I take a cab home when my shift ends.
The cash Marcus left covered their drink bill with well over a hundred dollars leftover as a tip, so I figure, why the hell not?
After almost getting mugged, I’m a little wary of walking anyway. And I’m equally terrified of running into the three men who seem to shadow my every move, even if I doubt they’ll try to steal back the money they just gave me.
It’s close to three o’clock when the cab pulls up in front of my apartment building. I pay the driver and slip out onto the dark street, casting my gaze around carefully. I don’t see any of my stalkers.
But I do see Natalie.
She’s at the top of the steps leading up to our building, her back pressed against the door as some guy shoves his tongue down her throat. She’s moaning like a porn star in a way that’s definitely only for effect, and I grimace as I head up the walk toward the stairs.
It’s been a long fucking night, and she’s the last person I want to deal with right now.
“Is there a reason you can’t do that inside?” I grumble. She’s standing in front of the goddamn door, blocking anyone from entering or exiting.
Natalie wrenches her lips away from the guy, who looks like he’s definitely had a drink or five. When she looks at me, I get a little rush of satisfaction at the bruise that mars her left cheek. It looks like she tried to dab some cover-up on to mask it, but the mottled purple color is visible under the flickering white streetlamps.
“Listen bitch, just because you never get any, it doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t,” she drawls, her voice thick and slurred from alcohol. Malice glints in her slightly glassy eyes.
Guess she’s still mad about getting slapped by a prosthetic hand.
Trotting up the steps, I move to pull the front door open, but she slams her back against it, ripping the handle from my grip.
“Oops.” She giggles, and the guy laughs, even though I’d bet a thousand bucks he has no idea what’s supposed to be so funny.
“Jesus, you’re such a fucking cunt,” I mutter, reaching for the door again.
She steps away from it suddenly, getting up in my face as her stale Miller Lite breath wafts over me, making my nose wrinkle.
“You think you’re so much better than everyone, don’t you?” she hisses. “Like you’re so damn special just because you’ve got a little sob story and a fucking stump.” A cruel smile curves her lips, and her eyes look beady as she squints at me in the darkness. “Well, you’re not. You know why I’m going to a good school and you’re working your ass off just to keep a roof over your head? Because I know how to make people like me. You? You’re just a bitter, sad loner. Nobody likes you, and nobody ever will. Nobody’s on your side.”
I clench my jaw, anger boiling up inside me.
God, I hate this fucking bitch.
I’ve never done shit to her. I’ve never done anything but just exist in the same damn space as her, and that was too much for her self-involved little ego to handle.
Because the way she sees the world, it’s a zero-sum game. Every good thing that happens to someone else is one less good thing that could happen to her.
It’s why she’s a kiss-ass to anyone who can help her get a leg up in the world and a weaselly little bitch to anyone who can’t.
My palm itches to slap her across the face. Give her a matching bruise to go with the one on her left cheek.
But instead, I shift my gaze to the guy she brought home. He’s standing one step down from the top landing, his body swaying slightly like a tree in a strong breeze.
“Word of advice, buddy. Wrap your shit up if you don’t want your dick to rot and fall off. You never know what you might catch in that swamp.” I glance down at his junk pointedly before inclining my head toward Natalie’s crotch.
He blinks, jerking his gaze from me to Natalie, who lets out an irate shriek. I grab the entry door handle and yank it open, smacking the door into her toes and making her stumble back. Then I slip inside and let it close behind me with a thunk.
My footfalls are heavy as I make my way up to the second floor, and my heart pounds out a staccato rhythm to match.
The look on the guy’s face was satisfying as hell, but it doesn’t stop the slow bleed of poison that seeps into my heart.
I’ll never let her know it, but Natalie’s words cut deep. Deeper than she probably meant them to, although I don’t give her any credit for being a decent person because of that.
She just doesn’t know that she’s picking at an old wound.
Tears sting my eyes as I shove my key into the lock then step inside my apartment. I chuck the key ring blindly onto the coffee table and sink onto the couch, blinking hard and fast.
Even if she’s not here to have the satisfaction of seeing me break down, I don’t want to give Natalie even a small victory over me.
Swallowing hard, I dig into my jeans pocket and pull out the cigarette case that I repurposed as a little wallet. I flip it open and tug out the cards and cash I keep inside, then grab the one remaining item that’s tucked away in the back.
