Menace

  It happens time and time again.

  You shoot one scumbag in front of a pretty little blonde and suddenly you go from being James Dean to Charlie Manson.

  Women don’t like Charlie Manson.

  Well, those with any sense don’t...

  Blondie shoves her stool back and mutters, “I need to use the restroom,” before walking off, grabbing her coat and carrying her purse along with her. She’s not coming back. That much is obvious.

  “Huh.” I turn back around. “Guess nobody does like me.”

  “Told you,” Scarlet says.

  “Ah, well, that was for the best,” I say as Scarlet brings the shot to her lips. “I probably would’ve shoved her head in the toilet when I fucked her in the bathroom. Might’ve drowned her by accident.”

  Those words come from my lips when Scarlet tries to swallow the liquor, catching her off guard, it seems, because she chokes. Rum spews out as she coughs, her eyes watering. Her face would be bright red if it weren’t for all the makeup. She grabs her chest, trying to take a deep breath, as the bartender rushes over. “Morgan? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she wheezes, not sounding fine at all, which makes the guy panic. He’s three seconds away from jumping over the bar, from attempting CPR, and I’m not the only one who sees it. Scarlet holds up her hands in front of her, shaking her head. “Really, seriously, I’m fine. Just went down the wrong hole.”

  Grabbing a rag, he wipes down the bar in front of her, still making a fuss. “Are you sure? Can I do anything?”

  “The woman said she’s fine,” I chime in, slapping her on the back a few times. “Run along now, Bar Boy.”

  He doesn’t argue, frowning as he walks off, offering only a brief look back at her. Scarlet catches her breath and scrubs her hands over her face as she mutters, “I’m starting to understand what everyone says about you.”

  “And what, pray tell, do they say? Don’t leave me in suspense here.”

  “That there’s something seriously wrong with you.”

  “Oh, well, I could’ve told you that. There’s a lot wrong with me.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Absolutely,” I say. “For one, it doesn’t look like I’ll be getting my dick wet tonight, thanks to you, which I’d say is certainly a problem, don’t you think?”

  “Tragic,” she says, looking at me, her makeup smudged even more now. It almost looks like bruises under her bloodshot eyes. Tragic. Her voice was tinged with bitterness, sarcasm, clearly a defense mechanism, because those eyes that regard me silently scream tragedy, the kind that isn’t to be made light of. The kind of tragedy that breaks bodies and steals souls. The kind that twists decent people into sociopathic assholes.

  The kind that turns beautiful women into ghosts.

  Someone once told me that evil can sense itself inside of others, our hearts beating in a different rhythm than most, playing a morbid song that only other evil knows. And while I’m not saying she’s evil, and I’m not sure I’d call myself it, either, I know I’ve got demons, and those demons are sniffing all around her right now, recognizing something within her, something not-very-good.

  “Who broke you?” I ask, genuinely curious.

  Who desecrated something meant to be so pure?

  She regards me, not reacting to that question, not denying it in the least or pretending to still be in one piece, as she sits beside me, thinking it over. Eventually, she turns away, grabbing my bottle of rum and helping herself to a double shot, which she swallows without hesitation. She shudders, closing her eyes and tilting her head back, her expression damn near erotic.

  She likes it, I realize.

  She enjoys the burn.

  Can’t say I’m surprised.

  You burn a little witch at the stake and she’ll laugh in your face.

  That shouldn’t turn me on, I know, but fuck if it doesn’t.

  She’d smile, without a doubt. I know it now. If I wrapped my hands around her throat, if I strangled the life right out of her, she’d look me in the eyes and smile. It almost makes me want to do it. Almost makes me want to kill her, just to get the chance to watch her die. Most people go out on their knees, whimpering, begging, pissing their pants and snot-sobbing, like they’ve got no control over their bodies, leaky fucking faucets of disgrace. It’s repulsive. But she’s got a backbone, one I’d get a hell of a lot of pleasure out of bending.

