His suit looks like armor as he gets ready to defend me.
“Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Aaron growls. “I’ll take you for ten, twenty, whatever I want.”
“I’ll take your suit to the dry cleaner’s after I dust you off, you little shit,” Kris says.
His smirk twitches when Maury laughs from the other side of the door, a coughing old-Mob sort of laugh. For the first time since I met him, I can see the Mafia in my man, the glint of the Don in his eyes. I stare, fascinated.
“I’m warning you—”
“And I’ll tell the guy, ‘Hey, this suit belonged to a real fucking loser, so don’t tire yourself out trying to wash out all the blood.’”
Maury laughs again and then cries out as though Aaron has just struck him for the infraction.
I clasp my hands together, my whole body tingling and alive, but with the urge to run away this time. I need to get away from Aaron and even Maury, and I need to just be alone with Kris, my man, the way we were supposed to be alone before this hell happened.
I almost let out a gasp of pain and adrenalin, but I don’t want Kris to hear me. He’ll tell me to close and lock the door.
He doesn’t understand that I can’t look away.
“I’m serious,” Aaron says. “I’m not—”
“I’ll tell the guy, ‘The stupid piece of shit thought I’d give him one million. So I just gave him one right between the eyes. With his own gun.’”
“Motherfucker.”
I leap back at the bang, my heart thudding in my chest. It’s so loud, the sound bouncing around the room.
Bang—a gunshot.
Terror ricochets through me.
What if Kris is bleeding out from a gunshot right now, and I’m in here, doing nothing?
Why the heck did this have to happen when I’m wearing my prom dress?
The universe must freaking hate me.
I walk over to the door – my dress ruffling– and peek out a tiny little bit.
There’s a hole in the door, letting in light and the barrel of a gun. Behind the gun, I can see someone’s face, but only a little part of it.
The chin, the lips, the smile.
It’s Aaron.
I’ll remember that douche’s face.
“Little Krissiieeeeeee,” Aaron sings. “Come out, come out wherever you—Argh.”
Kris moves faster than I can even believe, all I can do is stare and wonder at how he does it.
In the time it takes me to snap back to reality, he’s punched his hand through the hole in the door and grabbed Aaron. He’s pulled him – so violently the back of his suit tears apart to reveal his shirt underneath – right up against the door, yanking the door off the frame with the force of the movement.
Kris ducks behind the door, forcing Aaron into position by twisting his hand through the hole in the smashed door.
Aaron cries out and flails.
Gunshots explode against the wall, plasterboard flying, the door making it impossible for Aaron to hit Kris.
The gun starts to make clicking noises as if it’s empty, and then Kris must squeeze Aaron’s hand even harder. Aaron cries out and there’s a bony snap noise.
He handles the man and the weight of the door easily, his body honed and ready.
“Do we shoot?” one of the men asks, voice shaky.
“Don’t fucking shoot,” Aaron cries. “You’ll hit me, you idiot. Let go of my hand, man. Fuck.”
“If you ever want to wipe your ass again, kid,” Kris snaps, “you better tell your friends to drop their weapons.”
“Drop them,” Aaron whines. “Holy shit. Motherfuck—my hand, man. You’re breaking my hand.”
“Listen to your boss, gentleman,” Kris snarls. “Or this will get even bloodier. I’m fine if it has to go that way. But I won’t be held responsible for your lives if you choose to make this violent.”
“You think we’re scared of you?” one of the men whines, his voice trembling.
His question is answered by the way his voice shivers and quakes.
What must they see?
Their boss from the back, pulled up against the door, the door hanging off its hinges as Kris jostles Aaron.
“Drop the fucking guns,” I scream.
I don’t even know where the words come from. They explode from someplace deep inside of me.
They laughed and oinked at me, and I just walked away.
I thought they were right. That’s the evil truth. I thought I was fat and ugly and deserved to be treated that way.
But Kris, my man – my protector – he’s made me see how wrong I was.
“Or he’ll kill you, Aaron,” I snap.
“Jesus, Kimberly, I’m sorry,” Aaron whines. “Men—drop your weapons. Please.”
“What about if we still want this cash?” one of the men says.
His voice is smoother, older, than the others. It’s the sort of gruff voice I can imagine belonging to a coconspirator instead of a henchman.
He doesn’t sound like a goon. He sounds like he wants to make a play of his own.