Menace Page 13

  Yeah, that’s still all over her.

  “Satiated,” I say, still balls-deep inside of her. “Is that what your Scarlet Letter stands for?”

  She shoves me when I ask that, pushing me off of her. “Stupid.”

  I pull out with a groan. “Stupid?”

  “That’s what yours would stand for,” she says. “Stupid. And smug.”

  “Satiated,” I say again, standing up, finding myself in quite the predicament, considering my pants are wound around my ankles like shackles and I need to make my way to the bathroom to dispose of the condom. My ass is on full display, and I’m not exactly modest, you know, but I’m kind of hoping I don’t fall flat on my face.

  It’s possible.

  Plausible.

  Probably going to happen.

  So I sit back down on the edge of the bed and untie my boots, yanking them off. After dropping them to the floor, I pull off my pants, wearing nothing but my socks as I seek out her bathroom.

  It’s small.

  I’m talking tiny.

  Fucking minuscule.

  I have to be careful taking a piss, my dick practically bigger than the width of the room. A can’t-walk-into-the-shit closet. A hole in the damn wall. It’s completely ridiculous.

  When I’m finished, I go back to her bedroom. It’s late, and I’m exhausted, which means I probably ought to give Seven a call to come pick me up so I can try to get some sleep tonight, get my head back on right. Maybe now that I’ve been inside of her, it’ll purge all these goddamn thoughts of her from inside of me.

  Scarlet is sitting on her bed, her knees pulled up to her chest, her shirt stretched around them as she huddles beneath it. Not for warmth, no… more like trying to shield herself from the world around her. Nervous again. I sit down on the edge of the bed, eyeing my discarded clothes on the floor.

  “It’s been nine months,” she says quietly.

  “Nine months since what?”

  “Since I last came face-to-face with Kassian.”

  Ah. “I’m assuming that was him tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve been hiding from him for nine months?”

  She laughs dryly. “I’ve been hiding from him a lot longer than that, but it’s been nine months since he last found me. I’ve managed to evade him for forty long weeks.”

  “Almost broke your streak tonight.”

  “Almost,” she agrees.

  “What does he want from you?”

  She shrugs. It’s not an evasion. I can tell the reaction is genuine. She doesn’t put it in words, but I know what she’s saying... she doesn’t understand what he wants. Maybe she knows, in her head, but she’s listening with her heart, a dangerous path to go down.

  “Whatever it is he wants, you probably should give it to him so he’ll go away.”

  “But what if he won’t?” she asks. “What if this is what he wants?”

  “What, mayhem?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then, you get rid of him a different way.”

  I draw a line along my throat with my fingers, making my point, as I lay back on the bed. It’s uncomfortable, but I’m exhausted, too lazy to put on my pants yet. Shit. My eyes are burning, my head starting to pound with the beginning of a headache, thanks to the adrenaline rush finally fading, mediocrity creeping back in.

  “That’s not an option,” she says quietly. “Murder isn’t always the answer.”

  Laughing, I close my eyes, covering my forearm with them. “Hell, and here I thought it was...”

  Chapter Twelve

  The sun rises in the east.

  I’m not sure how old I was when I learned that. To this day, I’m not even sure why it happens that way. Although, it doesn’t really matter, does it? It’s just an undeniable fact, one I think about those mornings when I sit up here, on this rooftop and watch the sun peeking out over the Brooklyn skyline, bathing the borough in an orange glow, like the streets are on fire.

  Some days, it feels like they might be.

  It feels like Brooklyn is burning and I’m just here, sitting, watching it disintegrate as I breathe in the smoky air, my lungs scorching and chest aching, not doing a goddamn thing to stop it. Because, seriously, what the hell am I supposed to do? Huh? I’ve yelled ‘fire’ so many times that nobody even looks my way anymore when they hear me screaming, like I’ve become nothing but white noise in a crowded city full of overpowering voices.

