2
Rae Haines is the champion of the world. Another first-place ribbon, another gold trophy to sit on the mantelpiece in my parents” living room. Standing on the podium as the crowd roars, chlorine-laced water dribbles down my back from my sodden golden ponytail.
The Lion catches my eye, and all the color in the stadium drains away to several shades of gray. That penetrating stare and vile smirk suffocate my senses as I swallow back the rising vomit from the stench of his sour breath.
Smile Rae. Smile for the camera.
Fuck off.
This scene plays in my mind as I lie at the bottom of the Olympic pool, holding my breath and watching the competitive swimmers skim across the water over the top of me. It’s so quiet down here and blue. Everything is so blue. But with silence comes the noisiness of my reoccurring thoughts and the invasions of memories that hurt so bad I’ve come close to ending it all.
Maybe that’s what I’m doing now. If I open my mouth and let the water fill my lungs, it’ll be all over, and the nightmare will end.
But there is a speck of life within me, a fire that can never be extinguished and love for life that can never be destroyed. Focus on the little things. The glory of life is always in the little things.
Pressure in my lungs indicates that it’s time to make my decision. Stay or go? Live or die. A single decision can change your destiny and those of others around you.
Life or death.
The little things. Droning Bumblebees land on fragile petals, scooping up as much pollen as they can onto their legs. Sparrows feast on tiny mites invading an apple tree. Female mantises bite the heads off the males as they mate. Killing in the name of…life.
I choose life.
The female mantis type of life.
Just as my head is about to explode from holding my breath, I swim to the surface, poke my head above the blue, and gasp for air. Stupidly, I neglected to look before I ascended, and a swimmer, moving at an incredible pace, crashes head-first into me. Water fills my mouth as he hurls several heated insults in my direction before speeding off, splashing my face with a kick of his foot as a last-minute hit of anger.
Okay. Fair enough. I fucked up.
Waiting a few seconds until there’s a long stretch of space between us in the lane, I proceed to freestyle, my favorite stroke, to the end of the pool.
Whipping off my goggles, I rub them clean with the pool water before placing my hands on the poolside to climb out. A pair of large feet are close to the edge, and I glance up to find a towering inferno standing over me.
“What the fuck were you doing back there?” his seething words whirl about my ears and don’t quite sink in. I understand his message more by his tone rather than the words he’s using.
My eyes are blurry, so I rub them with the base of my palms before answering, “I’m sorry about that. I was being inconsiderate.”
“No kidding,” he fumes. Now I can see clearly, I follow his lower legs to the hem of a towel hanging just below his knees that’s wrapped around his waist, to a flat stomach shiny from water and a chest crushed by muscular angry arms folded across it. His scowling face is chiseled and smoothly shaven, and his short dark brown hair is shiny, wet, and swept back.
Lesson one. Don’t piss off competitive swimmers. I know this for a fact because I used to be one. But that was another time, and I was a different girl. These days, I prefer to celebrate the female mantis biting off her mate’s head.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat as he seems in no hurry to leave. Instead, those piercing eyes penetrate my skull. “It won’t happen again.”
“If you wanna fuck around, there’s a kids’ paddling pool down the road,” he points in the direction of the Torres Aquatic Center a few yards away, where the waterslide and various other fun water activities are. “This is an Olympic pool, and it’s for serious swimmers.”
“I understand,” I say calmly, wondering if he’s ever going to leave.
“What the hell were you doing down the bottom of the pool like that anyway?” he asks, tilting his head to the side to peer at me differently as if he spotted something intriguing on my face.
“Nothing. Like you said, I was mucking around,” I answer. Will he ever leave so I can get out of the pool?
He grunts in dissatisfaction at my answer. “I could’ve killed you,” his voice is severe and hits me hard in my gut. He’s exaggerating because the most damage he could’ve done was break my nose or accidentally drown me. Okay, he’s right. That giant body of solid rock could’ve killed me.
“Fine,” I snap at him because now he’s pissing me off. I already apologized twice, and I’m not going to apologize again. “You can leave now.”
That giant, fit body hesitated before walking away from me toward a group of swimmers wrapped in towels who had been watching him the entire time.
“Big, tough guy,” I say under my breath as I spring up onto the side of the pool and climb out. My towel and bag are resting on a bench by the locker rooms, and as I walk to them, I peel my swimming cap off, and my long golden ponytail unravels down my back.
Clutching my towel against my chest, I take a precarious look around the area, searching for The Lion. I know he’s here. That unmistakable arrogance, soulless eyes, and those fucking unsightly shorts he always wears. I know he still coaches the highest league of swimming here at Keele University, so I’d expect him to be nearby, watching over his flock.
Damn, I can’t see him. Then, a shiver invades the base of my spine when I glance at the viewing box sealed behind darkened glass, where the officials sit on competition day to get a bird’s eye view of the pool.
Three figures are standing there, but I can’t tell if any of them are him. But my sharp, innate instincts know he’s here, somewhere. Whether he’s spotted me or not is a different story. Not that he’d care even if he does see me because all the power is in his hands, so he believes. He knows I won’t squeal, and he is right. I haven’t told a soul what he and the other three did. People know I was hurt really bad, but I stated that I didn’t see who did it because they threatened to destroy my family. In the end, I was the one who was sacrificed for their pleasure and to protect my family. I can’t let them get away with it.
As I drag my eyes away from the viewing box, someone’s gaze captures my attention. Intense, narrowed eyes run over my legs and buttocks, and I quickly wrap the towel around my body to shield my bare skin from his consuming stare.
It’s the swimmer who crashed into me and scolded me like a child. Maybe I acted like a child, but those eyes aren’t looking at me like he hates me right now.
I turn my back and head toward the locker room, glancing back one more time to see if the swimmer is still watching me, and he is. Breathing a sigh of relief as I enter the locker room away from the roaming eyes of curious men, I find a bench to sit on to check my class schedule for the day.
I’m meeting a man about a gun today, and I have to miss class to get there. Rockford Park is a twenty-minute drive from campus, and Zara told me to avoid being late as he’d grow suspicious. I also need to withdraw $200 cash from my long, shrinking bank account to give him.
“Bullets,” I say aloud, then realize there are other women nearby, and I hope they didn’t hear what I just blurted. I need bullets, too. I wonder if he…Blake will supply them as well. I only need one bullet to do the job unless I miss.
I slip my phone away in my bag and remove my lapis-blue bathing suit underneath my towel. Dry my body down and slip on a plain pair of white panties, a black sports bra, white shorts, and a dark blue Death to the Pixies T-shirt. Like Zara, I love my vintage tees, except hers are often deliberately offensive to raise eyebrows.
Slinging my sports bag over my shoulder, I head out into the pool arena again, quickly scan the area still searching for The Lion, and then slip down the corridor to the exit. The Olympic stadium is built on the edge of campus grounds, and college students from all over the country come here to train because we have some of the most highly acclaimed coaches in the land. The Nationals were featured here twice because the facilities are so good. But that’s not why I’m here. Yes, I still love to swim, but I’m here to hunt down my target, who also happens to be one of those highly respected coaches.
As I walk out to my car in the parking lot, a yellow Toyota hatchback, I soak in the warm early summer sun and gaze up at the perfect blue sky to search for a cloud, a blemish on the horizon. It’s clear. Not a single cloud in the sky. And as a lone seagull waddles about the parking lot searching for grubs, I think, what perfect day to murder someone.
Then, I pull my thoughts together and let my rational mind take over. One must plan these things to the last meticulous detail because leaving a trail leading back to me will devastate me and my family. Plot and scheme. Plot and scheme.
Today is not the day to kill him, but tomorrow might be.