Page 8 of Dirty Daria
I stand slowly, holding my hands out in front of me in a surrender pose as the man twists his head back and forth from me to Roxie and back again. Roxie halts all movement and freezes midway down the stairwell. Time stands still as I try to figure out what to do. Roxie looks shocked that he’s here at all. When he finally looks back to her, I make my move, the only one I can see working.
Grabbing my knife from my hip holster, I plunge it into the back of his neck between the cervical vertebrae, swiftly slicing his spinal cord. Then watch, void of emotion, as he falls dead at my feet.
I step over him and use my fingertip to push open the door he came out of, thankfully the room is empty with the exception of a bed with tousled sheets and blanket. A small closet with no door on the left, and no frame under the bed means there’s nowhere for someone else to be hiding.
Roxie reaches the bottom of the stairs. “Where’d he come from?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.” I cock my head and face her, my eyes narrowed and gaze hard, relaying my dissatisfaction with only my expression. She knows I’m pissed, but she has no way around it. “Are you sure there’s no one else here?” I ignore her original question and ask my own.
“Positive.”
A slip like this, not knowing there was someone else in the house, it’s inexcusable. I’ll be forced to call in a favor from my father, who has men on the inside of Santa Caranina Police Force, to make sure this man and his identity, along with any investigation into him, do not go any further. I hate calling in favors from my father. For every single favor called in, three are expected in return. And they never, ever even out in expectation or effort.
“I’m sorry,” Roxie whispers.
I crouch down and snap a photo of the man’s face so we can run facial recognition back at the bar and figure out who he is. Then I nod toward the front door and leave, not waiting to see if she follows. We take off our shoe covers and gloves, I take hers and pocket all. Nothing is left at a scene. Ever. I don’t say another word to her until we are in the SUV and heading out of the community.
“What the fuck, Rox?”
“I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know who that guy was or what he was doing there.”
“You just don’t make mistakes like this.” I run my hand over my face, scrubbing at my forehead. “And byyou,I mean everyone. That’s flat out sloppy.” I toss my phone into her lap. “Send the pic to Alyssa and have her figure out who I had to unnecessarily kill tonight.” I slam the heel of my hand against the steering wheel relishing the pain that results. Sometimes there’s no better way to clear your head and release frustration than by making yourself feel pain. Or at least that’s how it is for me.
Now I just need to figure out how to fix this and make sure it never happens again.
4
Mack
After dropping Reed off, I have to stop myself from calling Daria. It felt so natural working with her today. We’d never done something like that before. Making it seem like with no effort at all she could just be back in my life.
Which begs the question: why couldn’t we just work together to bring down the bad guys? She could easily be an agency consultant. She has the resources and certainly knows enough. It would help to insulate her further from Reed or anyone else finding out what she’s done. Of course, she’d have to stop what she’s doing and I’m not so certain she’s willing to.
I know it’s important to her to take the guys down who hurt her sister. Not only did they get her hooked on drugs, but they forced her into porn and sexual slavery. In some ways her sister is lucky she didn’t get shipped off to some third world country in the process. I can only hope that with enough drugs, women in those situations don’t realize it. Otherwise, it’s a horrific existence.
I could help Daria in her quest, during my off hours, to track the guys down. Of course, the agency’s resources aren’t as vast as Daria’s, but they are legit. And so when we find something on someone, it will stick and we can bring them in. Unlike some of the things that Daria comes up with that I can never find legal justification for using.
I grab my burner phone, my thumb hovering over her name.
If she answers, what would I say? How would I ask? What rationale could I possibly give that would work?
I find myself turning the car in the direction of her house. But when I pull up across the street, all her windows are dark. And I don’t see the SUV anywhere. Not that it would necessarily be out in plain sight.
Like many other nights before, I hunker down into my seat and settle in for a long night of watching out for Daria and making sure she arrives home safely.
* * *
I wake early and head to the boxing gym. The only gym open on Christmas Day. The sun is barely starting to peek above the horizon as I round the final corner and sprint down the street. I jog to the entrance as a warm-up, then I can tape up and immediately hit the speed bag when I get there.
My breath is hot against the crisp morning air, leaving trails of smoke in its wake. Even though I barely slept a couple hours last night, it feels good to stretch out my muscles today. Invigorating, even. Daria didn’t come in until after three in the morning. And when she did, she looked agitated. I can often decipher her mood by the way she walks. She would hate to know that she’s so transparent. But I’m also probably one of very few people in her life so observant of her.
The parking lot for the gym is empty so I’m sure there won’t be a lot of people here. I enter through the front doors and the familiar smell of sweaty socks and rubber mats greets me full force as I make my way to the locker room.
“Mack!” one of the coaches calls out in greeting. I return the acknowledgment with a chin nod, unzipping my hoodie as I go. Having worn shorts and a tank underneath my sweats, all I have to do is step out of them and stuff them in a locker along with my hoodie, and I’m ready to start wrapping my hands.
Do I suffer for the vigilance of Daria? Sure. Depending on my schedule, my watching out for Daria either involves trailing her to a site and making sure she makes it out okay or parking in front of her house to ensure she comes home. Hours spent cramped in the driver’s seat of a car, loss of sleep, increased worry, and stress. Is it worth it the daily validation that she’s okay? Abso-fucking-lutely.
Most days I agree with the two of us being apart. Intellectually speaking, at least. Emotionally speaking? Hell no. I want my girl. I want a life with her. I want my happy ever after.
