Chapter 3 #2
He doesn’t get it. She edits for a living, so details don’t slip past her.
I kill for a living. Details can’t slip past me.
Different trades, same religion. Precision, discipline, patience, much like mine, but in its own way entirely, steady me.
Reading through all this, I see a woman who chooses the same road on purpose.
So, when she deviates, it means something.
Her world is a clean routine, and ours isn’t, but Adrian is wrong.
That doesn’t make her boring. It makes her rare.
It makes her something I’ll protect. I’ll keep the blood off her.
If something ugly has to get through, let it be me, let me be the only bad thing that ever gets through, and I’ll carry the dark so she can keep the light.
Adrian:
I did enough to know she’s not currently a liability. Would you like a deep dive little brother?
No shit. I want it all. Down to what she’s having for breakfast today.
Adrian:
Can I send Atlas?
Discreetly and only if I’m not watching her myself.
Adrian:
Is my killer brother turning over a new leaf? A stalker leaf perhaps?
Just do your damn job.
My patience gone, I close out of my messages. Adrian will do what I asked. He’s annoying. They all are. But, he’s never let me down.
I still see Atlas as a na?ve, punk-ass kid, so I try not to put too much on him. Don’t get me wrong, I’d die for him. I’d skin a motherfucker alive for him.
It’s just different with Adrian and Caleb. Especially Adrian. I’d chop a man’s balls off with a dull kitchen knife and feed them to his mother if Adrian asked me to. Wouldn't even need to know why.
Another ping. It’s her calendar, blocks color-coded to the minute that cover everything from meals to meetings.
It isn’t just neat blocks. I can see into her mind.
Resign? sits in yellow, which I figure out is her decide color.
The note is nudged forward three Fridays in a row before it finally turns blue.
She followed through. Tell Mom moves a week, then two, then disappears and comes back days later with a note under it: don’t apologize for doing what’s right for me.
Packing Tasks show up as a run of blue logistics, order boxes, donate, label boxes, but Book movers? keeps hopping day by day with pep talks stacked under it: call them today, stop stalling, be brave.
Her first days here are a map of flinches.
Drive to office appears three mornings and gets crossed out each time and replaced with Uber (it’s fine) and a little script: practice driving Strip on days off.
Walk-through apartment is solid green, but hang art sits yellow on top of it with: no measuring, just commit.
Even Explore Strip? toggles between maybe and never with a note that reads, you can do hard things.
She plays life like chess, ten moves ahead, but then stalls any time the task is, what, uncomfortable for her?
The Vegas tasks, the ones that should’ve stayed forever in the crossed-out phase, are all there, complete.
Some after a few tries, but done. Pick up keys lands blue after two red X’s.
Drive to work finally sticks. In the margins she talks to herself: be brave, alone isn’t empty, you can trust you, today you choose you, breathe odd, you’re allowed to take up space. She hesitates; then she goes.
That’s the part I can’t shake. Her fear is present, obvious, but her will is louder.
She fears the checkmate, but still makes the move.
I know men who don’t, who can’t. Courage like that can’t be taught.
She thinks she’s afraid, but the reality is she’s fearless.
My instinct is to protect, to sweep the pieces off the board for her.
But under that is something truer. I’m her knight, and I want to watch how she plays, watch as she wins.
One thread keeps snagging: Call Mila. It shows up every Sunday night as far back as this calendar goes in soft purple, the color she uses for personal things.
But then it gets bumped, crossed out, rewritten as Mila—coffee?
and canceled twice. A week later it’s just Mila.
No verb. After that, a greyed-out block: Stop trying (for now).
No last name anywhere. Whoever Mila is, she used to be automatic.
She used to be purple. Now she’s a red bruise on the schedule pages.
I flag the name in my head. People who vanish leave bigger holes than enemies ever do.
I leave my phone charging on the kitchen counter and go through my morning ritual.
It takes me exactly twenty-seven minutes daily to prepare to leave my house.
Fifteen minutes spent punching the absolute shit out of the heavy bag in my basement, leaving twelve minutes to shower and dress.
When I’m not on a job, like today, I unfortunately wear suits and drive a car.
When my planner says kill so and so, I dress casually and ride my Harley.
