25
I waited ten minutes to allow Gabe to get ahead of me before leavingfor the elevator so I didn’t bump into him. My hands are still trembling, and my heart is thumping heavily in my chest, yet all I can smell is his cologne, and all I can feel is his lips. When I arrive in the main foyer, I check through the glass doors to see if I can catch sight of the salt and pepper head again, but I can’t see him and suppress the urge to run outside for a better look.
Swinging the door open into the parking garage, I shiver at how dark it is. I noticed that the LED light by the entrance had been smashed, and another one had been destroyed. Keeping to the bright side of the garage, I walk towards my car, the bright yellow sun leading me while keeping my wits about me.
A scraping sound on the concrete forces me to look behind, but I can’t see anyone. An unwanted shiver runs down my spine, even though it’s warm here, and my feet pick up the pace to get to my car sooner. My phone beeps in my bag, and I jump just from that slightly muffled sound and assume it’s Cormac, wondering how far away I am. I won’t bother checking my phone until I’m in the safety of my car and out of this fucking garage.
“Rae?” a man calls out, and I follow his voice to find a man about thirty years old in a dark-colored shirt and grey baggy sweatpants.
“Who is asking?” I hunt for the crow tattoo on his arm to see if it matches the man I spotted outside my door earlier, but his arms are clean.
“I have a message for you,” he states, closing the space between us and becoming threatening. If he already knows who I am, why did he ask?
“I’m not who you think I am,” I lie, trying to call his bluff.
His gaze drifts to the yellow Corolla, about six feet from me. “This your car?”
“No,” I answer as he takes his phone out of his pocket, checks something on it, and then seems annoyed.
“Looks like you going by the picture I’ve been given,” he explains. “Anyway, if you’re thinking about squealing on Coach, you better think again.” He’s admitting that Coach has done something wrong, but I suspect this guy is just a paid runner.
I shrug, pretending I don’t know what he’s talking about, and consider shuffling backward toward the elevator or the fire exit.
“Don’t play dumb now,” he adds, glancing over my shoulder as a smirk appears. I don’t need to turn around to discover that a second man has appeared; I can sense the impending danger.
A heavy hand lands on my shoulder as I’m shoved into the nearest vehicle and gasp in horror. His hand fixes tightly around my throat and squeezes as my flailing arms try to fight him off without success. I can’t breathe, and no matter how much I punch, kick, and scratch, it doesn’t make the slightest difference.
“Be a good girl,” the hulking man instructs with his sour breath crawling across my skin, “listen to my colleague.” He looks over at his ‘colleague’ “repeat what you said so it sinks into her little brain.”
“No snitching on the coach,” the first guy says, and I can tell he’s smiling.
“Did you hear that?” the hulk asks me. “No snitching on the coach. Because if you do…” He clasps my throat even tighter, restricting my airways, and panic ensues, drawing a gasp from my mouth.
“I think this one wants to live,” the other guy says. “She won’t be stupid.”
“Yeah, she’s a pretty one, alright,” the hulk replies as his pupils dilate and he licks his bottom lip. I know what he is thinking. This has happened to me before, and I can’t let it happen again.
“She’s got the message. Let her go,” the first guy states.
The hulk ignores him and grabs the space between my legs, and anger rages within me. “I think she’s hot for me.”
“Let’s go,” the other guy uses more force in his tone and seems
“We’ll be back if you don’t keep your mouth shut,” he says sternly, yet he’s half the size of the hulk, so I doubt he’d be strong enough to pull him off me. The hulk gives my throat one more tight, restrictive squeeze, and stars float behind my eyes, and I become lightheaded.
His grip is released, and I gasp, desperate for air. As he walks away, he hits me with a warning smirk that I won’t forget in a hurry. Backing away from them and my car, I run to the elevator, pressing the button several times before the damn door opens. Once inside, I slump over due to the lifeblood draining, making me weak and dizzy, and the movement of the elevator only adds to my giddy malaise.
When the doors open onto my floor, I stumble out, ill and frail, and make it back into my apartment just in time to vomit in the toilet bowl. As my body starts to empty and acid burns my throat, anger rises with such incredible velocity that I start banging my fist hard against the floor, over and over again. There is no pain yet, but there will be. As Gabe said, “Shock from trauma strikes after the dust settles.”
