10. Queenie
Packing for a mission that I don’t want to be on in the first place is putting me in a piss poor mood. First, I went to the shooting range and shot off more rounds than what feels like should be appropriate. My hands and arms felt like they were vibrating, which didn’t even help the rage I was currently feeling. Next, I hit the gym, hoping to beat the ever-living shit out of a punching bag, picturing the crying bitch’s face. Her fucking mascara probably even ran perfectly. She does not look like the clown I wish she would look like. The faceless woman is the least of my problems, but right now, she is the easiest person to be pissed off at.
Is she everything I’m not? I bet she is soft where she needs to be and has big doe eyes that look so pretty. I throw my head back, and I am thankful I am alone as I scream, “FUCK!” before I beat the shit out of the bag. Why can’t I be different? I attack the bag, kicking, kneeing, and hitting it until I collapse to the floor with exhaustion. Sweat pours off of me as I starfish on the mat below. My thoughts are not quieting with my exhaustion. If anything, they only become louder. I close my eyes and feel my heart beat throughout my body while I cool down.
If Mother could see me now, she would probably grin at how mentally dysfunctional I have become. Her cold blue eyes taunt me even when she isn’t around. I may try dating again, but I end up emasculating anyone I date. The last guy informed me I was beautiful but terrifying, reminding him of a black widow spider set out to devour him if he made the wrong move. He followed up with, ‘We can still fuck if you want to,’ which caused me to reach into my purse while maintaining eye contact, pulling out my pistol, and holding it between his eyes. The terror that took over his face was pretty pathetic, even if his analogy about me was probably spot on. It probably didn’t help when I pulled it away. I said bang before blowing him a kiss. He bailed on me, leaving me with the check. Still, to this day, I think it was a solid decision.
They need a dating app for people like me. A woman seeks a man who has a body count higher than two, and I’m not talking about sexual body count—someone who will push the envelope. I need someone to match my levels of crazy. I huffed and figured Joker would need someone soft who listens to everything he says or wants. Yeah, I know that’s never going to be me. I would end up yelling at him to shut the fuck up and fuck me already. Most men’s dicks fade when you do that. Being around men constantly and being raised with brothers, I blame it on them.
Is it so wrong to want someone to take charge of me in the bedroom? Someone who can be terrifying and sexy. He has the ability to kill me with a flick of his wrist but uses that ability to pleasure my body. Someone that can blow my mind by shutting the damn thing off. I cannot seem to focus enough on my pleasure. My mind is always getting away from me. It might be time to face facts and realize that the toys that line my closet will be the closest thing to a relationship I will manage. I can barely get myself off. I imagine that someone would have a hard time and get a complex.
Trust. That is the ingredient that every relationship is based on. I don’t trust anyone except my brothers and Joker. That thought has my blood boiling once more. I don’t think I can be his friend anymore. He is my best friend, and I feel like I will lose a limb, but I will have to set some rules. Fuck it! I’m going to cut the limb off because I can’t do it! I can’t go on pretending to be okay with the scraps that I get from him. It’s not worth it anymore.
I throw boots into my bag and feel like I am about to have a tantrum. Why am I not calmer? As I zip up my duffle bag, I throw it over my shoulder and head out the doors. Joker stands outside my door, leaning against the wall without a care in the world, glancing up as soon as I leave. Shooting him a glare, I drop my bag and turn to lock my door. Step one: set the prescient of how my mood will be for this trip. I’m going to be a fucking delight to be around.
He walks over to my bag with so much swagger. Has anyone looked so good in black combat pants and a tight black T-shirt? His muscular tattooed arms fill out his shirt too well. As he bends over to grab my bag, I feel my snarky attitude win over my lust. “Carry your own fucking bag. I can manage mine.” I pull it out of his arms, and he raises his eyebrow and pulls it back.
We have a slight tug-of-war before I stomp over to the elevators, and I smack the button, waiting for its arrival. Wordlessly, we ride down, walk into the parking garage, and load up the compact car. I fall into the seat and grab my phone, putting my earbuds into my ears, not wanting to talk. With my arms crossed, and I glare out of the window.
I usually DJ for the trip and make fun playlists that both amuse and piss Joker off. Not today, fucker. We drive five hours that way, and I sigh with relief when I see the exit to our home away from home for the next week or two. I snarl when he pulls out my earbud. “You going to tell me who or what got your panties in a twist?”
“Fuck off and stop worrying about my panties because they are none of your concern.” I pull the cord away from him and put it back in my ear. He stops the car, turning the flashers on as he parks the car next to the stop sign. There is nobody in sight since it’s 2:30 in the morning.
He turns the light on, grabs my phone out of my hands, and, over the shoulder, tosses it into the backseat. “No, we will not have a mission like this where you get to make us both miserable. Talk to me.”
“What the fuck, J.” I cringe internally at my softening his name, but I shake that off as I sit up. My neck tilts as I glare at him, and all I can think is, it’s showtime, mother fucker. Throwing my seatbelt off, I turn my body to face off with him. Every fiber of my being is ready for a fight. I’ve been waiting for someone to pick a fight with me. “I am not someone you can tell me what to do or how I can act! Fuck you! I am so tired of it all! Because, no, you don’t get to keep me at arm’s length, acting like I’m made of glass! We both know what happened on that mission. I don’t need a reminder every fucking time you look at me. Just fucking stop. I can’t do it anymore, okay?”
My hand reaches for the door before my body even knows that’s what I am doing. I can’t be in this space right now. We are less than a mile from the house. I can cool off and walk. Before I slam the door, I want to drive my last point home. “Don’t answer your phone when you’re fucking someone because you think I might be in trouble. I don’t want any of it! I’m walking.” My grip on the door tightens, and I slam it as hard as possible. I am now flipping him off with double birds aimed at the window. Am I being childish? Yes. But fuck him.
I take off walking, knowing where we stay when we are this close to this city. We will observe our mark, place cameras, and watch his every move. When the Joker card gets played, we require proof. Joker is who you want when you want the kill to be brutal and without mercy. He is a work of art when he is in control. That’s the keyword there; his control snaps easily, and I constantly push my luck. His ways should scare me or make me want him less, but something is wrong with me. Apparently, I like my men damaged. Or maybe I have a death wish.
My eyes roll when Joker drives the car slowly beside me. Of course, he isn’t yelling at me or commanding me to get back into the car. Why did this make me want to scream at him more? Normal men would have taken off with a screech of tires; the burning rubber smells the only thing left. When I shift my eyes to look at him, he seems to have all the time in the world.
Do I keep pushing him like this so he finally snaps and severs our friendship? Because deep down, I know I can’t do it myself. Walk away from him, Queenie! Do it! Leave him and this whole life behind. It’s only caused pain. You were right long ago when you knew it wasn’t worth it. My heart feels cold at that thought. I’m co-dependant. All my siblings are. We need each other, and we are unable to exist in a world where we aren’t fighting each other and uniting against the world. Like it or not, that includes Joker.
I lunge for the door, open it, and slide in. With my eyes narrowed, I raise my pointer finger at him, “Not a word.” He doesn’t even let me be angry the way I want to.
“Want breakfast?” He tilts his head at the question in the air. I cross my arms and let out a huff because, damnit, I wanted breakfast.