  I’m probably not making any sense to you. It’s okay. I don’t understand myself anymore most days. I just sit on this ledge and stare out at the fiery horizon as another day dawns, too strong-willed to ever fling myself off the side of this building but yet too damn powerless to ward off my inevitable fall. So I sit, and stare, and wait, and cling to the little bit of hope I wake up with every day, but I don’t stop doing it, I don’t just give up, because maybe—goddamn it, maybe—I’ll find my wings again and get to soar.

  Fly the fuck away from all of this.

  But until then, I’m just grounded.

  Tagged and tracked.

  My wings got clipped.

  I’m a little caged birdie.

  Sighing, I bring the joint to my lips and inhale, taking a puff of scorching smoke into my lungs, holding it, letting it soothe the pain away as it makes my head just a bit more foggy so I stop agonizing about a life on the other side of that too-deep river that I’m never supposed to cross.

  “You know, I didn’t kill you when you stole my wallet. Didn’t kill you when you stole my money. But my medicine? That’s crossing a fucking line, Scarlet. I might throw you off the roof for that.”

  That voice makes my skin prickle, places inside of me tingle, as it calls out behind me on the roof. Lorenzo. The tiny hairs covering my body stand on end, like sparked by electricity, as I hear his footsteps. I wouldn’t classify myself as ‘frightened’, because I’m pretty sure he’s not really going to kill me, but I would say it’s kind of alarming, because, well... I’m only pretty sure. There’s still that chance he might actually throw me off the roof and make me go splat.

  “Your medicine, huh?” I glance at the horribly rolled joint I got from the repurposed Altoids tin I swiped from his pocket while he snoozed in my bed.

  “Yes,” he says, pulling himself up on the ledge beside me, swinging around so his feet are dangling over the edge. He’s dressed now, from head-to-toe, like he took a nice little nap so he’s ready to go. “It’s medicinal.”

  I take another hit of it, holding the smoke for a second as I offer the joint to him. Or, well, relinquish it, I guess. Not really mine to offer.

  Letting out the smoke, I playfully ask, “So what’s your ailment, huh? Glaucoma?”

  Wordlessly, he takes it from me. “Close.”

  Close.

  My stomach drops when I see he’s staring at me peculiarly. He motions toward his injured eye. Shit. He’s being serious?

  “I, uh… I didn’t realize…”

  “You didn’t realize my eye was all fucked up?” he asks, taking a hit, letting the smoke filter right back out as he says, “Kind of hard to miss, Scarlet.”

  “No, I mean, I know it’s messed up. I’m not blind, I can see, but I just didn’t realize...” I trail off as he curves an eyebrow, continuing to stare at me. I’m not blind. I can see. Did I seriously just say that shit? “Wow, I should probably stop talking.”

  “Might be a good idea,” he says, taking another hit before holding the joint my way, like he’s actually offering it to me. I take it from him, watching as he exhales slowly. He doesn’t look offended, at least. “I used to be able to see shadows, make out shapes, but that kept getting worse, went away completely about a year ago. Total darkness now. I’ll probably lose the eye eventually. Hell, I’m surprised it’s survived this long. It’s been dying one hell of a painful death for about twenty years now. Guess it’s as stubborn as the rest of me.”

  “I didn’t realize...”

  “Yeah, I got that,” h
e says. “Got it the two other times you said it. Don’t go walking on eggshells around me over some perceived disability you’re thinking I’ve got now. Don’t pity me. I’ve learned how to compensate for what I’m missing. You don’t need depth perception or pinpoint aim to throw a fucking grenade.”

  “I don’t pity you,” I say, because I don’t... I don’t pity him at all. I more so pity the people who cross his path, who incite his wrath, like I seem to be doing at the moment. Getting on his nerves. “So it hurts? Your eye? What does it feel like?”

  I’m asking a lot of damn questions. That’s what the look he gives me says. But I’m as high as a skyscraper, so high I’m almost convinced I can fly. His medicinal is the good shit, and yeah, maybe it’s medicine to him, but it’s also highly illegal, I know, because there’s no way something that potent is government taxed.

  “You trying to figure out my weaknesses?”

