Menace

  The little girl raised her head, eyes lifting from her lap, meeting the Tin Man’s gaze across from her, the only other person sitting down. His eyes were like metal, cold and gray like clouds.

  “I wanna go home,” she whispered.

  He stared at her. “You are home.”

  She shook her head.

  “You are,” he said again. “This is your home, kitten. This is where you belong.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “You will get used to it.”

  “I want Mommy.”

  “No.”

  His voice was sharp as he barked that word, silencing everyone in the room. No one liked the sound of it, not even the flying monkeys, who didn’t think it was funny when the Tin Man got angry.

  Tears stung the little girl’s eyes, her gaze on her lap again as her bottom lip trembled. “Please.”

  She could feel so many eyes on her, everyone watching, waiting to see what would happen. A moment passed, where nobody reacted, before the Tin Man crooked his pointer finger beneath her chin, raising her head up with it to make her look at him.

  “You do not need her,” he said, not a hint of emotion in his words. “I am all you need.”

  “But—”

  Before she could argue, his hand enclosed around her chin, palming her face, his strong, inked fingers digging into her cheeks, squishing them.

  He gripped her tightly, leaning closer. “You will not speak of her to me again. Do I make myself clear?”

  The little girl nodded, tears streaming from her eyes.

  He shoved her face away, nearly knocking her from the stool.

  “And stop crying,” he demanded, standing up to walk away. “She is worth your heartache no more than she was worth mine. We will both get over it.”

  The little girl didn’t believe that. She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. She might face her fears and wipe her tears, like her mother had taught her, but she would never get over it.

  Chapter Five

  A white split-level house in south Queens.

  There’s even a picket fence surrounding it.

  It’s fit for a picture-perfect family: Mom, Dad, two-point-five kids and a golden retriever, living happily in quiet suburbia. Four bedrooms. Three bathrooms. There’s a library downstairs. It’s in a neighborhood typically free of crime.

  No murders.

  No robberies.

  No fun at all, quite frankly.

  Just call me Ward Cleaver. Leave it to fucking Beaver. The house is all mine. I’ve found the American Dream.

  I’ve got to say... the shit isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

  Snow covers the sidewalk that runs along the front of the house. The streets have been plowed since it started snowing, but everything else is doused in a layer of stark white. Standing at the foggy front window of the house, I stare out into the cold morning, watching thick flakes fall from the cloudy sky.

  The monochrome tone is pretty consistent with how I’m feeling.

  Monotonous. Drab. Tedious.

  Fifty other fucking words you’ll find in a thesaurus.

  I’ve only lived here for a few months but I’m already itching to move again. Since coming to New York just a few years ago, I’ve stayed in eleven different places, most of which I hadn’t exactly had permission to move into. I see an opportunity and I take it, whether it’s acquiring a house or, well, a job position.

  What can I say? I’m resourceful.

  Can’t fault me for that, can you?

  “Is it still snowing?”

  I turn at the sound of the voice behind me, watching as my little brother steps into the living room. Leo—or Pretty Boy, as I’ve always called him—is sixteen years younger than me, in his early twenties, while the thirties knocked on my door long ago. We’re nothing alike. He’s young and hopeful. I grow bitter as I age. He’s got a lot of heart. I’ve been told a time or two that I’m a bit of a callous prick.

  He loves this house, this neighborhood, and this dream...

  The only thing I love is, well, maybe him.

  Everything else is just a fickle fondness that I tend to grow tired of real fucking quick.

  “Of course it’s snowing,” I say, strolling over to the black leather couch to sit down. “I’ve got things to take care of, so naturally it’s going to snow all damn day and make everything as difficult as possible.”

  Leo steps by me to take the spot in front of the window. “Such optimism.”

  “Yeah, well, not all of us can be sunshiny all of the goddamn time.”

  Truthfully? I’m in a pissy mood. I’ve been home for hours, long enough to witness the sunrise, but that’s nothing new. I’ve been an insomniac most of my life, which is probably why I’m so paranoid. Sleep evades me and people aggravate me, making my trigger finger a little twitchy, if you know what I’m saying.

