BUFF Read online

  “Fuck, Becky! Don't you get it?"

  "Of course I don’t get it! I—"

  "I came to save you, goddammit!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “SHOULD WE ANWSER IT?” Luis asks, failing miserably to shield his nervous jitter.

  It's life or death no matter what course of action they take in this business. But the stakes are higher this time. Brutally so.

  “Yeah man, we gotta.” Jenson looks back on the road. “It'll look bad if we don't."

  Without waiting to convince himself to runaway from it all, Luis presses the answer button and brings the phone to his ear. “Uh, yeah, Boss?"

  “Yeah, Boss? I don't fuckin' hear from you in almost twenty-four hours and that's what you fuckin say to me?" Gulping, Luis opens his mouth a couple of times begging his own brain to work, but mentally, his slate has been wiped clean. “Where the fuck are you guys? I send you on a major assignment so where's my fucking check-in?"

  Luis grimaces, his fingers tightening on his smoke. “Sorry."

  “Sorry? This isn't fucking Walmart. You clock in late again you lose a finger, got it?"

  “Yep, Boss. Loud and clear.” The breath releasing on the other end makes Luis's muscles loosen a little from their tight grip.

  “Did you get it done?"

  “D-Done, sir?” Luis's voice breaks.

  Kulich stays quiet for a few seconds before he spits out through gritted teeth, “Have the Appletons been eliminated like I ordered?"

  A lead-ball of nerves drops and rolls through his stomach. Colt is going to kill him if he messes this up. He tries without success to subside the rattle in his voice when he answers Kulich, “Y-Yes, sir. It's done."

  “Good, good.” Kulich sounds like a different person; happy, light, everything contradicting the monster Luis had just been speaking with. “Colt's not fucking picking up. I know he likes to take time away after an assignment but I need him to check in with me. Call him, tell him I'm looking for him." The line goes dead and all of Luis's insides jolt in nausea.

  Colt is really going to fuck him up, but at least the worst is over.

  Step one, complete.

  Jenson jams the keys in his pocket. “The car will be here soon,” he says, flicking the stale gum on the side of the road with his tongue. “Remember your story. Stick to it and don't get creative, all right?"

  Luis's head is down. The shiny black tip of his boot nudges the uprooted grass. “Yeah, got it."

  “It's gonna work out, man. Just gotta stick to what Colt says and it'll all work out."

  Luis nods, inhaling deeply. “Yeah, know that. But this is… this is big, man. We get caught we're fucking dead. Fuck, man! We're going against the man who pays us, the man who holds our lives in his fucking hands—”

  “You work for Colt, Luis, and Colt’s still our leader. I owe him my fucking life at least three times and so does your skinny ass. And we never—never—killed a fucking baby for Christ's sakes. I've done some bad shit in my time but that shit ain't right.” He shakes his head, his eyes squinting as though he tasted something bitter in his mouth.

  “I know, okay, I know. It’s why I agreed to help with this fucking suicide mission. I just...” He shrugs, backing away and letting his brown worried eyes skim the highway. “There's a lot at stake here, man."

  “There usually is when you're trying to do the right thing."

  “Yeah...” Luis blows out a long breath.

  “Yeah...” Jenson scratches his chin, glances back at the minivan. “Right, I'm gonna jet. Should be in Aston by tonight if I floor it. Probably see you in a few days if everything goes to plan."

  When Luis just stares blankly back, Jenson takes a step forward. “Okay?"

  “Yeah, man—okay.” He tries a second time to cover his apprehension but fails. “I got it, man."

  “Try not to shit your pants while I'm gone, yeah.” With a short pat to the shoulder Jenson turns toward the van.

  “Yeah, if I haven’t already.”

  The gritty part of the plan has been completed. Now all that is left is keeping Kulich in the dark until the cops’ suspicions subside and his boss’s attention is averted elsewhere.

