Blood And Roses: Fallen Part 4

"There are two different kinds of victims in this life, Mr. Mayfair," she says, her voice the kind of cold that only a true scientist can affect. "The kind who crumble under the weight of the horrific things that have happened to them or those they love, and then there's the kind who use their experiences to shut themselves off from everything. And those people, the people that shut themselves off? There's never room for two people in the safe, comfortable world they build for themselves. If you try and fit Sloane into yours, Zeth, you're going to break her."

I wrap my arm around Lacey's shoulder, turning to guide her away from the other woman. "You're wrong," I call over my shoulder. "We're not all cookie-cutter f.u.c.kups. And living in my world? That's only going to make Sloane stronger."

I feel the certainty of those words in my bones.

There's yet another message waiting for me when I head back to the warehouse. It's only been one f.u.c.king day and he's already getting impatient. This time, his note is a little more concise. A little more demanding.

I wouldn't leave it too long, Zee. You make me wait much longer and other people will start paying the price.

At the bottom of the paper, there's a picture of Sloane. It's not a recent one; her hair is much shorter and she's posing for the photo, smiling. I doubt very much she'd have smiled for Charlie. It could have been taken from anywhere, but I have a sinking feeling that I recognize this one. I remember seeing it at Sloane's parents' house, up on the wall. No way. He f.u.c.king wouldn't.

Lacey ran straight to the bathroom as soon as we got back, but she left her cell phone behind. I s.n.a.t.c.h it up, searching-does she have it? Does she have it? Yes!-and finding the number I'm looking for.

The phone rings four times before someone answers. A woman. Sloane's mother. "Romera residence."

"h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Romera. My name's Zeth. I'm one of Sloane's friends. I came to the house with her the other day?"

"Oh, yes, the man with the tattoos," she says. "Yes, of course. You came to pick up Lacey, right?"

"Yeah, that's right, I-"

"My husband wanted to talk to you, actually. He wanted to thank you for getting the car back in one piece. He said it's running better now than before Sloane took it. Did you have it serviced? If we owe you any money, please just let me know."

Whoa. Whoa, hang the f.u.c.k on. The car? My brain is working overtime, racing ten steps ahead here. A dawning realization comes over me, sending a blast of adrenaline racing through my veins. "You have the car back, Mrs. Romera?"

"Yes, your friend dropped it off first thing yesterday morning. Why? Is everything okay?"

I told Sloane's dad I was going to get Michael to drive his station wagon back to him, but the truth was that his car was long gone. There was no way to ever get it back from Julio's. I'd a.s.sumed I was going to have to buy another car and try and pa.s.s it off as his or something, like a kid who's goldfish has died. But now she's telling me my friend already took it back?

"Was he English, Mrs. Romera? The man who brought the car back?" I clench the fist of my free hand, waiting for her to respond.

"Yes, he was. Charles, right?"

G.o.d. d.a.m.n. It. I exhale, trying to breathe through the inferno of anger that's trying to take over my whole system. "Did you invite him inside?"

There's a pregnant pause on the other end of the line, and then Mrs. Romera says, "Yes. I did invite him inside. He stayed for morning tea; he was very charming. Is there something wrong, Zeth? You sound tense."

"No, no, it's nothing," I grind out. "I'm just expecting Charles back here in Seattle is all. I didn't know how delayed he was going to be."

"Oh, I see. Well, he said he had to rush off for a flight straight after we finished our tea, so I'd bet he's already home by now. The flight from here to Seattle's not long at all."

"Yes, you're right, Mrs. Romera. You're exactly right. I guess I'll call him, then. Thanks so much for your time."

"Not a problem. Thank you for looking out for Sloane, too, Zeth. Lacey told us you're quite taken with her."

I hang up, squeezing my eyes shut.

This.

Is.

Not.

f.u.c.king.

Good.