  Usually, I handle it better, the lack of sleep, but today it has me on edge for some reason.

  My attention shifts to the coffee table in front of me. The red high heels sit in the center of it, side-by-side. I pick one up, running my fingertips along the red sole. The heel is long and thin, curved a bit, maybe six inches, and sharp enough that, in a pinch, she could’ve easily taken my good eye out with it.

  After all, everything’s a weapon if you look at it the right way, and I’m the MacGyver of murder. I could kill a man with a shoe like this. Wouldn’t even faze me to have to do it, either.

  “Do I even want to know why you’ve got those?” Leo asks.

  I glance at him. “Long story.”

  “Does it end with your feet shoved into a pair of red pumps? Because if so, I’d really like to hear it.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not nearly that interesting,” I say. “Met a woman who was wearing these. She got away, left her shoes behind.”

  “How very Cinderella.” He shakes his head. “And what, you’re going to try them on every woman in the kingdom until you find her again?”

  “If I have to,” I say, setting the shoe back down beside the other one. Before I can elaborate, there’s a noise upstairs, a loud thump above my head. My gaze drifts toward the ceiling as my back stiffens.

  “It’s fine,” Leo says. “Just Mel.”

  “Who?”

  “Mel,” he says again. “You know… my girlfriend?”

  “Ah, Firecracker.”

  He lets out a dramatic sigh. “We’ve been dating for over a year… you’d think my own brother would remember her name by now.”

  “Please,” I say. “I barely remember your name, Pretty Boy. Names mean nothing to me. They’re irrelevant. They don’t define a person. They just label them. And well, if I’m going to label people, I’m going to label them in a way that defines them to me. Like… Firecracker.”

  “And how exactly does Firecracker define her?”

  “She’s loud,” I say as feet stomp across the floor above my head, heading for the stairs. “She’s kind of bangin’.”

  He lets out a sharp bark of laughter as he moves away from the window, stepping toward me. “Are you hitting on my girlfriend?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. “She’s not my type.”

  “Could’ve fooled me,” Leo says. “Thought your type was breathing.”

  “Ha-ha. I’ll have you know I’ve got standards.”

  “Like?”

  “Like a woman that doesn’t expect me to have a conversation.”

  He laughs again, like he finds that genuinely funny. “Oh, the horror of having to talk to a female like she’s actually a person and not just a warm body.”

  “Are you mocking me, Pretty Boy?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I’ve shot people for less attitude.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” he says. “Sounds like something someone allergic to feelings would do.”

  “I’m not allergic to feelings. I’ve got them.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah, and right now I’m feeling p
retty fucking annoyed by this conversation, so I’d rather we didn’t have it.”

  “Oh, so it’s not females you avoid talking to... it’s really feelings you don’t want to talk about. Got it.”

  He’s pushing my buttons.

  Leo might be the only person around who isn’t afraid to do that. He looks me in the face without hesitation, never balking at what he sees, and he calls me on my shit, like a parent lecturing a child… which is kind of funny, you know, since I raised that little son of a bitch.

  I’m supposed to be the mature one, the role model, but instead I think he might be the only thing stopping me from blowing up the whole goddamn world and everyone in it.

  You see, I learned long ago that the most valuable thing you have is your reputation. It gets you things money can’t buy, opening up doors that are usually sealed tight. Don’t listen to that ‘fuck what people think’ Sesame Street bullshit they spoon-fed you as a kid. You should care what people say about you.

  Rumor and gossip... it matters. Because while you might be proud of your character, while you might be the kind of person who doesn’t yield, it doesn’t mean a damn thing if the jackass coming up behind you believes you’re getting out of his way, because he’s just going to run you over.

