Page 21 of Lucky Shot

I turned toward her, and witnessed the tears glistening on her pretty cheeks, as she bit down on her bottom lip, her teeth adorned with the braces the fucker had teased her about. “No! No one ever gets to disrespect, or fucking hurt you, Phoebe, no one. As long as I’m fucking breathing, whoever tries will get a beatdown.”

I’m pulled out of the memory of the twelve-year-old version of me, and I down the contents of my glass, signaling to the attentive bartender, who has been trying to flirt with me for another round. No one elsedisrespected Phoebe after that day, in fact, most people gave her a wide berth, knowing Aiden’s and my attachment to her. Years later, I sliced Jason wide open, from throat to asshole, for once again speaking ill of my Phoebe, and dumped him in the river to feed the fish.Good fucking riddance.

The problem was, I was a fucking liar. I swore that, while I was breathing, no one would disrespect or hurt her, and then I went ahead and did that exact thing, and tore her heart out and stomped on it. I deserved the beatdown that I threatened others with, and while Aiden did put his fists on me on the day I was supposed to marry her, it was not nearly enough to pay for the pain I caused Phebes. I deserve so much more, even if I won’t readily admit to it. Inside my heart, I know it.

I force my thoughts away from the past. No good can come of them, and I can’t ever go back, despite how much I wish I could. I’ve been enjoying the instrumental versions of trendy songs for the last hour. The space is filled with people stopping in to have lunch, and drinks, in the middle of the day, but their behavior is at least tolerable. I bring the new glass of top-shelf gin to my lips as I think over the events of yesterday. It was all a fucking bust. We spent hours after the coffee shop, wandering around Soda Springs University, trying to look inconspicuous, well as inconspicuous as two hulking males with bruised faces, clearly searching for someone, can look, and never got a glimpse of Phoebe. Aiden spent a good part of his day checking his phone, and making sure I couldn’t see the screen. I wonder if shit back home is already hitting the fan for him. It’s not like everyone doesn’t know that it’s actually Aiden, not Tadhg, who is leading the Irish. Well, maybe Tadhg doesn’t know, ’cause he’s a useless cunt.

It certainly didn’t help our search that there had been a stabbing on campus, in one of the coffee shops. For a moment, I panicked that it could be Phoebe, knowing her penchant for coffee. I’ve never experienced such terror as I had in that moment, not even when she left me at the altar. The thought that I may never get to see her again, never get to apologize for my horrific behavior, and beg her to take me back, almost brought me to my knees, and certainly earned me an annoyed look from Aiden, who managed to stay perfectly in control, and calm. Still, I saw the tightening in the corner of his mouth, the way his hazel eyes grew large, and how his shoulders tensed, as we made our way to the location of the stabbing. He wasn’t as unaffected as he was projecting. By the time we got there and through all the bystanders, the injured person was gone, rushed by ambulance to the hospital, and the only information we could get was that an unknown assailant had stabbed him. I’ve never been so relieved to hear the word‘him’as I was at that moment.

We returned to the hotel, dejected and both irritated, so much so that Aiden went straight to his room without a look, or words, in my direction, and I was left to my own devices, which was bad news. I tried to behave and just watch some television, but honestly, even the paid porn was shit here. I smoked a blunt, had room service bring me a bottle of gin and some food, and I was chill for a few hours, but then the memories of Phoebe kept intruding into my mind, and playing havoc with my emotions.

“One day, I’m going to make you my wife, Phebes, and then you’re going to have to listen to me.” I smirk at her giggling face, as I push a strand of her sweaty hair away from her eye. My eyes lock on her stunning green eyes. They shine like bright emerald pieces, and I wish I could spend every moment of every day staring into them.

“Yeah, in your dreams, ‘pretty boy’,” she smirks, calling me the nickname that I’ve picked up from our schoolmates. Assholes, they could have at least given me a more frightening name like they did Aiden. The fucker got ‘massacre’ after taking up boxing, and beating all his opponents, and somehow I got ‘pretty boy’, much to my brother Milano’s amusement.