He went to their house? Charlie went to Sloane's f.u.c.king parents' house? And worse than that, worse than the fact that he could have done absolutely anything to them, he went to Julio's first. He couldn't have gotten the car otherwise. That means they must be on relatively good terms with one another...and their focus is turned on me.

f.u.c.k.

I throw Lacey's phone without thinking; it explodes against the wall in a shower of black plastic and gla.s.s. I can deal with Charlie coming at me. Julio, too. I can deal with both of them coming at me together, but I can not deal with them f.u.c.king with Sloane. Sloane's oblivious middle-cla.s.s parents. I will not let that happen.

I'll tear their f.u.c.king worlds apart before I let that happen.

It's time to make a move.

"Are you high?"

"No."

"Yeah, you are, man. You're f.u.c.king high. It's broad daylight. At least let me come with you."

"No. I want someone watching Sloane's parents' house. Twenty-four hours a day, Michael. Find someone. And I want you to watch Sloane. Make sure Charlie's boys don't go anywhere near her. If they do, don't skimp on the bullets."

Michael sighs on the other end of the phone. He knows better than to argue with me, especially when I'm tasking him with watching over Sloane. This time he wants to argue, though. He knows where I'm headed and he thinks I've lost my mind. Maybe I have, but there's no other way to handle this.

Michael hangs up, and I continue my drive through Hunt's Point. I stop at a red light and a woman pulls up next to me in a minivan. She smiles at me, a kid slapping its chocolate-covered hand against the window in the backseat, displaying a toothy grin, and I scowl back. It's only when the female driver's expression changes from a polite, neighborly greeting to mild concern that I let myself smirk a little.

Sam and O'Shannessy are in the guard car parked on the street outside Charlie's place. Paddy sprays c.o.ke out of his nose when he sees me pull up in the Camaro. I park directly in front of the gates, blocking the entrance so no one can get in or out, by which time he and Sam have climbed out of their sedan and are running across the road.

Paddy reaches me first. "The f.u.c.k are you doing here, Zee? You have to be out of your mind. You're dead, you know that right? You're f.u.c.king dead! Charlie's gonna-"

I slam my fist into his windpipe, cutting off whatever Charlie is gonna. Paddy hits the deck, and then it's just me and Sam. He's had time to pull his gun now, so the guy thinks he has a f.u.c.king pair of b.a.l.l.s. Sadly, he's mistaken. I step into his weapon instead of running away. I move forward until the business end of the gun is pressing firmly into my chest. I glare at the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, feeling the itch building inside me. That burning, insatiable itch that says this is not going to go well for him. He sees the look in my eyes and he knows it, too.

"You think I won't shoot, don't you?" he asks.

I shrug. "Maybe you will. Maybe you won't. If you are planning on pulling that trigger, you might wanna raise your aim a couple of inches. 'Cause right now, your only gonna puncture a lung and I can work on half a lung, b.i.t.c.h. Long enough to tear your f.u.c.king b.a.l.l.s off, anyway."

The motherf.u.c.ker actually pales a little at this. "I don't know what your problem is, Zee. Charlie says we do something, we do it. You were the same until a few weeks ago. You know this isn't personal."

I push my face in his, growling under my breath. "That's where you're wrong. This couldn't be more personal."

"Huh?" He actually looks confused. Stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

"You and Paddy were the ones who broke into Sloane Romera's place, right? You're the only two a.s.sholes in the history of organized crime who've had their a.s.ses handed to them by a woman."

He looks offended at this. "That wh.o.r.e shot me up with enough painkiller to destroy my f.u.c.king liver. If I ever see her again, she'll wish-"

My fist connects with his temple. He. Should. Not. Have. Called. Her. That. "No, f.u.c.ker, you're gonna wish. You're gonna wish you'd never even heard her name. You're gonna wish you'd had the sense to keep your f.u.c.king mouth shut around me. You're gonna wish you'd f.u.c.king run as soon as you set on eyes on me today."