While wiping my mouth with toilet paper, I have only one thought hounding my mind: Til. I fill a tall glass with water, take several gulps to wash away the acrid taste in my mouth, and then step to my dresser.
Don’t do anything stupid, Rae.
“Who me?” I speak aloud as I crouch down to open the bottom drawer, take out my Glock wrapped in fabric, and take out the box of bullets to load it.
Then I opened the message on my phone from Cormac: I look forward to seeing you. What’s the ETA?
Me: Sorry, I can’t make it now. Something has come up.
I switch my phone off, open my door, and leave as a different person than when I came in, fuming and ready to cause damage.
The drive to my destination flew by barely without me knowing. I assume I stopped at all the red traffic lights, but I cannot remember.
It’s dark, but the lights are on, and as I climb out of my yellow Corolla, armed with Til, I have only one objective on my mind. To kill.
The gun is loaded, and my target is set. I raise the gun, close one eye, and squeeze the trigger. One, two, three, four.
Blood sprays from their enormous head wound as they fall to the floor, gasping for breath and then nothing. Dead. Gone. As I lower Til, smugly satisfied, I hear clapping behind me and turn to find the dark-haired thief congratulating me on my achievement with a dimpled smile.
Reality lands promptly, and I glance about, realizing I’m not where I want to be but at the shooting club. And Lyons is not dead by the wall, covered in scarlet. Instead, it was just a target.
“How did you know I would be here?” I ask Blake as he examines my target.
“I didn’t,” he answers. I just happened to be driving by when a yellow Corolla caught my eye in the car park. And I thought, well, I know a girl who drives one of those.”
“Oh, and you drive by here often at night?” I hit sarcastically. “Let me guess, you were on your way to break into a preschool.”
He narrows his dark eyes. “Roll out of the wrong side of the bed, did we? Is it due to your five roommates harassing you day and night? And I don’t rob preschools because they’ve got nothing worth having.”
“I lied about the five hot roommates,” I confess.
“No kidding,” he scoffs. “Shoot another round, and then I’ll take you home.”
“I bought my car,” I argue, “and you’re not my minder. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”
“I see that. Although you’ve got a bee in your bonnet that needs freeing,” he tells me. “And I didn’t mean your home. I was meaning my home.”
“Where do you live?” I ask curiously.
“Nearby. With a view of the river.”
“I prefer a view of the lake,” I tell him rudely.
“It’s dark, Rae. You won’t see either. Now, hurry up and release your pent-up frustrations so I can take you back to my place. I”ve got homemade pizza in the oven and cold beer in the fridge.”
“Homemade? You can cook?”
“Yeah, you think these hands are just for clapping,” he mocks, holding his hands up.
“Don’t you mean pickpocketing or gunslinging? It”s okay to use your hands for clapping if you feel better,” I bite sarcastically.
He grunts. “You sure are in a bad mood, Rae. Maybe I’ll change my mind and uninvite you. Pizza tastes better without sour lemons.”
“Fine,” I sit at the table to reload my Glock. “I’m supposed to be somewhere else tonight.”
“Me too,” he grunts. “At home, having a date with my pizza.”
“I had a date with a man,” I admit to him, expecting an adverse reaction. Instead, he watches my fingers load the gun. “I named it Til, by the way. This fine Glock. I’m thrilled with it, actually.”
“Are you drunk because you shouldn’t be handling a gun under the influence?”
“You think I’m drunk?”
“No offense, but you changed lanes so fast just now that I’m a little giddy. So, you’re either drunk or, like I said, rolled out of bed wrong and landed on a porcupine. And you’re still pulling quills out of that sweet ass of yours.”
“Do you care that I’m dating someone else?”
“Not really.”
“That’s a lie because you asked me the other day if I was seeing someone.”
“Okay, maybe,” he corrects. “Now, hurry up and shoot that gun of yours.”
“Til,” I tell him.
“Whatever makes you happy.”
“I mean…the gun’s name is Til,” I repeat.
“I heard you the first time,” he answers, amused.
His phone beeps, and he takes it out of his jeans pocket, reads the message, and then immediately answers while I take my place on the mark, raise my Glock in both hands and squeeze. Not only am I starting to get used to this, but having this power in my hands is getting me horny. This time, I imagine, shooting those two men in the parking garage, especially the foul-breath walrus. Two bullets per body should do it.
Next time I use this gun, it’ll be for real.