“It’s going to happen, Phoebe, you’ll see. Your destiny is to be an Amato. Together, we are going to rule this city, and have lots of pretty babies.” I wink at her, and she flushes a beautiful pink shade. I pull out the silver clover necklace I found in one of the shops, and force her hand open as I drop it in her palm. “What’s this?” She questions as she quirks her pretty, dark eyebrow up, and lifts the small charm up to examine it. I shrug my shoulders, suddenly shy. “I saw it in one of the shop windows, and it reminded me of you, so I got it for you.”

She leans forward, and I’m not sure what to do as her lips go to meet my cheek, but at the last minute, I turn my face, and our lips touch instead. Our eyes open wide in shock, as we stare at each other closely, and refuse to move away. Then, without thinking, I deepen the kiss, licking her lips, and asking for entry. After a second of hesitation, I’m almost certain she’s going to deny me, and I’m going to look like a damn fool, but instead, she widens her lips, and her tongue tentatively and shyly strokes against mine.

We spent hours kissing, until both our faces hurt and our lips were dry. That was one of the happiest moments of my life, knowing that I was responsible for giving Phoebe Murphy her first kiss, the first of many things, as far as I was concerned at the time. Unfortunately, I didn’t count heartache and betrayal as some of the others. She left the little clover behind, with her note telling me, in not-so-polite terms, to fuck myself with a ten-foot pole, and that she hoped my dick fell off, when she abandoned me at our wedding. I pull out my wallet, lift the delicate charm out, and stare at it. It’s a constant reminder of what I lost, what I gambled with and have paid the price for. God, where are you, Phoebe? I need you so badly to forgive me, to smile at me once. I’d even settle for her screaming at me, just anything to hear her voice again.

“That’s a pretty necklace. A gift for someone special?” The brunette bartender asks, as she wipes the spotless counter in front of me, and leans forward, so I can get a great look down her buttoned-up shirt to her fake cleavage. I avert my eyes and stare at the charm, such a small inexpensive thing, but it might as well have been my heart. “It belongs to my wife. She’s missing, and I’m here to find her.” I tuck the necklace back in my wallet, and leave a couple of hundreds on the counter, as I make my way out of the bar and back toward the hotel. It’s time I found Phoebe and took her home. I’ll make her listen to me, and she’ll have to forgive my transgressions.

She’ll also never have to worry about her cousin Shauna either. After all, Aiden snapped her neck, in front of her whole family, the minute we realized that Phoebe had fled, much to Tadhg’s disgust. The nasty cunt was fucking her too, regardless of them being cousins by marriage. Nothing is preventing Phoebe from returning with me, and there’s nothing to stop her from being able to trust me going forward, well, nothing except my past mistakes, I guess. Either way, I refuse to take no for an answer; she’s mine, and it’s time she was reminded of that.

Chapter twenty-four

Hoodie Guy

Rage soars through me, so powerful that it has me breathing heavily, and the sound of my blood rushing thumping in my ears. How could she do this to me? Does she not understand what she means to me? Have I not made myself perfectly clear that she belongs to me, and I don’t share? My body trembles, my breath panting out of me, as I hurl the glass I’m holding across the room, and it shatters against the grimy walls of my little, hidden, dilapidated wooden shack, in the woods just outside of Soda Springs.

I warned her with the dead bird, and she didn’t listen. Instead, she ran from me, locked herself in her apartment, and sexted an asshole. One that she doesn’t even fucking realize is here to hunt her, and force her back to the life she ran from. So I sent her another message, this time a little more forcefully, hoping to get across the urgency of my intentions. You would think that stabbing that useless cunt, Dwayne, in the school coffee shop yesterday, while she stood not more than three feet away from him, would have had an impact, and she would behave likethe perfect girl I know she can be, but is that what happened? No, instead, my flawless Irish clover decided it would be in her best interest to not only sext with who she thinks is a perfect stranger, but she also had the fucking audacity to schedule a porn shoot with the fucker.My my, little clover, how you have disappointed me. That’s going to cost you, my sweet.