It’s an old photograph, cut down to size to fit inside the case, the extraneous sides trimmed away.
The edges are rough and worn, and the image itself has faded a bit over the years. I could probably preserve it better if I didn’t keep it with me all the time, but I can’t bear to do that.
This picture is all I have.
Chewing on my bottom lip, I skim my fingertips over the two kids in the photograph. They’re young, and the girl has her arms wrapped tightly around the boy.
He’s younger than her, probably by a couple years.
She’s taller than him, so her hug is almost a stranglehold, her arms wrapped around his shoulders and neck as she clutches him close to her body.
Not that he seems to mind.
His little hands grip her forearms, and they’re both grinning widely at the camera, teeth on full display.
Me and my brother.
A kid whose name I don’t even know.
A lump tightens my throat as I stare down at the image. If he were still around, if we were still in each other’s lives, I like to think we’d have each other’s backs. I like to think we’d do anything for each other. That I’d be the kind of big sister he could count on, and he’d be the kind of little brother who would look out for me right back.
I like to think we could still have that.
If he’s even alive.
Guilt and sadness hit me like a wave, and I know it’s probably just a combination of a long-ass day and one too many shots at work, but I suddenly feel like Natalie’s words were horribly true.
She’s right. No one is on my side.
I am alone.
And I probably always will be.
My dreams are a convoluted mess of blood and death, pain and pleasure.
But this time, when I dream of the night I stepped in front of three bullets and almost died, when I dream of Marcus’s face hovering over mine, I see the two other faces that hover behind his more clearly than I ever have before.
Ryland’s harsh features are set like stone as he stares down at me, his hazel eyes full of some threat, some warning.
Theo’s eyes are the same brilliant blue-green I remember from the bar, and his charming face slips into a mask of worry and sorrow as he watches me die.
Marcus cups my face in both hands, cradling my head as the strength ebbs from my body. Three bloody smears mark his face like war paint, and his grip on me tightens as he lowers his head to mine, his lips brushing my ear.
The low, deep rumble of his voice penetrates the fog rising up in my mind.
And this time, I hear exactly what he says.
“I will never let you go.”
I jerk upright in bed, both arms flailing uselessly in the empty space around me.
For a moment, I swear I can feel a painful tingling sensation in all five fingers of my missing hand, as if the limb has reattached itself in my sleep.
Then the feeling fades, leaving just the hard thump of my heart and the sheen of sweat cooling on my body.
Closing my eyes to block out the light seeping in around the blinds on the windows, I drag my hand down my face.
Fuck.
This long after the shooting, my dreams should be getting better, not worse.
The memories should be fading, not becoming more raw and jagged-edged.
I saw a therapist for a few sessions while I was in the middle of the hardest part of recovery, trying to rebuild my sense of self with an entire piece of my body missing. But I couldn’t afford to keep seeing her, and the truth was, I didn’t want to. She asked me questions that made me uncomfortable, probing parts of my soul I wasn’t ready to let anyone touch. She forced me to admit to feelings I didn’t want to have, so when money got tight, I used that as an easy excuse to stop visiting her.
Maybe that was a stupid mistake.
Because I have no goddamn idea how to process this.
It’s not the first time I’ve dreamed that I heard what Marcus murmured to me that night, imagining I could make out the words he said.
But it’s the first time it’s been those words.
I will never let you go.
Is it possible that’s what he really said to me the night I was shot? Or is my mind just filling in the blanks, making up bullshit based on the insane turn my life has taken?
Flopping back down on the mattress, I let my eyes fall closed again for a few minutes. It’s too damn early to be awake, considering it was almost four in the morning when I finally fell asleep.
But then again, I don’t particularly feel like going back to sleep and revisiting that dream all over again. And I need to get up before too long anyway. I’ve got a temp gig lined up for today—something at an office downtown.
I rest for a few more minutes before hauling my tired ass out of bed for a shower. When I emerge from the bathroom feeling a little more human, I throw on a pair of nice-ish jeans and a tank top. Next, I tug a thin sleeve over the bottom part of my amputated arm.
I make a face at my prosthesis where it rests on my dresser, then grab it and slip my arm into the socket before sliding the straps over my shoulders.
It’s not that hard to tell it’s a fake hand if you look at it for more than a quick glance, but it’ll at least mean I have to deal with fewer questions today.
I slip on my only nice blazer before dabbing a little mascara on my eyelashes. I leave my hair down. I’ve actually gotten pretty good at slipping it into a ponytail one-handed, but it’s always a little messy.
