“I was so close, Shane. I was so sure it was him after everything she told me, the way it all lined up.” Her eyes fill with tears again as her forehead furrows. “But I was wrong. I let my mask slip and let the wrong one in, almost costing me my life.”
Montana’s arms slide around my neck as her emotions take over. I cup the back of her head, my mind still whirling as I allow her release. There’s nothing weak about her tears. The tears that fall are concealed rage finally coming to a head. I have so many unanswered questions, but at the moment, knowing she’s safe in my arms is all I need.
She eventually calms her sobs into soft hiccups, and I wipe her face as clean as I can with my bloody motorcycle glove. Holding her, we both stare at the ruthless wreckage of the bloody scene around us.
Disbelief swirls in the pit of my stomach.
“We gotta get out of here. Are you alright? What hurts?” I ask, surveying as much of her body as I can. Not seeing any visible injuries besides a cut on her face and the red abrasions surrounding her neck, a towering rage floods me, and it's all I can do not to imagine how those got there.
“I’ll be fine. I’m fine,” she whispers, her voice horse.
I breathe hard, resting my head against hers.
“You’re bleeding,” she says, touching my head. Her eyes cast down my body, taking in the bloody mess I am. “What happened to you?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m alive. You’re alive.” I kiss her hard, repeating the phrase more to convince myself. “Fuck, you’re alive, Monty.”
I would’ve lost my mind had I lost her again. I told her once before that I wouldn’t survive losing her again, and I meant it. My body shudders, my erratic mind thinking of all the what-ifs.
“How did you know where to find me? Why did you assume I was here?” she asks, popping her head up. “The concert is at the auditorium. You knew that. Phil and Kathy, I told you all it was there.” Her eyes are tight with confusion as she studies me warily.
The blood drains from my face as reality sets in.
I should be ashamed. I should feel the guilt of stealing Montana’s privacy and deceiving her for so long. I could lie. I could say it was just a simple mistake, assuming she’d be where she always practices. But I can’t. I won’t. I needed to get to her, and I’m grateful I knew. I just don’t know how she’ll handle the truth when it hits her.
“You texted me,” I admit with hesitation, swallowing thickly.
She studies me intently. Her face, already a shade of white, practically turns iridescent as she works it out in her head.
“You,” she whispers, her brows knitting together as her brain works to unravel my secrets.
Her mouth drops open, and her shallow lungs gulp for air as if she’s being strangled all over again.
“It was you? The only person I messaged was"—she stalls with her mouth agape—"You’re Markie,” she confirms. “This whole time.” She shakes her head, backing away as she circles me with a look of uncertainty and distrust. “Markie Mark and Money Shot. Years. This whole time, it was…you.”
I can’t decipher her emotions at the moment. I expect her to be enraged at the years of deception, the duplicitous, manipulative, and immoral behavior I operated under. I’d searched the web endlessly for Montana after she ghosted me. Like the complete sociopath I am, I wouldn’t give up until I found her, using the only information I’d pieced together through our many late- night conversations in hopes of luring her back to me. And find her, I did.
She gasps. “That’s how you knew I was auditioning for the casting call. I told Markie I was looking for quick cash…she sent me to…you sent…Vince. That’s how I found Vince.”
Where it all began.
“Yeah.” I swallow thickly, then take a breath. “I sent you his contact…him, being…me.”
Piecing it all together in her head, she stares at me, a vacant expression masking her face. The silence between us sizzles with memories of our past, the possibility of absolute rage from my deception, and the quiet hope of whatever future we might have after this.
She grips my shirt in her white-knuckled fists, and I’m sure she’s set to punch me. I wait for it, my chin raised in acceptance of her wrath, but her firm grasp slowly deteriorates, and her hands fall from my chest.
“That’s so fucked up,” she whispers breathlessly, sounding strangely accepting.
“I know.”
“How could you…keep…” she mutters, lost for words. “How could you keep this up for so long? We…she—”
“I needed access to you, Monty,” I interrupt. “I didn’t know why you left me. I just needed you in whatever capacity I could get you.”
She stares at me, conflict burning in her gaze.
Unable to withhold myself, I grip the sides of her neck in my hands, bringing her mouth to mine. She resists, trying to push away, but I pull her tighter to me. I groan in pain as she shoves against my injured shoulder.
Her empathy must catch up to her, as well as her love, because she ceases her fight, melting into my arms. My mouth stays sealed to hers, and she finally kisses me back.
Our lips brush softly together, the kiss packed with love, affection, and desire. We need this. I need this. To not only prove the respect and admiration that runs wild within my veins for her, but to show her that no matter how vile she may believe I am, every action I took was because I never stopped loving her.
“I told you we’d always be connected in some twisted, intangible way.” I pull back to level our eyes. “I refused to let you go, as demented and dishonorable as it may have been. And I refuse to lose you again. I won’t. Does that make you hate me?”
She stares at the floor, wide-eyed and aghast, her chest struggling to hold air.
“Everything you’ve done would make any sane person despise you, Shane.”
My heart sinks to the floor at her words, the truth of the monster I’ve become slapping me in the face. I’m tainted by my obsession. Shamelessly haunted by my infatuation.
“But I’m not sane.” Montana peers up at me, and I can feel my body begin to sweat. “And your lies rival my own.” She stalls, working to muster up some courage. “Your father…”
“What about him?”
Montana peers down at her hand resting on my chest. She doesn’t want to look at me.
She sucks in a breath. “The things you told me…the horror he subjected you to. I couldn’t sit back and just let him hurt you, Shane.”
“What?” I rush. “What do you mean?”
My questions linger in the air as I’m reminded of my last conversation with him. She left me, son. We had plans to be together, but she left me.
“It was you ,” I say, my face suddenly feeling numb. “You were the other woman?”
“I had to draw him away from you in any way I could.”
Awareness pummels me into the ground as an avalanche of memories bulldoze me. My father fell for her lies. Left our family with the hopes of pursuing a dreamt-up illusion of a relationship and future with the online vixen that was vEm0mX. She was the reason for it all, inadvertently saving me from continued agony and abuse by luring him with false promises. Her demented obsession rivals my own. Fuck, I’m insane to find this so attractive.
“You really loved me, didn’t you?”
Montana nods, tears spilling down her cheeks, her lips finally gaining their beautiful color again.
“I still do. Endlessly,” she whispers, her voice tattered and torn, yet with a defining strength to it. “You saved me.”
“No, I didn’t, Montana,” I say, combing her bloodied hair back with my gloves. “No. This was all you, baby. You saved yourself.” I peer back at the bloody mess.
“No, you don’t get it.” She shakes her head. “You saved me. The keychain that Markie—you gave me. It was the only thing I had. He would’ve killed me. He brought weapons. He had a bag full of—”
A wet gurgling sound interrupts us, and I stand again, lifting Montana and pulling her behind me. Alek’s body seizes on the floor, his chest continuously trying to expand as the blood slowly drains from his punctured neck. He’s still alive. Just barely, but he’s holding on.
I look back at Montana, and she peers back at me. She didn’t want me to shoot Alek the way I’d intended when I stormed in here. Possibly to protect me? To keep my hands clean as she suggested? But by the way her eyes darken as her gaze lingers on him, I can tell it wasn’t just for my sake. It was more than that. She was hoping for the possibility of violence.
Awaiting her orders, I look longingly into those dark amber eyes, watching as they ignite with a newfound rage.
“Shane?” she calls out, her fiery stare never tearing away from his crumpled, bleeding body. “Be a doll and fetch me that bag.”