  If my stepfather taught me anything, it was that the key to survival is mimicry. You be what you need to be for somebody. Wear the skin of a rattlesnake even if there’s not a single drop of venom inside of you, because if you make them believe, they won’t come close enough to get bit. They won’t get close enough to see that maybe it’s a disguise; maybe you’re not as dangerous as they think. And if they do get that close, well, then you’ve got a choice: you either surrender or you become the thing they fear most.

  I don’t surrender.

  But not everyone needs the same thing, and that’s the trick. You can’t just be all one thing. If you’ve gotta be a monster, you be a fucking shapeshifter.

  And my brother? He’s not a predator, so I don’t have to be one with him. What Leo needs is someone to depend on, someone to believe in, someone who will protect him, so that’s what I am. I’m his family. I’m his friend. I’m a harmless gopher snake without a rattle in my tail.

  Who am I really? I like to think I’m somewhere in between. Maybe deep down I don’t want to hurt you, but goddamn it, I will, and I’ll destroy myself doing it if I have to. I’ll get you even if it kills me. I’m like a honeybee.

  I’m also apparently someone who likes animal metaphors when I need some damn sleep.

  So blah blah blah, whatever whatever, the point here is fuck feelings, they get you nowhere.

  “I’m going to bed. If you want someone to talk to, Pretty Boy, your girlfriend will be interrupting in about three seconds. Talk to her.”

  “About what?”

  The bubbly voice chimes in right at the three-second mark as Leo’s girlfriend waltzes in. Melody Carmichael. Leo calls her Mel. Of course I know her name. I made a point to learn it when I realized he was serious about her. Young, blonde, and good-looking, sure, but the girl has a mouth on her. Sometimes she talks so much I wonder how she’s breathing, how she’s not suffocating on all the words she insists on speaking.

  And she cries. Jesus fuck, the girl cries. She sat right here on my couch and sobbed two nights ago while watching some movie about a man dying. Leo consoled her, holding her, while I stood in the doorway, wishing it were me that was dead. Me, just so I wouldn’t have to listen to her blubbering for one more second.

  “About Lorenzo’s lack of feeling for females,” Leo tells her.

  Melody laughs. “I don’t know... based on the noises coming out of his bedroom at around midnight last night, I’d say he was feeling something with a woman.”

  “He was making her feel something. Big difference.” Leo turns back to me, cocking an eyebrow. “What was this one’s name?”

  “Barbie,” I say.

  “And is Barbie her real name?” Leo asks. “Or is that just what you’re calling her, since she was platinum blonde and plastic?”

  Okay, he’s got me there...

  “That’s what I thought,” he continues when I don’t answer. No point wasting my breath. He knows. “Bet you probably don’t even remember her real name.”

  “It was Tina.”

  “Really?”

  “No, I don’t know,” I say, standing up. “I didn’t pay attention to a word she said.”

  His laughter follows me as I snatch up the pair of heels and stroll toward the doorway. Melody eyes me cautiously as I pass her. She doesn’t flinch away… anymore… but I wouldn’t exactly say she lets her guard down around me, either. Her gaze shifts to the shoes, her brow furrowing. “Are those Loubitons?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “Why do you have them?”

  “Why do you ask so many questions?”

  She has no comeback for that, which is for the best, considering Leo probably will hold it against me if I sucker punch his girlfriend for meddling in my business. I hear Leo chime in, explaining to her about Cinderella, but I just walk away. Prince Charming, I am not, nor will I ever be. No, you see, people call me Scar for a reason, and it doesn’t entirely have to do with the fact that my face got fucked up. I’m the villain; I’m the lion that swooped on in, destroying their pride lands. I killed the king and sent Simba packing. But unlike the fictional Scar from the cartoon, I don’t intend to lose at the end of my story. Everything the light touches in this city belongs to me. I’m the fucking Lion King.

  I know, I know… another animal metaphor.

  Man, I need some sleep.

  Trudging upstairs, I make my way down the hall, to the bedroom in the far back. Everything about it is impersonal, no distractions—plain white walls and a California king bed with the best mattress money can buy, the kind of memory foam that just cradles you, that embraces you like it loves you, cloaked in expensive Egyptian cotton, but none of that makes a bit of difference when it comes time to fall asleep.