A whimper gets my attention, and I stare down at the hooker at my feet. The one I picked up last night, so that I could vent some of my wrathful frustration on her, instead of losing my precious control and going on a killing rampage, starting with Phoebe Murphy for disappointing me. I grasp onto the grimy, bleached blonde, straw-like hair with my fingers, and force the girl to look up at me, as tears trail down her face from her shit-colored eyes, and make her look like a horrific raccoon as her cheap eye makeup smears. Her red-painted mouth is stretched, and gagged with the filthy rag I forced past her cock sucking lips, when she wouldn’t stop begging and crying. The sounds were just grating on my nerves, and I couldn’t think straight. She’s not as pretty as my Phoebe, but really, what did I expect to find on a street corner after midnight, with the promise of a blow job for under a hundred bucks?

“Stop fucking crying, whore!” I demand as I backhand her hard, and her head smacks into the old decrepit wood burning stove I keep in here for chilly nights. A gash opens on the side of her head, and tantalizing crimson trickles down the side of her bruised and swollen face, as her terrified eyes meet mine. She flinches, and cries out behind the fabric as she lifts her bound hands, attempting to ward me off, and tries to crawl away from me with her bound and broken legs, but I won’t be dissuaded. It’s either her or Phoebe, and I still have hope my clover will come to her senses. I bend down and press my face closer to hers, gently caressing her bruised cheek. “You see, in the dim light last night, you reminded me a bit of my clover, but now, in the daylight, I see you are an ugly, cheap, and ragged imitation of her. You could never measure up to my Phoebe, and that’s not your fault.”

The stench of stale cigarettes, sweat, old sex, and cheap perfume fills my nostrils, and makes me gag. It reminds me of the past, and of being forced to live under my father’s roof. Of all the whores he brought home, whether my pitiful mother had anything to say about it or not. News flash, she didn’t, she was too busy tending to her broken bones, and attempting to stay alive. Repulsion fills me as I look over the whore’s naked and bound body covered in bruises, cuts, and track marks, who claimed her name was Scarlet. “Tell me, darling, are you an addict, hmmm? Is that why you sell your body? Is it to feed your drug habit? You see, my girl also sells her beautiful body, but not for the same reasons.” I reach back and pull the sharp boning knife off the rusted card table, and bring it to Scarlet’s leg, allowing the sharp blade to skim over her molten flesh. “I’ll bet your skin would look prettier covered in blood. Red really is your color, sweetheart.”

I press the blade deeper, sliding into the flesh of her dainty calf, as she screams and writhes, in a pathetic attempt to get away from me. “Where do you think you’re going, Scarlet? We haven’t even had some fun yet?” I slice again, this time higher and just above her knee, and when the blood begins to pour, I feel hunger aching inside of me, but not for food, for death, for depravity, for the need to soothe the raging darkness that continues to grow within me. I slash the blade forward, slicing her flabby stomach, and leaving more rippling flesh blossoming in perfect crimson. The need to hear her screams, and pretend they were from my pretty clover, forces me to yank on the rag and release her mouth. “Please! Please don’t hurt me! Please, I’ll do whatever you want!” Scarlet begs, but the only thing I truly want she can’t provide me with.

“Tell me yourname is Phoebe, and you love me,” I demand, as my fingers tighten once more on the handle of the knife, my other hand circling her slim throat, tightening until her eyes bug out of her head. “My... name is... Phoebe... and I love... you,” Scarlet gasps, snot trailing from her nose to her blotchy red face. The sight disgusts me; my Phoebe would never look like this wretched creature. I’ve witnessed her tears, and even when she cries, she still looks like perfection. “I don’t believe you!” I rage and thrust forward, catching her arm and then her chest with the blade, and opening up more of her flesh. “Try again, Scarlet. Make me believe it. Your very life depends on it,” I growl, my fingers itching to press into her wounds and open up the gashes further, so I can see inside of her.

“I... I love... you! Please! I love you... and I’m Phoebe! I’m Phoebe... I’ll be whoever... you... want me to... be! Please... let me... go!” Scarlet screams, as I press the sharp point of the blade against her cheek just below her eye, and force her, with my hold on her neck, to look into my eyes. No, she’s not doing Phoebe justice, and I can no longer pretend. If she can’t bring my satisfaction that way, I will have to get it another way, by opening her up. “I don’t believe you, you haven’t convinced me.” I stab the blade into her eye, her screams fill the air around us, and finally, my blood soars with pleasure, and I can feel myself becoming aroused. “That’s it, my pretty clover, scream for me!”

