Dirty Law

By the time our conversation lulled, the sun was coming up, and people were walking by. We were still in the alley. I had one hand keeping him at a distance and the other on my gun. We had gotten nowhere. I didn’t believe him one bit but then why, why, why…

Why was there a sliver of hope nestled like a shard of glass inside my heart, telling me that he might be for real?

Because what was all that stuff about “his line of work”?

And why did he seem so confused when I called him a political puppet?

In the end I came to no conclusion about Law either way. He could have been evil incarnate, or he could have just been a regular asshole—an asshole who pays the tab, opens the door for me, and offers to drive me home.

But still an asshole.

An asshole I let drive me home.

I told myself it was because if he was going to try and slither his way back into my life, then I was going to do it first. I was going to go black ops, rogue, whatever the name, and slither my way right back. I would understand everything about him and ruin him from the inside out.

My fear, though, was that none of that was true. My fear was that I was weak, tired, and a little drunk, and that I let Law give me a ride home because my feet hurt. My fear was that I was not a rogue, that I was just plain old Nami DeGrace.

When we reached my apartment, Law tried to open my door for me.

“I can open my own goddamn door,” I growled.

“I was being a gentleman.” I scoffed at that, shoving the key into the lock and slamming the door open so it ricocheted against the wall. Raskolnikov, hearing the loud noise, jumped from wherever he had been laying his lazy ass and proceed to bark and hop all around us.

“Raskolnikov. No,” I said, the lack of enthusiasm evident. I walked past Raskol-the-jumping-bean and placed my keys on the table. A small, nearly microscopic part of me was smiling at Raskol’s guard dog attempts. He was tiny, but he was mighty.

“Could you say something, please?” Law asked. “He’s biting my leg.” I turned around to see Raskol using Law’s pant leg as a chew toy.

“Oh, bad boy, Raskolnikov. Don’t. So bad.” I shrugged and continued, “I guess he won’t listen to me. Sorry. Maybe you should go.”

Law glared before bending down and picking Raskol up. Instantly Raskolnikov went from an angry chomping monster to a happy licking beast. He gave Law a furious kiss on the cheek.

“I think he likes me,” Law said before setting him back on the floor. Raskol proceeded to run around the room about fifty times.

“Traitor,” I muttered as he passed me on his sixtieth lap. Turning back to Law I stated, “He’s just lulling you into complacency before he strikes.”

Law raised an eyebrow. “He’s very scary. What’s his name?”

“Raskolnikov. Raskol for short.”

“Like rascal?” Law asked, quirking an eyebrow as Raskol zoomed by.

“No, like Raskol. What the fuck did I just say?” I was getting sick of playing nice with the could-be-vile sycophant. I didn’t want to spend time deciphering his true intentions. He’d had a meal with him; that was all the proof I needed that Law was no good. Why had I nearly forgotten that? It was long past time he left, and since Raskol had done a poor job of getting him to go, it was my turn.

“I think it’s time you get the fuck out of my apartment,” I snapped.

“What is your problem?” Law asked, walking farther inside. “I’ve been nothing but nice to you, even after you punched me in the face and told me to fuck off!”

“Yeah, apparently you can’t take a hint.” I reeled. “I know who you work for so stop pretending!” Law took another step and I shoved his chest. Like hitting an oak, it did nothing to sway him.

Law eyed me and my hands, confusion marring his stupidly perfect features. “I work for myself.”

I laughed. Maybe the liquor had affected me, or maybe I was drunk on anger. I’d known I shouldn’t get drunk. It was easy to take advantage of a drunk person, but the liquor calmed my mind. It erased the memories that surfaced like dead limbs. My words were coming much easier now, too. It felt like they were slipping from my mouth like water down an iceberg.

“Stop acting like you don’t know who I am!” As I backed away from him, I tripped over my couch. I fell onto the floor, Raskol’s dog bed bracing my landing. “Even if I could believe you don’t work for him—which I don’t—you know who I am!”

“A crazy lady?” Law asked, taking a step toward me. He offered his hand to help me up, but I smacked it away.

A little wobbly, I stood up without his help. Counting off the names people had called me on my fingers, I spat them back at him: “Whore, slut, liar!”