  “Who says I’m broken?” she asks, opening up her eyes again, her expression calm, like the fire smothered whatever emotions she might’ve been contending with.

  “I do,” I say. “I can tell just by looking at you.”

  “And what, you think you can fix me?” she asks, turning in her stool to face me, shifting her body closer, so close I can smell the liquor on her warm breath as she whispers, “Think you can make me whole again? Save me from the world? Save me from myself? Fill me up, maybe fuck the feeling back into me, like the big, strong, man you are? Make me a real woman, instead of a broken little girl?”

  There’s a sickening sweetness to her voice that sends a chill down my spine. If I never heard a thinly veiled ‘fuck you’ before, that was certainly one for the books. I move closer to her, uncomfortably so, cocking my head slightly as I lean in, watching as her body tenses. She thinks I’m about to kiss her, my mouth just inches from hers, before I stop, my voice gritty as I say, “On the contrary, Scarlet, I don’t think you need to be fixed at all.”

  “No?”

  “No,” I say. “I think you’re perfect the way you are.”

  She stares at me again, not moving.

  This woman, she does a lot of staring.

  I don’t like it.

  Her gaze claws at my skin, like she’s trying to peel away layers and find what might exist beneath whatever she sees when she looks at me. I’m used to the horrified looks. I tolerate the pity fucks. Men, they lower their eyes, they never look at my face for too long, but her? This little thief, barely five and a half feet of battered flesh and bone, stares me right in the eyes like she has not a fear in the world.

  But it’s an act, I know, because everyone is afraid of something. Everyone. Even the most courageous man in the world fears cowardice. Hell, even I have fears, but I’m not telling you what they are, so don’t even ask me.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” I say, “but I bet I can guess.”

  She arches an eyebrow. It looks a lot like a challenge.

  “I’m guessing it was a man,” I say, “a man who swore he would save you from the world but one that ended up destroying your world instead.”

  Her cheek twitches.

  That’s all the confirmation I need.

  Without responding, she shoves her stool back, away from the bar, and stands up. She pauses there, between us, looking me in the face again. “Sixty-six cents.”

  “What?”

  “You owe me sixty-six cents,” she says, matter-of-fact.

  I turn around in my stool, watching as she walks away, leaving me with those words. Sixty-six cents. The corners of my lips twitch, amusement finally winning the battle, wiping away all annoyance for the moment. She heads for the door just as it opens, a blast of cold air rushing through the bar, carried inside with a group of loud guys. White, every single one of them, the blond-haired, blue-eyed frat boy variety, three-sheets to the wind. Scarlet slams right into one of the guys so hard she nearly knocks him on his ass.

  BAM.

  He staggers as she grabs ahold of him, like she’s attempting to keep the guy upright. Her hand slips into his pocket, yanking out a wallet, as she says, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!”

  He gets his wits about him and drunkenly grins at her like she’s the prettiest thing in the world, throwing an arm around her shoulder. “Nah, it’s okay, babe! Don’t tell me you’re leaving? Come on, let me buy you a drink!”

  “Wish I could,” she says, “maybe next time.”

  She slips under his arm, skirting around him, pushing him toward his
friends, the whole group laughing as they stagger toward the other side of the bar. Scarlet glances inside the wallet, scowling, before tossing it on a table nearby as she walks out.

  No cash.

  Shaking my head, I turn back to the bar. The bartender’s standing in front of me, staring past me, his eyes fixed to the abandoned wallet by the door. He blinks a few times as he seems to put the pieces together, turning toward the group of guys, his lips parting, barely a sound escaping before I grab his arm. I drag him across the bar, yanking so hard that his head almost slams into mine.

  “Mind your own business,” I say, “if you know what’s good for you.”

  I shove him, and he stumbles, letting out a shaky breath. He doesn’t utter a single word about the wallet, heeding my warning.

  Pity, really.

  Since it seems there’s no fucking happening tonight, I probably would’ve enjoyed splitting his head wide open.

  Chapter Nine

  They say Disney World is the happiest place on earth.

