Page 92 of Fury

“Baby, I can’t let you go.” He shook his thick, curly brown hair back from his sweaty face.

“Don’t do this. Don’t be like him.”

He shoved me, and I went flying against the dining table. “You left a fat mess behind you. Nit and Jan dead. You got to answer for that. I mean, shit, what the fuck did you expect, huh?” His voice got higher, drilling into me.

He planted his hands on his waist, his jacket hanging open, his gun visible on his side. I was sure he also had two knives at his back, as always. Motor had a knife collection. He was always sharpening them, choosing different blades to carry according to his mood for the day. He’d once introduced them all to me and Rosie. He’d named one Sadie, the other Heidi, one Jesse, another Mo. I’d pretended to be interested.

“Reen, baby, if I bring you in, that’s gonna mean big rewards for me. Things have been really shitty for me lately.”

Such a gentle, sad voice paired with such cold, lethal words. I gritted my teeth to remain still against the shivering that was taking over my body.

“Look, chicky.” Motor’s favorite nickname for women brought me back to reality. “You got out, you had your wild ride, your good time, okay, but now you gotta go back where you belong.”

Back where I belong?

I didn’t belong there, and I didn’t belong to them, to Med.

No way in hell.

When I was little, I dreamed of having a Barbie Townhouse I’d seen on a television commercial. That dollhouse was really expensive, and I knew I’d never ever get it, but I still liked daydreaming about having it, where I’d put it in my room, what it would be like to play with. Now, my adult wish for freedom and a life on my own terms had actually come true. It was no overpriced plastic tower that I constantly daydreamed about. The dream had become real, and I was living it. It was mine.

And no one was going to take that away.

Especially now.

Motor eyed me. He needed me in line to score points. Like my mother had needed me in line to get on with her life and make herself happy. Like Med had needed me in line so he could have his way. Again, I would be a pawn in someone else’s game? And what I wanted, what I craved, would be meaningless, unimportant, a joke?

No. Not again. Not me. Not now. Everything was different. I was different. Forever different.

Motormouth shoved past me, heading for the table behind me. He went through my purse, tossing the contents onto the polished wood surface into a messy heap. The strip of black and white photos of me and Finger hovered at the edge of the table. Motor made a face as he opened my wallet and took out what little cash I had in there.

I held my breath, my mouth dried, my heart banging in my chest. My eyes darted to the strip of photos.Fuck.

I hadn’t gotten rid of the photographs like I knew I should. I loved them too much. We were kissing, laughing, making faces at each other, having fun. In one we were pressed cheek to cheek, eyes closed. They were beautiful. I’d only wanted to save something tangible of us a little bit longer. I missed him all the time. Why couldn’t I keep just one thing? Justone?

Motormouth tossed the wallet, and it banged on the table. The strip of photos hopped up, catching his attention. He plucked it up off the table, his shoulders lifting. He spun around and faced me, my photos in his hand. “What the fuck? This is him, ain’t it? That kid from the Flames? The one that we—He’s the one who got you out?” He stared at me, standing taller. “Scrib had asked around town, and the delivery guy told him about seeing a guy with scars. We figured it coulda been him, but we didn’t tell Med nothing. Didn’t want to start a war with him freaking out the way he was. So we agreed to keep that shit quiet for the time being. But Scrib was right.” Motormouth’s bloodshot eyes blazed like one hundred watt lightbulbs glaring at me in the dark. “He comes and sees you? You with him now?”

I said nothing, remaining still.

“Just you wait, you goddamn whore.” He turned to the shelves on the wall at the side of the table and dug his hands into my books and papers, sweeping my color-coded folders into the air. Patterns and designs wafted between us. Glass candle holders went flying. Papers floated, books thudded to the floor, small painted bowls I’d made in a pottery class smashed into bits and pieces.

Crash. Crash. Crash.

“Stop it!” I screamed.

He shot me a hard look, his eyes shimmering.

“Please, Motor. Please!”

“Please, what?” He kicked through the mess he’d created on the floor, barreling over to my dresser, touching every object, every perfume bottle there, tossing whatever was in front of him that didn’t hold any appeal or worth. A wild bull in my crystal house.

Smash.

“Come on, Reen. Someone’s gotta pay for killing Nit and for stealing from us. You want your lover boy to pay?” He waved the photo strip in the air. “‘Cause I can make that happen real easy.” He shoved the pictures in his pocket. “Yeah, Med’s gonna love these.”

“No. You can’t tell him.”

“Then come with me.”

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