Killer

At least one good thing comes from it. When I’m sucked into the blackness, I’m not afraid anymore.

Keller

I wipe my face with the hem of my shirt. Here I am, big badass Killer, sitting in my car bawling my eyes out like a fucking baby. But the thought of something happening to Britt… the realization that something did happen to Britt ten years ago… it’s too much to not let it hurt. Even for a cold bastard like me.

With unfocused eyes, I stare out the windshield at the concrete wall of the garage, wanting Killer to make an appearance, wishing for the numbness I use to keep everyone out and emotions suppressed. Just a fraction of that strength could end the agony that plunges a fist into my heart, squeezing the organ in its icy grip until I can hardly breathe.

Just as quickly as I wish for Killer to return, I change my mind. If I didn’t feel this way—feel the searing pain in my chest, know that I have an actual heart to break—it would mean I don’t have Britt in my life. And above everything else, I want her in my life. The thought of losing Britt, the possibility of already having lost her, cuts me down at the knees.

My once dead heart falters at the thought. I can’t lose her. I love her.

Fuck. I love her. How did I let that happen?

It doesn’t matter. Right now, I can’t do a goddamn thing to find her and fix whatever she’s going through. It makes me want to tear something or someone to shreds. To break bones and shatter objects and throw a violent, rage-infused tantrum. The only thing that stops me is knowing it won’t help Britt. I take a deep breath and get out of the car. All I can do is wait for her to come to me, and I despise the feeling of helplessness.

Mentally drained, I head for the elevator, my head so full of “feelings” I don’t notice the cherry red coupe until I’ve passed it by. Doing a double take, I spin around and hurry to its side. Granted, it could be anyone’s car, but a beacon of hope sparks like a flicker of light in a dark ocean. There are hundreds of red BMWs in Atlanta, possibly thousands. Yet, somehow, I know this one is Britt’s. Circling the car, I cup my hands and look through the window. It’s immaculate, except for a glint of metal on the front floorboard.

I scan the garage for something I can use to break the window. Finding nothing, I pull off my shirt and wrap it around my hand. One hard strike and the glass shatters into a million tiny pieces. I reach in and pull out a silver chain with a purple crystal pendant.

I’ve seen this before. Hanging around Britt’s neck.

I know Britt was here, at my condo. It seems she drove, which she doesn’t do often. But she had a complete meltdown and left. So why is her car still parked in my garage? I circle the car again, this time looking underneath and all around on the surrounding pavement. Nothing.

Britt wouldn’t leave her car here, no matter how upset she was. I live on a very busy midtown street with no sidewalks for several blocks. Unfurling my hand, I study the delicate chain. The tiny silver clasp is broken, as if the necklace were yank

ed off her neck, perhaps during a struggle. Fuck! I open the doors to the red BMW and climb inside, thoroughly searching the floors, seats, and every crack and crevice in between. When my hand closes around a set of keys with a BMW fob and a Souza MMA keychain, my newly awoken heart stops.

Is she upstairs waiting for me? But the necklace…

A car pulls into the garage, interrupting my thoughts. Not wanting to be seen, I duck behind Britt’s car. With the smashed window and me standing shirtless with the fabric still balled around my hand, it wouldn’t take a genius to put two and two together. The engine cuts a few spaces away and someone gets out, whistling as they walk my way.

Shit. I glance around, desperate for an escape. Maybe the person won’t notice the glass on the ground. That thought dies when shoes crunch on pieces of the broken driver’s side window and the whistling stops dead.

“What the—?”

The sound of that voice makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Adrenaline floods my veins, pushing liquid fury to every cell in my body. I step out from behind the car, shirt around one hand, Britt’s keys and necklace clenched in the other. My eyes lock on to my prey, currently half inside the car with his upper body through the open window. The pure, instinctual violence inside me, Killer rises, shoving all other emotions to the side. He’s primed and ready to strike.

The intruder doesn’t notice until I drop the shirt and clamp a hand on the back of his neck, yanking him out of the car.

“What the hell?”

The man stumbles, but my hold is too tight. I spin him around and slam him bodily into the frame of the small coupe, my palm pressed against his chest. He recovers his balance and I see the moment he realizes exactly how much danger he’s in. His eyes widen and his jaw drops. It gives me immense satisfaction to feel his body trembling under my hand.

“Max,” I growl, leaning in until our noses nearly touch.

“W-what are you doing?” he stutters.

I move my hand to his throat and squeeze. His hands immediately go to his neck, scrabbling to remove the pressure of my tight grip.

“What did you do with her, you sick fuck?”

His eyes bulge and his face turns a dark shade of red. Wheezing, he answers. “I don’t know what you mean.”

I clamp down harder, now able to feel the rapid beat of his pulse through his jugular as well as the flexible cartilage of his windpipe.

“Don’t fuck with me, Max. Tell me where Britt is or I’ll crush your goddamn throat with my bare hands.”

Max fights hard, but tires quickly with no air pulling into his lungs. He pushes at my face and I catch a sweet, chemical odor on his fingers. That smell makes me snap. I let go of his neck and before he can recover from the lack of oxygen, I land a punch to his solar plexus, preventing him from taking in a deep breath. When he collapses to the ground, his skin taking on a white pallor, I kick him in the ribs, feeling immense satisfaction at the cracking sound that accompanies my shoe landing on his side.