  I can’t attest to that, since I’ve never been, but I’m pretty sure I do know where the most miserable place is: the 60th precinct in Brooklyn.

  “Detective Gabriel Jones, please.”

  The woman sitting at the front desk, Officer Josephine Rimmel, leans back in her chair, the receiver of the ancient switchboard phone tucked in the crook of her chubby neck. She greets me revulsion, like I’m a skunk stinking up her lobby, spraying my funk all over the place, her muddy brown eyes picking me apart as she glowers, like she’s contemplating calling pest control to ask them to exterminate the vermin scurrying around her precinct.

  “Hold, please.” Her long pink-painted fingernail hits a button on the switchboard, cutting off the call, before barking a lone word at me: “Name.”

  She should know my name.

  I’ve told her it thirty-nine times. Not once. Not twice. Not even a dozen times. Thirty-nine. As often as we’ve seen each other, starting on my first visit to this brick and concrete hellhole nine months ago, you’d think we’d be best friends by now. I certainly remember her name. I remember every excruciating detail I’ve been forced to learn about her over time—like how she can’t go a week without a fresh manicure, picking out a new pink polish every time, which means I’ve seen thirty-fucking-nine different shades of pussy pink coating her nails, but yet she can’t be bothered with something as simple as my name.

  “Morgan,” I say. “Morgan Myers.”

  Officer Rimmel grabs the phone again, dialing the extension for Gabe’s third-floor office. I drum my chipped red-painted nails on the top of the counter as I wait, my stomach twisted in tight knots, the only thing keeping my sickness at bay. It rings a few times before I can faintly hear his voice through the line.

  “Uh, yeah, that woman’s here… yeah, yeah… okay, sure thing.” Officer Rimmel hangs up, glaring at me. It didn’t escape my notice that she didn’t even have to use my name. “He’ll be down when he gets the chance.”

  Sighing, I walk over and plop down in the first cheap blue plastic chair I come to in the cramped lobby, angling my body to where I can see the entrance, making sure nobody walks in that I recognize. I shouldn’t be here. This is arguably the most dangerous place for me to show my face. I shouldn’t even be in Brooklyn.

  My gaze scans the others waiting in the lobby, skimming along faces I’ve never seen before, unguarded eyes that aren’t the least bit worried about my presence, forever in suspense as I wait for that singular moment where recognition sparks. It’s bound to happen someday. Millions of people might live in New York City, but the circles most of us run in are small. It’s inevitable, I think, that someday, I’m going walk in here and somebody is going to take one look at me and know exactly who I am. They’re going to know my story. They’re going to know my history.

  Unlike Officer Rimmel, they’re going to remember my name, and then what?

  The elevator past the front desk dings, opening, before I have to think about those potential consequences. Death, if I’m lucky. Gabe steps halfway out, grasping the elevator door, holding it open and blocking it with his body as his stern eyes seek me out. He motions with a sharp nod of his head for me to join him, and I stand up, grateful today isn’t the day I’m going to be spotted. I slip past him, onto the elevator, my sneakers quiet against the floor. Gabe joins me, pressing the number ‘3’ before repeatedly hitting the ‘door close’ button, pounding against it, as if that’ll make it work any faster. As soon as the door finally closes, the elevator moving, he leans back against the wall.

  He says nothing, but his eyes speak volumes as they scan me. Up. Down. Up. Down. It’s only a few seconds as the old creaky elevator takes us up two floors, but it’s an eternity under his scrutiny, as he eye-fucks me from across the stifling confined space. Even wearing layer upon layer of clothes, dressed down in sweats and a thermal long-sleeved shirt covered with a hoodie, a black knit hat pulled down low, over my ears, he has a way of making me feel exposed. He reminds me of someone else… someone I once knew, a long time ago.

  He reminds me of the man who stole my innocence.

  He looks at me like I’m something and not somebody.

