She rests her head against the porcelain slope, closing her eyes as I cup water in my hands. “You’ll get over this, I promise.” I pour the water over her hair, watching remnants of brown dye run down her neck and along her perfect tits.
Her gaze meets mine. “Do you ever feel bad for killing people?”
And that’s a terrible question because the answer isn’t nice. I grab the shampoo and squirt some in my palm, massaging it into her scalp. “No.”
“How?” she whispers. “How do you just feel nothing?”
Because I was five the first time I watch my father put a bullet in someone’s head. I grew up thinking that murder was a part of life, that debts were paid with blood. Because the people I deal with aren’t good people and neither am I. But she won’t understand any of that, so I settle with, “Because I’m not like you.”
And I sure as hell don’t want her to ever be like me.
Victoria
Last night, I bounced from one nightmare to another. One minute I was shooting that cartel member, and the next I was trying to resuscitate him. And as I tried to save the life I’d taken, his blood soaked my hands, staining my soul.
And that nightmare has played out in my head all day. Closing my eyes, I listen to the chirp of crickets drifting through the barred window, trying to find a sense of calm in the sound, but I can’t.
“Ria?” Caleb knocks on the door before cracking it open. “Did you want this?” he asks, holding out the picture frame I bought yesterday at Wal-E-Mart.
“Thanks.” I push to my feet and take it from him. “How’s your shoulder?”
“Feels fine.” He rubs a hand over the back of his head. “You realize, I would have died had you not been there yesterday?”
And that makes it better doesn’t it? Justified? Because when I consider the alternative; Caleb dead, I know I’d do it again. That man was a cartel member. Caleb might have been a baby criminal, but he was good. The kind of good that couldn’t ever be tarnished, no matter how much blood he spilled.
“I mean, it’s pretty badass if you think about it,” he says. “You killed a cartel member. How many girls can say that?” His innocent grin almost makes me forget he’s talking about murder. Caleb can always find the positive though.
Without warning, he throws his arms around me and pulls me in for a hug. “I know it’s shit, but I’m a firm believer in fate, and you’re here for a reason, Ria.”
Maybe he’s right. “Thanks, Caleb.” I hug him back, and then he slips from the doorway, leaving me alone.
I take the picture frame from the bag, then remove the image of Jude’s sister and mum from its broken frame. Once I’ve placed it inside, I set it on Jude’s dresser. I look at the photo of the two women, both smiling and happy, and I wonder if they knew they were in danger. Does Tom really hate Jude so much? But Jude couldn’t have been much more than a teenager when they died. Either way, Tom clearly harbors a venomous level of hatred toward the man I’m growing more and more attached to. The man I chose to stay with.
Fear skirts down my spine at the thought. Very soon, a dead cartel member and my misplaced guilt might be the least of my worries.
Movement in the doorway catches my attention. Jude’s gaze moves to the picture in my hands before he enters the room and takes the frame from me. He stares at it for a moment, his jaw tensing. “I’ve got to go out. Get dressed.”
I nod and push to my feet, hoping he’s not pissed that I replaced the frame. I know he’s undoubtedly annoyed that I broke it in the first place. I would be.
I throw on jeans and a shirt before following him out of the house.
He opens the passenger side door for me. I slip into the cab of his truck, inhaling the scent of cigarettes that clings to the upholstery.
We pass endless fields of what looks like corn, until they give way to a rundown town full of pawn shops, with scantily dressed women on every corner. Eventually he turns onto a quiet road, a neon sign blinking in the distance.
Gravel crunches beneath the tires when he pulls into the parking lot of a bar. Even over the engine, I can hear the twang of country music pouring out.
A string of Christmas lights decorates the front of the wooden building, the multi-colored twinkle, reflecting off the hoods of parked cars that look like they belong in a junkyard. It’s definitely not a tourist area, that’s for sure.
“Well, this looks…cheerful.”
“It’s a shithole,” Jude grumbles under as he pulls between two rusted pickups.