With each word, I'm reaching back and smas.h.i.+ng my fist into his head. The gun's long gone. Sam crumples to the ground, blood pouring down his face. He holds his hands up, trying to protect himself, but I'm not in the mood to be fended off. If anything, it only makes beating the living s.h.i.+t out of him more enjoyable. Because it wasn't just Sloane they went after that night. They went after Lacey, too. "Charlie thought he would kidnap my friend to get to me, and you went along with it. And you're stupid enough to think this isn't personal?" Once, twice, three times I let my fists swing down and strike him where he lies on the concrete. He lashes out, digging his fingernails into my forearm, trying to scratch his way free. f.u.c.king girl.

"He wasn't-that's not why he wanted-"

Sam keeps struggling, gasping for breath; I ease off enough to let him talk. I'm vaguely interested in what he has to say.

"He didn't want the girl to get to you, motherf.u.c.ker. He wanted-he wanted her to make sure-make sure she was safe!"

I can't believe this a.s.shole. The f.u.c.king lies are just too far fetched. Paddy is starting to regain consciousness. I drive the toe of my boot into his gut, mildly annoyed by the inconvenience of his reawakening. He promptly pa.s.ses out again-perhaps the smartest thing Paddy O'Shannessy has ever done in his remarkably stupid life-and then I turn my attention back to Sam. "You're trying to tell me Charlie sent you to kidnap Lacey for her own benefit?"

Sam's eyes roll a little, showing way more white than normal. He was in a position of power a moment ago; he could easily have killed me if he'd wanted to, but he hesitated. Maybe it's the size of me. Maybe it's all of the things this guy's heard about me-all of the nasty, evil s.h.i.+t I've done, all of the people I've dealt with in the past. Maybe it's the stupid rumor that I just can't be killed-I've been shot and stabbed countless times before, should have died at least five times, and yet I'm still walking around, causing problems for people like Sam and Paddy. Whatever the reason, it's working in my favor. This f.u.c.ker is s.h.i.+tting himself.

"It's true," he spits out. "Charlie said she wasn't safe."

"Yeah. How the h.e.l.l could she be with evil motherf.u.c.kers like him going after her?"

He's shaking his head, hands trembling, trying to straighten out his s.h.i.+rt, which is marked with crimson splotches of his own blood. "Not in danger from him. He said she was in danger from you."

This gives me reason to pause. In my head I've been waiting for the right moment to finish what I've started; to beat Sam until he loses consciousness. But this statement has me backtracking. He can't be f.u.c.king serious. Can not be f.u.c.king serious. Charlie thinks Lacey is in danger from me?

I don't even bother laying hands on Sam. He's too f.u.c.king pathetic. I turn and walk away, half wondering if he's gonna retrieve his gun and shoot me in the back. I can imagine how it would feel with each and every step I take away from him-the searing burn of metal tearing into my body. The initial painless shock, and then the steadily building pressure that leads to the pain. The mind-numbing, all-consuming pain that tries to commandeer your brain, so you can't think, feel, move past it. The pain never comes, though.

"Fine! You know what, go ahead! Go in there. Charlie's gonna skin you alive, you f.u.c.king psycho!"

I keep on walking. The prospect of Charlie even trying is...well, it's f.u.c.king delicious. He's pushed me too f.u.c.king far. I will hunt the b.a.s.t.a.r.d to the ends of the earth and I will mount his head on a f.u.c.king spike before I rest easy again.

My mouth twists up into a smirk as I walk, because I'm pretty sure I'm about to set Charlie Holsan's world on fire.

Charlie isn't in his study. He's not in his pretentious-a.s.s library or anywhere else on the ground floor of his place either. I search the well-manicured grounds to the back of the building, and I search the pool house, too. Nothing. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's either ghosting me, or he's upstairs. If he's ghosting me, I will find him. If he's upstairs, that means he's probably with the d.u.c.h.ess. That could cause problems. Big ones. The d.u.c.h.ess is perhaps one of the stupidest people I've ever met-she still, after all these years, thinks Charlie's a chartered accountant-but she's also one of the nicest, too. It would serve no purpose to hurt her.