Deciding not to waste my money on another cab, I take the bus downtown instead, then head inside the office to check in at the front desk.
The gig turns out to be both easy and boring as fuck. I spend the entire day sorting through boxes of old files at an advertising firm, tucked away in a small corner cubicle that nobody probably uses anymore.
There’s one other temp assigned to the same task. After she tries to make conversation and I shut her down for the third time, she gives up and the two of us work in silence.
You’re just a bitter, sad loner.
Natalie’s vicious words tumble through my mind again, and I chew on my bottom lip.
I’ve gotten fucking good at shutting the world out. Maybe it would be better if I did talk to this chick. Maybe it would help the time pass quicker, and maybe—just maybe—we’d actually have shit in common. Maybe we’d like the same books or movies or music.
But then what?
Do I tell her about the foster father who stole my virginity when I was fifteen? About the year-long tailspin I fell into after that? About the desperate urge to end the pain and confusion, the constant hunger for some sense of safety?
Or maybe about how I got shot outside a nightclub two and a half years ago, and now the man whose life I saved is stalking me with the help of his two friends?
Yeah. I’ll tell her all that.
And then watch her run for the fucking hills.
Or worse, watch her expression morph into one of horror and discomfort.
When people don’t know anything about me, they can’t make judgements about me. They don’t label me and regard me with either disgust or pity.
If I don’t tell them the awful shit in my past, then they just fill in the blanks for themselves, and considering most—though not all—of my scars are on the inside, most people assume I’ve had a pretty normal life. A life more similar to theirs.
And that’s just easier. For everyone.
After lunch, I compromise by digging out my phone and playing some music from the small speakers. It fills the silence without us having to talk. And maybe we do like the same kinds of music, because I catch the girl’s head nodding along in time to the beat.
I log my hours at the end of the day so I’ll get paid by the temp agency, then give the front desk guy a nod as I slip out of the building.
My brain feels fuzzy from staring at papers all day, and I’m tired from lack of sleep. I don’t have to work at Duke’s tonight, so maybe I’ll stream something stupid on my laptop and pass out while I watch it.
When the bus drops me off near my apartment, I can’t keep my gaze from darting around the street, looking for any sign of someone watching me. I don’t see anyone, and my skin doesn’t prickle the way it often does when I’m sure there are eyes on me.
Good. Maybe Marcus and his friends took a fucking day off.
I keep my head up and my body alert as I walk the few blocks to my apartment building. This neighborhood isn’t the worst, but it’s not the kind of place to walk around looking like an easy target either.
As I near the building, I dig my key out of my pocket. I quickly unlock the door and pull it open one-handed with practiced ease, then head up the steps to my apartment unit.
Inside, I toss my keys on the coffee table as usual and shrug off the blazer I put on this morning, leaving just the tank top underneath. I tug off my prosthesis too, rolling the protective sleeve off my arm and letting out a sigh of relief. I’m about to sink onto the couch when something catches my eye.
What the fuck…?
A worn metallic decal sits on the coffee table right next to where my keys landed.
My brows draw together, and my heart picks up in my chest as I lean over and pick it up.
It’s cheap brass, flimsy and a little dented.
3B.
It’s the decal from apartment 3B, one floor above mine. The apartment Natalie lives in.
What the fuck is it doing on my coffee table?
My stomach twists, a wave of unknown dread washing over me. I don’t know what this means or how it got here, but the sight of it makes my pulse race.
I stuff my keys back into my pocket, then grab the metal decal, hurrying to my door. I take the stairs to the third floor quickly, striding down the hall toward Natalie’s apartment.
The spot where the decal used to be is glaringly apparent. The wood is a lighter color, dark paint forming the exact outline of where the letter and number used to be.
The door sits ajar, hanging open a few inches.
My entire body floods with adrenaline, and I push the door open wider, still clutching the decal in my hand. What the fuck?
The lock is broken. It looks like it was forcibly broken, which explains why the door won’t even stay shut now.
And the apartment is empty.
Completely cleared out.
I swallow, the edges of the hard metal digging into my palm as my hand clenches unconsciously. “Natalie?”
There’s no answer. She’s not fucking here.
She’s gone, just like all of her stuff is. And I know, without even having to guess, without having to think twice about it, who’s responsible for this.
Marcus fucking Constantine.