  Luis hears the minivan’s engine growl, moan in protest, then gun to life. The sound is overwhelming at first then it fades off like the sound of a train in the distance. He pulls out his phone holding it securely between his thick, clumsy fingers.

  This is definitely a part of the job he hates. No matter how many times Jenson reassures him, his words won’t penetrate against the mounting discomfort building. They're betraying the head of the east-coast mob for a family. For one fucking family. His head is on the fucking block because of some chick that helped out Colt.

  For some reason, standing on the grass waiting for Colt's men to come and get him, up to his ears in hindsight, the principle of the matter doesn’t seem to be worth it, after all.

  * * *

  “SAVE US…? What... what do you mean save us?”

  He moves past her to the living-room. His shoulders square, his back to her. She isn’t sure if he’s preparing to lie or simply being his usually evasive self.

  “I'm trying to protect you,” he murmurs. “Can't you see that?"

  “Colt—”

  “Becky,” he warns. His feet shuffle to shift to the side. With his profile facing her he adds, “I know,” then stops, before twisting to meet her gaze. “I know this is hard."

  She shakes her head. “No. No you can't possibly know what I've been through, what I'm going through. And my family? How am I supposed to know they're okay? Because you say so? Yesterday morning you had a gun to my head!"

  He tears his eyes away from hers, his profile hardening over his locked jaw. “This is my life, my job... It’s all I know, all I've ever known. If I scared you I'm sorry but it's who I am. I won't apologize for that."

  “You have a funny way of talking out of both sides of your mouth, do you know that?"

  His head rises, but doesn’t meet hers. “Job requirement."

  “Is it part of your job killing women and children? Was my family part of your job?"

  Her stomach knots when his eyes darken. “Your father was."

  Her skin suddenly prickles but she forces herself not to fidget or move. “So you were planning to…" The words clog in her throat, gagging on them. “...kill him."

  “Yes.”

  The sour liquid of her stomach rises to bubble at the base of her throat. “When I found you that night… you were going to kill him... Oh my God... That's why you were there…"

  She feels like falling, her world shaking underneath her. Her eyes are folding in, soaking in the reality of what he’s capable of; battling against who he truly is and what she has come to know of him from their history.

  “Oh…” Her answer falls between them before he leaves, making his way toward the kitchen. “And yesterday?" She isn’t prepared for the blunt ice-blue centered on her when she turns to follow his retreating form. “Why were you there yesterday?"

  “You know the truth. Does anything else matter?"

  She comes closer. “It matters to me,” she says. “Does that mean anything to you?"

  He copies her movement, narrowing the distance between them. He doesn't look away and from the way his eyes remain attached to her face, it appears he doesn’t plan to.

  “As soon as I had my orders…" He sighs as though a great weight presses down on him. "...I knew it wasn't a kill.”

  “But you threatened my life with—”

  “Putting a gun to you. I had to. It was the only way to get you to safety. You damn well wouldn't have listened and I wouldn't have blamed you, okay. Becky, I came to the house yesterday to send you away."

  “Away?"

  “You and your family. I was gonna give you new identities, send you here for a few months until the dust cleared then tell you to move again, so no-one, not even me, knows where you are."

  She examines his eyes seeking the t
ruth that lays beyond. “So something like the witness protection program only this is the mob doing this?"

  He nods, solider-like and uncomfortable. “Something like that."

  “Mr. Kulich—he ordered this?"

  The militant hold slips a little, his voice husky as he peers down at her. “No... I did."

  “I don't understand—”

  ”Kulich has other arrangements regarding you and your family's future. I disagreed so I'm seeing to it you don't have to suffer the fate he thinks is necessary."

  “In other words—he wants us dead.” Her breath hitches in her lungs. “He was going to kill me, my baby brother, my parents—just like that?"

  “Yes."

  “Why?” she demands.

  His eyes linger, swaying between hers. “That's something you should ask your father."

  “I'm asking you.”

  “And I'm telling you it's not my place to say."