"Charlie!" I yell up the stairs, loud enough that my voice will reach every corner of the house. "CHARLIE!" Come and get your f.u.c.king a.s.s kicked.

No answer. Not a sound.

f.u.c.king perfect.

I start up the stairs, reaching behind me to take hold of the weapon that sits there: the Desert Eagle. It hasn't seen much action recently. The last person it shot was Frankie Monterello. Today, it's gonna shoot Charlie Holsan, and then...then it will never shoot another person again.

The top of the stairs; the corridor; guest bedrooms one and two; a bathroom; another study: all of these rooms are empty as I make my way across the house. Soon, the only remaining rooms are Charlie's and the one opposite. The one I slept in for so many years-my old room. I check Charlie's first.

The lamp on the bedside table is still on, even though daylight is pouring through the windows. The bed covers are flung back, rumpled in a welter of sheets in the middle of the mattress, and there's a half gla.s.s of water resting on top of a book on the nightstand. A blister pack of medication sits alongside it. I enter the room checking behind the door like a f.u.c.king loser to make sure Charlie isn't lurking there, ready to smash me over the head with some of his insanely over-priced, f.u.c.king ugly artwork. He's not; that's not Charlie's style, but right now I'm not taking any risks.

I reach the bedside and pick up the blister pack-Degarelix. Degarelix? I feel the frown forming on my face. Why the h.e.l.l is Charlie taking Degarelix? I've never heard of the drug before; I have no idea what it's for. Is he sick? Surely- The sound of running water, a toilet flus.h.i.+ng, cuts through the heavy silence of Charlie's usually bustling household. The en suite toilet. d.a.m.n, I should have noticed that the door was closed. I have the Desert Eagle in my hand, locked and loaded and aimed at the door in a heartbeat. The faucet sounds, someone was.h.i.+ng their hands, and then the handle on the door turns. It seems to take forever for the door to open.

f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k. C'mon, a.s.shole. Get your a.s.s out here so I can shoot you.

My finger's halfway through pulling the trigger before I realize the person standing in the doorway isn't Charlie. It's the d.u.c.h.ess.

"f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, Sophie. I thought you were-" I stop talking. She's crying. Black mascara is streaked down her face in dark runnels, and her nose is red. She's beautiful, always has been-I think I got my very first b.o.n.e.r over this woman-and the devastating sorrow on her face only seems to make her even more so. "What's wrong, Sophie?"

She sniffs, lifting a hand to swat away her tears. That's when I see the knife. And the blood. And the way that her whole body is shaking. The front of her silk lingerie, a subtle ivory by design, bears a violent red stain over her stomach, and one of the straps has fallen from her shoulder, exposing the curve and swell of one of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"You shouldn't be here, Zeth," she whispers, her voice cracking.

"What's happened, Sophie? Where's Charlie?"

The d.u.c.h.ess just looks at me, face completely blank. Her eyes are welling with tears, a darker blue than usual and filled with a distant pain. I don't really know what I should do. Something terrible has obviously happened; she has to be in shock. I take a step forward and her face instantly transforms, shattering into a mask of grief and horror. She starts to sob, covering her face with her hands. Her blood-covered hands. The wickedly sharp knife she's brandis.h.i.+ng is dangerously close to her face.

"Hey, hey, come on. Come on." I take the three steps toward her just as her legs collapse out from underneath her. I catch her before she hits the floor, holding her underneath the arms like a child. "Tell me, Sophie. Tell me what's happened."