  “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

  “Big words for a woman who would rather bare her pussy than bare a piece of her soul,” he counters, his gaze trailing down my body. I’m still wearing what I put on last night, feeling filthy, the smell of sex still all over me. “Your pussy’s nice, you know… beautiful… but I wouldn’t exactly call it a secret, not when it’s something a lot of people already know.”

  I cringe at his words, shoving the joint back at him, done with it.

  He takes it, smoking the rest in silence, holding it in his lungs for long moments before exhaling slowly in my direction, his gaze still on me. I stare off into the distance, at the horizon, watching the orange hue surrounding Brooklyn fade to the typical dismal gray as the day goes on.

  “I watch the sunrise every morning,” I mumble. “I’ve never told anyone that before. I come up here and I sit and I watch as it rises over Brooklyn. The apartment is shitty, and the building smells like piss, but the view from up here is the best I’ve found, so I stay... I stay and I watch the sunrise. I look forward to it, every morning. Another day dawning, another chance for things to finally go right. It’s the only time I feel hope anymore, the only time I feel alive. It’s my favorite time of day.”

  Lorenzo stubs what’s left of the joint out on the ledge, smashing the remnants into the concrete. “I see sunrise every day, too.”

  I look at him with surprise. “You do?”

  He nods. “Except when I see it, you know, all I think is ‘here comes another day of bullshit surrounded by all these idiots.’ Doesn’t really leave me feeling hopeful.”

  I laugh at that, although I can tell he’s not joking. “That’s about how I feel come sunset—another night in the trenches, trying to survive to see another sunrise. So far, I’ve got a pretty good record. A couple close calls, but I’m still undefeated, so that’s gotta count for something.”

  “Why do you do it?”

  “What else am I supposed to do?”

  “Anything,” he says. “Literally anything else has to be better than what you’re doing.”

  “Do you know what it’s like to try to get a job in this city? A legitimate job? I’m guessing you don’t or you wouldn’t be asking me that.”

  “On the contrary, Scarlet, I know exactly what it’s like.”

  I roll my eyes, because yeah, right.

  “I’ve got a brother,” he says. “Good kid, tries to live on the straight and narrow. He doesn’t have the heart for the business I’m in, wants nothing to do with it. I watched him bust his ass trying to find work with just a high school diploma.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t even have one of those,” I say. “So I do what I have to do, I use what I have, and maybe that makes me a crappy person, whatever… maybe I’m ruined now, maybe I’m worthless…”

  “I don’t think you’re any of that,” he says. “I think you’re worth a hell of a lot more than you realize. You want to take your clothes off for money? Do it. But there are better places out there, better ways to do it. You don’t sell something for twenty bucks that’s worth thousands. You’re only fucking yourself.”

  “Nobody else will take a chance on me.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  I shake my head at his flippant tone. “Have you forgotten about last night? People would have to be crazy to hire me. George was the only one with the guts to risk it, and God knows that’s out of the question now. There’s no way he’ll want anything to do with me. I’m on my own.” I run my hands down my face in frustration, closing my eyes. This sucks. “Selling pussy on city street corners… I’m sure that’ll look great on my resume.”

  “You could come work for me.”

  “Yeah, right.” I scoff at that. “No thanks.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t particularly like you.”

  “And, what, you like bending over and getting fucked for a few bucks? Money that you clearly don’t get to keep, judging by what I’ve seen about your life.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Then what’s it like? Enlighten me.”

  “Have you ever had to do something you didn’t particularly want to do, but you did it because it was in your best interest just to go along with it?”

  “No.”

  I roll my eyes. Again. “It must be nice, being you, being a man in a man’s world. Trying being a woman sometime.”

  “I wish I could,” he says. “I’d have a pussy to play with all day long, wouldn’t have to comb the city looking for a woman with low standards and loose morals, since that woman would be me.”

  He laughs, but I don’t find him funny. Not at all. He hasn’t the faintest idea what it’s like being a woman, especially one in my predicament. I try not to let his flippant reaction get to me, but it stirs up a hurt I sometimes have a hard time hiding.