  The elevator dings, opening again, and Gabe steps off without acknowledging me, knowing I’ll follow. I keep my head down as I trail him to his office in the back corner, glass walls surrounding it, leaving the space exposed. Transparency, they boast, but it doesn’t make a difference, not when they give them blinds to shut out the world if they choose to. And the moment we’re inside, Gabe closes the vertical blind. Of course.

  “Did you talk to them?” I ask.

  “Who?”

  “Whoever you needed to talk to. You promised you’d talk to them about me again.”

  “Oh, yeah… I did.”

  “You did?”

  “Yep.” He offers a small smile as he pulls me around so my back is to him. His arms wind around me, his hands grasping my breasts over my clothes, roughly kneading them through the thick fabric. “I talked to my Sarge just this morning about you.”

  “Really? You did?”

  “Of course,” he says, leaning down, forcing my head to the side as his lips find my neck, kissing and licking, nothing gentle about it. He sucks on the skin, sending small bites of pain through me. “I told you I would, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  Sickness still brews inside of me, but all I can do is swallow it back and hope it stays down. Gabe’s hands are all over me, groping and tugging fabric, yanking my pants down as he shoves me flat against the thick cherry wood desk that takes up most of the office space, right on top of stacks of case files.

  Inhaling deeply, I turn toward the door. He’s wasting no time today. As Gabe unbuckles his pants, I reach down and touch myself, trying to get aroused. Pain, to me, usually means pleasure, but there’s a fine line there, one Gabe falls on the wrong side of.

  People walk by, ignoring what’s happening, as Gabe thrusts inside of me, banging against the desk, not bothering to keep the noise down. They all know what’s happening but nobody looks. Nobody cares. Not a single one of them pay a bit of attention as he loudly grunts, getting his rocks off.

  I just lay here and take it, not bothering to touch myself anymore. It’s a waste of time. A waste of energy. I’m not going to enjoy it. My body goes limp, my mind wandering as people stroll past, going about their business. Just once, I’d like someone to peek inside, even just a flickering glance, a moment of curiosity that forces their eyes to acknowledge me.

  Do you know what it’s like to be invisible? Do you know what it’s like to have the world turn its back on you, to turn a blind eye to your existence, like you never even mattered? Do you know what it’s like to scream until your throat is raw only to realize everyone tuned you out long ago and nobody heard a single word?

  Because I do. I know.

  It only takes a few minutes for Gabe to finish, slumping over, panting. “You working tonight?”

  “I
have the night off,” I say.

  “That’s a shame,” he says. “I was going to come by. You would’ve liked that, wouldn’t you have?”

  “You know I would’ve,” I lie, because no thanks.

  He moves away from me, flippantly discarding his used condom in the recycling bin. I stare at it as I pull my pants up.

  Is latex recyclable?

  I don’t think so.

  Shaking it off, I watch Gabe as he zips his pants back up. “So, what’s the plan?”

  He plops down in the office chair behind the desk and starts shifting through the files he just fucked me on top of. “The plan?”

  “Yeah, the plan,” I say. “What did they say? What are they going to do about the situation?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  I blink a few times, that word like a weight pressing against my chest, cutting off the air in my lungs. Nothing. “What do you mean nothing? You told me—”

  “I told you I’d talk to them,” he says, “and I did.”

  “But that’s not right. It’s not fair. It’s not enough!”

  He cuts his eyes at me. “I’m doing all I can.”

  “But you’ve done nothing! You keep promising me you’ll do something, that you’re working on it, that if I trust you, it’ll all work out, but nothing is happening!”

  “These things take time.”

  “It’s been nine months, Gabe. Nine fucking months.”

  “What do you expect me to do, Morgan? Huh?”

  “Something,” I say. “Anything.”

  “I told you—I’m doing all I can. And if you want me to keep doing that, it’s in your best interest to watch how you talk to me, because I can stop. I can turn it over to another detective, maybe even pass it to the squad at headquarters, where they’ll really do nothing, if that’s what you want.”

  “What I want is for you to help me, like you promised!”