She sobs into my chest, her skin sticking to my s.h.i.+rt with the tacky, almost dry blood that's mottled all over her fingers and her palms. "I know. I know, I know..." she says, over and over again. "I know!" She rears back then, and her hand flashes out, surprising me. She slaps me so hard that my ear rings. "I know. I know all about him. And I know about you, too!" She tries to slap me again, but I grab hold of her wrist. Maybe I was a little ahead of myself just now. It seems as though Sophie might not think Charlie's an accountant anymore. And she apparently knows my role in Charlie's organization, too. For thirty years, she's been by Charlie's side. Thirty years and she's only just learning the truth of him now.

"Who's blood is this?" I ask, shaking her by the shoulders.

She stops struggling, pausing to look up at me, and the mania leaves her eyes. A certain clarity replaces it. "It's yours," she says.

"What?"

"It's yours. Yours and mine, Zeth. We...oh, we are the greatest fools on the face of this earth."

I look down, confused, trying to see what the h.e.l.l she's talking about. A ripple of horror travels through me when I see where the knife is-buried up to the hilt in my side. I can't feel it. I can't feel it buried inside me. I can't feel a thing.

"Sophie..."

"I'm sorry, Zeth," she whispers. She raises her hand to stroke the side of my face. Her wrist is mangled, torn to shreds and pumping her blood out with a determined force that will see her dead very soon. Very, very soon. "But some injustices are too grave to forgive." That clarity that possessed her eyes a moment ago fades, and the rest of her seems to fade with it. The strength leaves her limbs, her body falling limp in my arms. I tense, catching hold of her again, and a wave of pain rockets through me-the knife. The sight of the knife embedded in my stomach has been nothing more than a visual illusion until now, but the teeth of the pre-warmed steel have started to bite, telling me that the blade is very real and h.e.l.l bent on killing me. Of all the people...of all the f.u.c.king people...

The d.u.c.h.ess sags to the floor in a boneless heap. She's not quite dead, but she will be soon. I touch the handle sticking out of my stomach, and a cold, calm voice echoes inside my head. "Don't touch it. Don't take it out."

So I don't. I turn and I walk out of the room, out of Charlie's house. Sam and Paddy have vanished, along with their sedan. Charlie's neighbor, his sometimes golf buddy, is across the street, mowing his lawn.

"Hey, there!" he calls, waving. Smiling. Mowing. f.u.c.king Ralph Lauren polo s.h.i.+rt and chinos. "How's the day go-oh! Oh, G.o.d. Are you-is everything-"

I slam the door on the Camaro, cutting off his surprise at seeing me trailing blood across his neighborhood. The car roars. My head is f.u.c.king spinning. The world grows bright and then dims, black spots dancing in my vision. This pain is an old friend. An old friend come to stay this time, it would seem. Perhaps I'll make it out of this G.o.dforsaken f.u.c.king neighborhood before I can't see anything at all. I gun the engine, spin the steering wheel, and I burn out of the place before I bleed out and die in motherf.u.c.king suburbia.

Zeth's late.

He said he would be around by eight and he isn't here. I've been back at my apartment for approximately one hour, long enough to grab some clothes and toiletries, plus my computer and my medical bag, and the rest of the time I've been sitting on my couch, waiting. Waiting for Zeth to show up. And so far he hasn't. It's eight forty-five. Forty-five minutes late. Where the h.e.l.l is he? Zeth doesn't exactly strike me as a guy who would be late for anything. It goes hand in hand with the whole honesty thing. If he says he's gonna do something, he's the type of person who does it, no excuses. Which has caused a deep well of doubt within me; maybe I shouldn' have admitted that I wanted him in my life earlier. Maybe that was the stupidest thing I could ever have said to a man like him. My mother always did say that a guy would lose interest the moment you made things too easy for him. I'm pretty sure she was referring to s.e.x at the time, though, and Zeth has already had that from me. No, s.e.x has never been the real challenge between us. It's what's inside us that's been the hardest thing to crack, and I gave in earlier, after holding off for so long. And now Zeth Mayfair hasn't come to collect me.

I feel like throwing up.

It's nine fifteen when my cell phone rings. I answer, heart pounding in my chest. "Zeth? Where are you? I-"