I stab the blade again and again into Scarlet’s eyes, face, and neck until she stops making any noise, and her lax body slumps back. Her chest rises once, twice, and then it settles as I watch her lifeblood bleed out of all the pretty holes I’ve made, and taint my grimy floor. She’s a bit of a mess, but also an artistic masterpiece. One I would love to keep displayed, so I could come back to look at it later, but I digress. She already smells, and that’s only going to get worse. I run my fingers through the mess of blood on her skin, painting my initials, and Phoebe’s, on herchest, like one does with a high school crush. I use the sharp blade to lacerate the flesh on her chest, until I can see the muscles and tendons below. The tips of my fingers probe and prod, playing with the fresh meat, before I bring them to my lips and lick them.Bitter. Rotten. Disgusting.Even in death, Scarlet has disappointed me. It makes me so furious that I stab her again and again, all over her body, until I’m so exhausted I can barely lift my hand.

I lay my tired body next to Scarlet, placing my weary head in her lap. “I’ll just take a quick nap, Scarlet. You don’t mind being my pillow, do you, darling?” I get more comfortable and yawn, “When I wake up, I’ll dispose of you, and then I’ll go teach my pretty little clover a lesson, so she doesn’t keep repeating her mistakes. I might even allow her to keep Aiden Doyle’s head as a macabre souvenir, if she behaves like a good girl for me. I’m so generous, aren’t I, Scarlet?” I close my tired eyes and drift off to sleep, with the memory of seeing fear in my sweet Phoebe’s eyes, after she realized that I had stabbed that asshole, Dwayne. That right there is what dreams are made of.

Chapter twenty-five

Phoebe

Anxiety is ripping me apart right now, and I’ll be lucky if I hold down the bagel I ate this morning, never mind the three cups of coffee I’ve already had, that basically ensures I can hear and taste colors, and has a fine tremble racing through my limbs. I’m every imbecilic character that you’ve ever watched on one of those true crime documentaries on Netflix. You know the ones, where you sit back and think to yourself, there’s no way anyone is that stupid?Only to realize that I am, in fact, that stupid.Why the hell did I send him that message? Why did I give him the date, time, and, more importantly, the location for the shoot, with the stipulation that he wear a mask the whole time, and follow the rules I set out? What the fuck is wrong with me, and how do I get out of this mess that I have created?

My heart is pounding so loudly that I’m almost positive everyone I’ve passed insideBehind the Lens’hallways can hear it, not to mention I’ll bet they can see the sweat dripping off of me in rivulets.Fucking gross.I leave the room where the photoshoot with Chad is going to take place, a thick, white terry cloth robe thrown over my skimpy sheer green panties, black thigh-high stockings, a pair of black suspenders, that do absolutely nothing to hide my bare breasts, covered in flecks of gold glitter flakes, a silk green bowtie around my neck, and a sparkly, black top hat over my blonde wig. I’ve finished off the outfit with black glossy stilettos, and I’ll wear a matching mask to disguise my features. Chad thought my choice of outfit for the March calendar, as a slutty leprechaun, was hilarious, and agreed to allow me to pose almost naked on top of a bed covered in fake gold coins, and next to a prop rainbow background and, you guessed it, a pot of overflowing gold. I also have a matching pair of green, four-leaf clover, tight boxer shorts forStrokemyshillelagh. I’m nothing if not thorough and cheesy. I’m sure my granny is rolling in her fucking grave, and cursing me right now, if she can see me making a mockery of hundreds of years of Irish traditions, and plight.

I keep repeating different mantras in my head that everything will be alright, as I make my way down to the front desk, and try desperately not to collapse to the floor in the fetal position, and have a massive panic attack. The irony is not lost on me. I spent hours online this morning, looking at ways to avoid being abducted by a stalker, and here I am about to lock myself in a room with a complete stranger who could, in fact, be exactly that. I’m pretty sure that everything is probably not going to be alright, thanks to my lack of foresight on how many ways this can all blow up in my stupid, reckless face.

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