  He goes around her, grabbing the shopping bag he'd left in the hallway. When he returns seconds later he brushes past her to the front counter nearest to the refrigerator and starts to unpack the necessities with his back to her.

  “You tell me you were going to kill my father but now you’re saving him and his family and that's it? I'm supposed to just swallow this. Be quiet and nod my head while I trust you blindly to keep me safe?"

  His unpacking doesn’t rest.

  God he’s so frustrating!

  She wants to throw something, break some piece of furniture. Or splatter paint. Something! But she isn't at home. She doesn't have her canvas or her attic to hide in. But she does have a large area of woods to run in...

  “I need some air."

  “Wait."

  The word stops her even though she hasn’t stepped a foot outside her little spot. But she wants to leave.

  She needs to run and never stop.

  “You're going nowhere."

  She hates how confident he sounds. Not of her, but in his ability to keep her there, like he swore some oath. It maddens her beyond reason. She doesn’t want his protection and yet she knows without it she will be lost, most likely dead. And she doesn’t know what to think. This roller-coaster ride of emotions is eating at her core. One minute she’s confessing all to this man, seeking comfort in his caress; the next she hates him to the bone, wishing him dead. And now—now he’s the man who saved her family. The man who saved her.

  Again.

  Hating you would be so much easier...

  “This is hard, I know."

  He leans against the other counter, further away. A little more able to breathe, like she doesn’t have an elephant laying on her chest, she meets him halfway and speaks softly, “You can't possibly know what I'm going through... Not just me—my family. They don't know what's happened to me. I could be dead for all they know."

  “They don't,” he replies. “They know you're safe, they just don't know where."

  “Why?” she says, a little louder, fiddling with her sweater; the same sweater she’s been wearing for the past twenty-something hours.

  He grabs the empty plastic bag from behind. “It's safer. For everyone."

  She pauses thinking he will say something else, give some glimpse into what lays ahead, what her near future entails considering he’s holding it in the palm of his hand. But he doesn’t. And she isn’t about to stop short just when she’s getting somewhere.

  “Until?"

  “What?” His brow lowers, like he's been caught off guard.

  “When? When can I see them again?”

  He scratches the side of his nose. She wonders if it’s a stalling tactic to aggravate her until she gets frustrated enough to walk away or if it’s genuine and he really does have no clue where things will go from here. Either answer doesn’t please her.

  “None of us were planning for the cops. I was gonna send you away—all of you—make it look like your house was robbed then tell Kulich we'd done what he’d wanted."

  “Okay... but wouldn't he have wanted evidence or something to see if you got the job done right? Like a head or something."

  She didn't intentionally mean to make him scowl but he does. So she zips her mouth shut and just listens. His stare lingers on her, weighty and dark when she gathers the courage to look at him.

  He does a sorry job of clearing his voice. It sounds coarse. “Kulich trusts me. He’d never ask something like that of me. He knows I'd never go against him." The glint in his eyes then, sends a shiver down her spine. “Until now.” She doesn't say anything, doesn't feel she has the right to. “He went too far this time and I'm trying to make this right for you. That's why you have to trust me."

  “What's going to happen to my family?” Why does she have to sound so unsteady? She tries to clear her throat when she notices him step closer.

  He stops for a second then walks the rest of the way. Two steps and he’s standing right in front of her, her breaths shallow.

  “They're in a holding place like this. We need to wait a few weeks. When the trail goes cold and cops aren't looking no more, it won't be long till you see them. It might take a while but you'll be together again." Somehow he’s able to read the question in her eyes as she peers up at him. “Kulich will never know."

  “This is the mob. Surely they don't forget this kinda stuff."

  “Like I said he trusts me. If I tell him I took care of it he won't ask again."

  Compelled to dig deeper she makes herself ask,” And then what? We live under assumed names and start over again?"

  She can tell he wants to end the conversation, stop talking, but he doesn’t. Something about the way he looks through her, almost like he’s looking over her, trying not to care, feel.