  “Oh, woe-is-fucking-me. Just the fact that you can make a joke about that tells me all I need to know about you and your privilege.”

  “My privilege? Does this look like a face that’s privileged?”

  He points to his face, to make his point, like he thinks maybe I haven’t looked at him in the last twenty seconds, like maybe I forgot what he looks like, but he still doesn’t get it.

  “Yeah, it does,” I say. “I hate to break it to you, but your face isn’t a detriment. It’s not. If anything, it helps you. People take you seriously, not only because you’re a man but because you’re a man who clearly went through hell. They don’t look at you and see something broken. They see something strong, something that won’t break, because you’re still standing, despite everything. It intimidates them. They respect you for it. But if you were a woman? You’d be ruined. The world would look at you and think ‘aw, poor thing, someone broke her, she must be so weak.’ That’s what they think about a woman who has been though hell. Believe me, I know.”

  “I don’t think you’re weak.“

  “But you think I’m broken,” I say. “You asked me who broke me, like I’m made of glass and someone can just shatter me and scatter my pieces, like I’m that fragile. I might be hurt, I might be beat down, but I’ll be goddamn if a man will ever break me, Lorenzo. But the world can’t comprehend a woman being that strong. We’re supposed to buckle and break, like the only time we can possibly have any strength is if there’s someone with a dick standing by our side. It’s like a penis is a prerequisite for an opinion, so if I don’t have one myself, I’ve got to be utilizing someone else’s in order to have any say-so in my own fucking life.”

  He stares at me like I’m speaking some foreign language that he’s never heard before, and I’m suddenly wondering what kind of women this man spends his time with, because they certainly can’t be the type to stand up to him. “I haven’t the faintest fucking idea what to say right now, Scarlet.”

  “Of course you don’t,” I say. “You don’t know what it’s like to have to pretend to be helpless just to stay safe. There’s a reason girls yell ‘fire’ instead of ‘rape’, why we lie and say we have boyfriends instead of just saying �
�no’ when we’re not interested. Because a lot of men respect another man’s property more than they respect a woman’s right to her own body. So while I’m forced to live in a man’s world, I do what I have to do. And if that means taking my clothes off for some schmuck with a few bucks, then by golly, I’ll do it, no matter how you feel about it.”

  I get up, to leave, because he’s really touching a nerve right now and I’m dangerously close to doing something insanely stupid, like trying to fling him off of the roof. Wrapping my arms around my chest, my fishnet-covered feet trudge a few steps toward the door back down to my apartment when his voice calls out. “I get it.”

  I stall, turning around. “Do you?”

  “Mimicry,” he says, swinging around to face me. “You be whoever they need you to be.”

  Exactly.

  “And I didn’t mean to hurt you when I said you were broken,” he continues. “It’s just a word, you know. Broken. Just a fucking word. Hell, you can call me broken if you want. You can call me anything.”

  “Except Scar?”

  He reacts as soon as I say it, body tensing, hands clenching in his lap. “You can call me that, too, if that’s what you really want. Doesn’t make a bit of damn difference.”

  “You say that as you make fists, like you want to punch me for it.”

  “Maybe I do,” he says, standing up, strolling toward me. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to, though. It’s a free country, Scarlet. Choose your own adventure. If you’d rather keep bending over for with these yellow-bellied motherfuckers, I won’t begrudge you for it. But if you want to try something else, I’m sure I can find a place for you.”

  “I won’t fuck you.”

  “We’ve already fucked.”

  “I mean I won’t be your whore,” I say. “So don’t think I’m some thing you can just have or use or pass around. Nobody touches me without my permission, so don’t think—”

  “I don’t think it,” he says, cutting me off. “Wasn’t my intention. You’ve got other assets, you know… pussy isn’t the only thing you’ve got going for you.” He grabs my wrist, pulling my arm up, his thumb pressing against the pulse point beneath my tattoo. I can tell it annoys him, not knowing what it stands for. “You’re smart… stealthy… sharp... am I even getting close?”