  After setting the shoes down on top of the only dresser, I peel off all of my clothes, discarding them on the floor, and fall right into the bed on my back, naked. The ceiling fan above me lightly spins around and around and around. I track it with my gaze. It helps me relax, like some strange version of counting sheep, or maybe I just get so dizzy that I eventually pass out, but regardless, I usually catch some sleep that way.

  But not today.

  No, even as I watch the spinning blades, instead of shutting down, my mind starts to wander, thoughts of a petite brunette with wild hair creeping in. The smirk on her red lips right before she ran that last time, the smug ‘I got you, motherfucker’ smile, like she was gloating, invades every part of me, like an infection settling in, eating away at my insides. She has no idea who she’s messing with, but she’s going to learn. Little Miss Scarlet Letter robbed the wrong motherfucker. I’m getting my money back, every single penny of it, and she’ll be damn lucky if I don’t take her last breath as interest.

  I wonder if she’ll smile then, with me pinning her down, my body on top of hers, keeping her locked in place. I wonder if she’ll smile when I wrap my hands around her throat, squeezing, pressing against the carotid artery, making her look me in the face as I wring her neck. I wonder if she’ll smile as the color drains from her cheeks, as the spark diminishes in her eyes, because I sure as fuck will.

  I get hard just thinking about it.

  Nothing turns me on more than seeing someone struggle, fighting for survival. It’s feral, instincts kicking in. They give it all they’ve got, because they know if they don’t, there will be nothing left. I’ll take it all. I’ll take their dignity. I’ll take their money. I’ll take their family, too, if I want it. I’ll take their life in every sense of the word. Desperation at its core, exposing those raw nerves of self-preservation. There’s nothing more powerful than holding someone’s life in your hands, knowing they’re not strong enough to overpower you... knowing their only hope is you
being merciful.

  Closing my eyes, I grab my cock, roughly stroking it. Hard and fast, not trying to savor it, needing the release to ease my tension, hoping like hell it’ll put me to sleep. It takes less than thirty seconds before my abs clench, my cock pulsating as the orgasm strikes me like a punch to the chest. Gritting my teeth, stifling the groan, I feel it as cum spurts out, hitting my stomach and the bed sheets. Warmth spreads all through my body, tingles coating my skin as my cock twitches. I stroke a few more times, breathing deeply as my muscles relax.

  Finally.

  Sighing, I let go, keeping my eyes closed, not bothering to clean up the mess. Heaviness settles into my limbs, numbness spreading.

  But still... still... sleep won’t take over.

  “Fuck this,” I grumble, climbing back out of bed, staggering, swaying, as I head for the shower. “Another day awaits.”

  “I thought you were going to bed?”

  My brother’s still in the living room.

  His girlfriend is still with him, too, the two of them on the couch together, cuddling. That’s all they ever seem to do. Kiss, and cuddle, and whisper, and fuck, a lovey-dovey cycle, day in and day out, like an old married couple.

  “I did,” I say, stalling in the doorway.

  He blinks at me. “You did?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s only been an hour, bro,” he says, “if even that long. There’s no way you went to sleep.”

  “I didn’t say I went to sleep,” I point out. “I said I went to bed.”

  “What’s the point of going to bed if you don’t sleep?” As soon as he asks that, he shakes his head. “Never mind.”

  “Never mind what?” Melody asks, glancing between us. Nosey as shit.

  “Don’t even ask,” Leo grumbles.

  Her brow furrows. “Don’t ask what?”

  “He doesn’t want you to ask about me tugging one out upstairs.”

  “Tugging one—oh!” Her eyes widen. “Geez.”

  Leo groans. “I told you not to ask.”

  Shaking my head, I lean against the doorframe, my gaze going to the window. In the past hour, as I showered and dressed, waking up again, the snow slowed to a barely-present flurry, the conditions much more manageable. “So, how long do you think it should take to find someone in the city?”