  “Yeah.” His low reply fractures the thick silence.

  Becky is the first to break away. Halfway in the living-room she peers out the window, hoping to God that this is some sort of sick nightmare her warped imagination has created. She remembers everything that's passed since she found Colt hurt in the attic. Rolling through the mental list she’s positive she won’t survive the rest. She doesn’t know how she has made it this far without collapsing into a messy heap of drooling spasms.

  “I don't… I can't believe this,” she whispers to herself, muffling the words in her sweater-covered palm.

  Her lids droop a bit, the weight of the past twenty-four hour's events falling hard on her shoulders. Outside, it’s light out still. The Sun isn’t as strong but there is adequate daylight left. She wants to run, feel the cool breeze caress her face as she gulps in greedy amounts of fresh air. She needs the space to think, to feel, to get a grip on what’s happening without being under the microscope of her watcher.

  The soothing quality of his voice descends on her just as his warm palms mold her shoulders and gently squeeze the tension away. “You okay?"

  No.

  “I'm fine.” She sighs. “I think I'll unpack." She doesn’t move and neither does he. His body is still barricaded behind hers. The heat of him is filtering though her, making her dizzy for sleep again. It’s weakening and dousing like he has some natural elixir seeping from him to her, making her stay in place when she wants to remove herself more than anything. “I'm fine. Go do what you need to do."

  “You don't look fine."

  “Yeah, well, how I look is not exactly something I can help.” She juts her shoulder blades out, hoping he'll receive the not-to-subtle gesture and remove his hands. “You got a problem with it, talk to God." Light air and a soft amusing chuckle stirs the hair around her ears. It fuels the irritability inside her. "This doesn't exactly fit you, you know. Pretending to care. I don't need it. And I'm sure it's not part of you're job description."

  She feel the loss of his hands immediately.

  “You never give an inch, do you?” His soft tone is gone.

  “I'm tired,”

  “You're cranky."

  “I think I have a right to be."

  “Get some sleep then."

 
; “I'd rather go for a run."

  “If you want I can make some coffee—”

  “Please.” She whirls around and for a second halts by his closeness, but she refuses to lose ground. “I don't need a babysitter."

  “I'm just trying to help."

  “Help? Is that part of some training course you guys take before you do your first kidnapping job,” she scoffs. “I don't need your help."

  She watches his jaw working overtime, his teeth milling away as they grind together, but he doesn’t speak up to defend himself. His stare is a mixture of anger and empathy. Both she wants nothing to do with. She wants herself away from him. That's all.

  “Like you helped me before... In my attic? Is that how you want to help me?" A blush shades his skin, but it isn’t from embarrassment. “Was that part of your job as well? Telling me you wanted me, making me think you cared—kissing me? What kind of bonus does that get you? How much did that fuck get you, Colt?"

  He steps away and claws his fingers through his hair, turning and hitting the edge of the fireplace on the way to the kitchen. She flinches, feeling the vibration course through her body.

  “What's the matter, Colt. I hit a nerve?” The power shift of control makes her body feel buoyant, shoving her sensibility away. “You don't seem like the bashful type and I'm sure you've done a lot naughtier things than messing around with someone involved in your to-kill-list." He throws the shopping bag on the counter in the cabinet underneath and goes back to the refrigerator opening it. “Why can't you look at me? You afraid of what you might see? Feeling ashamed?"

  He slams the door shut, never taking anything out of the fridge. “If that's what you wanna believe," he mutters, "I can't stop you."

  “So it's true?” She can’t stop herself. “You used me... You used me to get me to trust you."

  Statuesque, unmoving, nothing is out of place as he finally delivers the words she knows are coming, “Yeah,” he swallows, “At first, I needed you on side... but…"

  Numb.

  She feels nothing but numb.

  “Thank you,” she murmurs, the lump in her throat threatening to consume her. “Thank you for proving me right all along. I made a mistake.” She turns and heads toward her bedroom door.