Today’s not a Harley day.
My brothers and I built our reputation for unparalleled service, discretion, and effectiveness, and quickly became the go-to security firm for the world's elite. Clients come to us for everything from personal protection to asset security. With Adrian behind his keyboard, Caleb running the numbers, and Atlas tracking people and things like a bloodhound, there’s no other company on the same playing field.
Not to mention my special talent of making people talk and or disappear depending on the situation.
We handle all meetings with potential clients as a team. Only exception? When I’m elbow-deep in someone’s guts.
Perk of the job.
I fucking hate meetings.
Adrian and Caleb do most of the talking when it comes to tailoring each package to whatever the client thinks they need. Body guards, event protection, surveillance, asset relocation. Thanks to Adrian’s tech wizardry, we also install state-of-the-art security systems. Casinos eat that shit up.
We’ve got a full staff trained and ready, but I stay out of the office as much as I can. But, I can’t kill people every day, that’d get oddly suspicious after a while. So when I’m between jobs, I show up, nod at the appropriate moments, follow Adrian and Caleb around with Atlas too, of course.
Honestly?
Sitting through those mind-melting meetings is probably the only time I feel normal.
I can pretend for an hour or so that I’m just a guy with an office job.
I’ve sat through forty-five minutes of a meeting and couldn’t tell you one detail. I’ve been making a mental list of all the reasons I shouldn’t text Melinda. I give it another thirty seconds before I say fuck it and open my messages because I didn’t say good morning before.
Good morning Lindy girl.
Lindy Girl:
Good morning Cassius. Should I give you a nickname?
Please don’t start calling me Cass or Cassi.
Lindy Girl:
I was thinking Ass.
Funny. She’s funny. Who knew? How’s your morning going?
Lindy Girl:
You mean since you asked what I was doing a few minutes ago? Mostly good.
Mostly?
Lindy Girl:
The guy I was supposed to go to dinner with…now I’m going to lunch with.
I squeeze the phone tight enough to crack the screen, so I set it face down.
Why?
Lindy Girl:
Because I ditched him last night and want to make it up to him.
Why?
Lindy Girl:
Because it’s my second day on the job and I’m not ready to be disliked so soon.
I want to tell her she doesn’t owe anyone shit. That she’s brilliant. That she could walk circles around whatever dumbass she’s meeting. But she doesn’t know I know she’s brilliant. And I’m not supposed to care.
You don’t have to feel bad for telling people no.
I want to tack on that if anyone makes her feel bad about anything, I have no issue slitting their throat.
I refrain. For now.
When she doesn’t answer right away, I assume she’s gotten busy at work. At least, that’s what I tell myself so I don’t call her, demand to know why she’s ignoring me, and make this already weird situation awkward beyond repair.
Instead, I text Atlas who is one chair to my right.
Did Adrian talk to you?
Atlas:
About babysitting your toy, yeah.
She’s not a toy, dick muncher.
Atlas:
Chill bro. I’ve got her covered. I’ll find out anything there is to know.
Start today at lunch. She’s going out with a coworker.
Atlas:
So we are going stalker. I owe Adrian a hundred bucks.
I close out of my messages again, can’t be making too big a scene in this boring-ass meeting.
I don’t bother telling Atlas where Melinda works.
He’s insane. He probably already knows where she’s going to lunch, even if she hasn’t decided yet.
His ability to catch minute details and weave them into something useful can only be described as magic.
Another hour passes before I hear from Melinda. Atlas slips out to do his finder thing, and I expect to hear from him after lunch. He knows that. Which is exactly why he’ll go home and make me go to him after work. Just to drive me nuts.
Lindy Girl:
What do you do Cassius?
I read Melinda’s message three times, trying to decide whether or not to lie. I don’t want to lie to her. I don’t want this surprising ray of sun to ever dim because of the pain that comes with a lie. I never want to have to hear, or in this case read, you lied to me. Not from her.
I own a security firm with my brothers. You can Google it. Ashenhart Defense Agency.
I hit send. I can’t exactly text that I'm in the permanent sleep arrangement business. This isn’t lying. It’s saving information for a more appropriate time.
