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At five a.m.,I park my car on the sidewalk outside her house, with only a few feet to walk in case I have to drag her. My belly is full of butterflies, jittery. Christian Russo is nervous. Now that’s a novelty. I don’t bring my gun. I doubt I’m gonna need it, and I sure as hell don’t want it to end up in the wrong hands.
The plane leaves at seven forty. It’s a four-hour flight that will take us directly to Mexico City. I have a car waiting for us there, and hopefully Kerry will trust me enough by then to not make a mess and a full scale kidnapping out of this. Not that I’m beneath stealing her away. Images of her tied up in a dank basement flicker through my mind, and I’m a sick fuck because my cock stirs at the thought. A tiny woman, a thick rope, a torn dress.
Oh fuck it, Christian. You’ve been too long without pussy.
I know exactly why. It’s not that I’ve been busy healing. I healed within a week. My imminent death was surprisingly easy to fix once I got the proper care. It’s because I’ve lost my fucking appetite for anyone other than the person behind those red brick walls. All I want is her warm, soft body, her eyes to shine with trust once again, her soft lips pressed against mine.
Gritting my teeth, I glance around at the deserted street and then inhale deeply before I exit, leaving the motor running.
I knock.
I have no other reasonable means of entering. I have to knock a few more times, spying up and down the street as I wait. Finally, I hear a rustle from inside, the clicks from the lock.
The door opens an inch. The safety chain is on. I don’t see the person on the other side in the dark, but I have to assume it’s her. I’ll have the same chance reasoning my way in as a snowball has in Hell. Fuck!
I don’t think. I act. Slamming my boot to the door, the safety chain is torn from the wood, and the door crashes open. Kerry screams. It’s a scream that freezes me to the spot, that chills me to the core. Pure, primal anguish, barely human.
“Hey! I—”
Facing the barrel of a gun, I snap my mouth closed.Fuck!
“Leaveor I’ll shoot,” she screams.
I hold out my hands, as I measure the distance. I can take her. A bang from behind me makes me spin around and stare straight into the double barrel of a shotgun. And an old man in checkered pajamas, barefoot, and thick white hair. He looks positively wild. Determined.
“If you ever set foot in here again, Iwillshoot you. You, or anyone else. You leave Miss Jackson alone, mister.” His voice is thin, old, unused, but I don’t doubt his threat. He doesn’t even tremble.
Motherfucking hell!
I look over my shoulder and take one last glance at what’s left of Kerry. Her face is sunken in and pale. She has dark circles under her eyes and looks as if she has just been crying.
“I’ll be back,” I growl, the pain of seeing her like this making me lash out instead of trying to make amends.
With a twinge to my heart, I shove the long barrel and the old man to the side, leap to my car and speed off.
I stop after the first intersection, pulling up by the sidewalk under the large crowns of the row of plane trees, next to some houses on another street that has yet to wake.
“Fuck!”
I’m at a loss. She’s armed, and has clearly been expecting me this whole time, just waiting. Why am I surprised? I knew she’s a survivor. Rubbing my face, I groan. All my plans go to shit. I can’t protect her if I can’t get to her. I’ll have to rethink this. Approach her in a public place? Talk to her mom? Her friend? Write a letter?
I’m not used to complications. I’m not used to having to rethink everything, to not be in control. Why does she have to be so fucking stubborn?
Her worn-out features play on repeat before my eyes. I did that, and then her father died.
I took a tiny, young woman, a warm, beautiful, compassionate human being, and disintegrated her, ripped everything from her. I have crushed her. How the fuck do I even begin to mend that?
Glancing at the clock, I rev the engine and move again. I need a drink. And a cig. Fuck this shit! I grab for the toothpicks in my pocket, roll down the window and toss them. What the fuck’s the point with anything anyway?
Fourteen
Kerry
Ifall on my hands and knees, trembling, nauseous, the gun still clutched in my hand. I force my finger out of the guard so I don’t accidentally fire it.
My amazing neighbor bends over me and pats awkwardly on my shoulder.
“He has left.”
