Part 56 (1/2)

Tell Slim

”Do you know what he did to me?”

”You're the one who hurt Bree.”

”Do you know what he did to me? ”

I went silent when he started screaming.

He had the gun and his eyes on me. He was wrong. All wrong. And all that wrong came from his eyes.

As Brock would say, he was whacked. It shone out of his eyes. Clear as day. It shone straight from his eyes.

How could Bree not see that?

Or maybe he hid it from her.

But he wasn't hiding it from me.

And it scared me nearly senseless.

Not senseless enough not to pay attention. Not senseless enough not to note exactly where we were, in Englewood, in an old crackerbox house on a big lot that was mostly muddy earth from the snow melt, dead weeds, lots of big trees. I thought it was a weird place to take me. It was a neighborhood, populated and as the afternoon wore on, it would be more populated.

People could hear me scream.

But I didn't scream.

He did.

He was whacked.

He'd killed Damian, shot him right in the face. He'd shot two other men, one I knew was dead, the other might be. He hated Brock.

So he'd shoot me.

But he wanted to play with me first. I knew this. I knew he wanted Brock to live with that for the rest of his life. He might leave me breathing after or he might not.

But he wasn't going to play with me for long. I knew this too. He was an old guy, for one.

He couldn't have that in him anymore. And also, he didn't care if he was caught. He'd shot three men in the parking lot of Park Meadows Mall. People had to see, to hear. He was going to do what he was going to do to make Brock pay and he wasn't going to waste any time.

When I didn't answer, his voice calmed and he ordered, ”Take off your clothes.”

I went still.

No, he wasn't going to waste any time.

This couldn't happen to me again. It couldn't. It couldn't happen to me again. I wasn't sure I could survive it. Not even with Brock at my back when it was done, if I was left breathing. I wasn't even sure we could survive it, not from what I knew of Brock, his capacity for loyalty and love, knowing he'd brought this down on me. It would undo him. So even if I survived, he might not.

”Take off... your f.u.c.kin'... clothes, ” he semi-repeated and I stared at him.

He moved the gun an inch to the side and squeezed the trigger.

I screamed and jumped as the gunshot sounded loud in the room, the bullet embedding in the wall behind me.

G.o.d, please G.o.d, someone hear that.

”Take off your clothes,” he again repeated.

I shook my head.

”No,” I whispered and he blinked.

”What?” he asked.

I knew it then. I knew I couldn't take it. I knew Brock couldn't take it.

I knew I had to stop this.

And if I got hurt doing it, so be it.

But no one was going to hurt me like that, not again. And they weren't going to hurt Brock either.

Not again.

We'd had enough. We'd both had e-f.u.c.king- nough.

”You got what you deserved,” I told him quietly and he stared at me. ”No.” I shook my head again. ”You didn't. You didn't get what you deserved. If you got what you deserved you wouldn't be breathing.”

He moved closer to me, gun raised pointed at me but I kept my eyes steady on his and moved back as he moved toward me.

”You hurt her, you destroyed her,” I told him, still moving back as he moved forward, his crazy-as-s.h.i.+t eyes riveted to me. ”You ended her. This world isn't right because you're breathing and she isn't.”

I hit wall and had to stop and he stopped with me.

”Take off your clothes,” he said yet again.

”No. No way. You aren't going to touch me. No way.”

”Take off your clothes.”

”Shoot me. Do it. I'd rather die than have your filthy hands on me.”

”Take off... your... clothes. ”

I shook my head and kept my eyes on him.

Then I whispered, ”No.”