Lindy Girl:
You’re not worried I’ll see what you look like or find out where you live?
Lindy girl, my address is 7425 Desert-Willow Drive. I’ll leave the door unlocked.
I’m not being reckless. Anyone who’s a threat, Spiderweb or the cops, already has my address. What they don’t have is my permission. That’s the difference. The risk isn’t leaving my door open. It’s trusting her.
Lindy Girl:
Why are you so…
Blunt?
Lindy Girl:
I was going to say intense.
Let’s just say I learned early that if you want something, you gotta speak up. Say that shit out loud. Otherwise the world pretends it didn’t hear you.
She quits answering again, likely because she’s at lunch with some douche canoe.
I breathe easy knowing Atlas is watching her, and turn to the hellscape that is our shared inbox.
Adrian CCs all of us on everything. I don’t do much, truly, other than cut flesh, but when I can send or file a contract, answer a client question, or some other flavor of menial bullshit, I do it.
Because Lord knows Adrian does the bulk around here.
After forcing myself to look at a contract packet for half an hour, the letters start to crawl. Atlas texts a photo and I abandon all thoughts of work. Her reflection in a deli’s glass, hair tucked behind one ear, eyes lifted like she’s listening harder than everyone else.
Make sure he never touches her.
Atlas:
I’m not an idiot.
He adds a second picture, just to be a prick.
My future sister-in-law looks good in blue.
I don’t correct him.
Instead, I make a note to pick up another heavy bag. The one hanging in the corner of my office is tearing at the seams again. Between jobs, pretending helps. So does the ache.
I send Lindy one more message because I can’t talk myself out of it.
You don’t own him anything. Don’t forget to drink water.
Lindy Girl:
Editor’s note: I think you mean owe, not own. Also, that’s an oddly specific hydration reminder. Should I wave to the hidden camera or…?
Good catch, editor. Now sip. Then text me “done.”
The dots blink. Disappear. Blink again.
Lindy Girl:
Done.
Good girl. Now eat something green.
Lindy Girl:
You’re impossible.
I let the corner of my mouth lift, just enough to feel it. I put the phone face-down on the desk and line it up with the edge so it’s flush, exact, and then nudge it a hair off because perfection makes me itch.
Thirty minutes. I give myself that rule on the spot. No more texts for thirty.
Timer set. Knife beside the phone. Knuckles into the heavy bag until my shoulders burn and the old split on my ring finger opens again. When the timer barks, I pick the phone up.
Lindy Girl:
Do people call you Cass?
Rarely. Sometimes my brothers.
Lindy Girl:
Do you look like your name?
What would a Cassius look like?
Lindy Girl:
Tall. Dark hair you push back. Definitely scars you don’t talk about.
Nailed it. My turn.
Librarian eyes that sparkle when you’re sure of something. Hair you tuck behind your ear. A mouth built for telling the truth and ruining men who ask for it.
Lindy Girl:
I don’t ruin men. I’ve never been that confident.
You’ve ruined men, even if you don’t know it.
Lindy Girl:
I’m adding…you wear a watch you don’t need, just to feel the weight. You smell like trouble.
What scent is trouble?
Lindy Girl:
Ummm, earthy?
I laugh sharp, unguarded, and it startles me. I can’t remember the last time I heard my own laugh.
You smell like paper and strawberries. I hope it’s strawberries.
I pocket the phone and walk back into the conference room. Control is a muscle. I can never lose it. Never let it relax. Everything in my life balances on my ability to stay in control. Let it slack, things break. The timer resets. Thirty minutes at a time, I’ll keep the leash tight.
When my phone buzzes in my pocket I pull it out, stop the alarm and text her.
What was your first impression of Vegas? Three words.
Lindy Girl:
Loud. Glittering. Lonely.
I grew up here. To me it’s always owed, watching, alive.
I set the phone face-down and let the timer start again.
The timer chirps. I thumb the phone open and type.
Tell me one good thing about today, Lindy girl.
The dots appear. Disappear. Come back.
Lindy Girl:
I drove myself to work.
I tap the knife under my suit jacket. One, two, three.
I’m proud of you.
I let the timer run. Thirty minutes. I can wait.
Until I can’t.