Cold sweat gathers down my spine from excitement. I’ve met their type before. Guys like them wouldn’t be sitting outside in this neighborhood without carrying a gun. My lips twitch up at the corners. No one in this area would care if one goes off, but guns mean cops. I’m not in the mood to deal with pigs.
Clad in black, I creep along the side of the house, sticking to the shadows and keeping my footsteps light. I don’t do many of these outings while wearing a helmet. The anonymity is great, but it fucks with the senses. I won’t be able to see or hear as well.
The twins are completely oblivious to the intruder in their midst. I can smell the weed through my helmet, and I might not be able to see their bloodshot eyes this far out, but I’m sure they will be.
Shielded by the darkness, they don’t see me coming, too spaced out to hear me stretch my neck from side to side before the first crack from my fist carves through the night. Fucker Number One tips to the side, bringing the chair with him. Fucker Number Two scrambles for his gun behind his back, but not fast enough to avoid being hit in the jaw by my riding gloves.
God, that felt good.
His head snaps back, hitting the wall behind him. He groans as his hands instinctively snap up to stop another assault.
“What do you want?” Fucker Number one recovers in time to draw his gun, but it flies out of his hands before he has a chance to use it. Then, someone from inside the house starts screaming, raising my hackles.
An old woman comes running out of the house with a baseball bat, tripping over her slippers and nightie as she goes.
Fuck.
I don’t hurt old ladies.
Goddamnit, I have to somehow take her down without laying a hand on her.
“This isn’t about you,” I yell at her.
Fucker Two suddenly remembers he has a gun, and Fucker One uses the distraction to launch himself at me, hitting me square in the chest. “You cunt.”
A laugh rumbles out of me right before I bury my fist into the prick’s ribs and swing my head forward, using the helmet's weight to connect with his forehead.
He rears back with blood spurting from his nose, the bottom half of his face drenched in the beautiful crimson.
“Get away from my sons!” their mother screams. I don’t get to appreciate the sight of the dark red splatter over his pale skin, because I stumble forward when pain tears through my back.
Helmets are great for anonymity, but fucking shit for visibility.
“Fuck off.” I throw my hand back with a snarl and yank the bat out of the culprit's hands. The lady yelps from being thrown off balance. But then her screams turn into words. Only a single word, Help.
Fucker Two aims his gun at me. “Don’t you fucking touch her.”
They can’t see my grin as I say, “That’s my line.” I tilt my head to the side, eying the gun. “You weren’t planning on using that on me, were you?”
I swing the wooden bat before he manages to pull the trigger. Those things are great, but they’re shit for close combat, which is why I prefer my fists. Using a gun doesn’t give me the same satisfaction as pummeling someone’s head in until they’re an unrecognizable pile of flesh and bone.
He cries out as the weapon is ripped out of his hands and lands by their mother’s feet. Fucker One returns, hunched over, charging forward like a raging bull. I lift my leg before he makes contact, sending him careening backward just as Fucker Two swings his arm.
From the corner of my eye, I watch as the woman runs toward the gun on the ground.
And then red and blue lights flash.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
One of the twins lands a hit on my ribs, making me grunt. I grip the bat, raise it in the air and aim it at his head.
“Stop!” she screams.
Bang.
Another scream.
Yelling.
But my arm never moves. The bat doesn’t come crashing forward. I’m frozen. I just stare at Fucker Two as he gapes at me. Then slowly, questioningly, he drops his gaze to my chest.
And then I feel it. A prickle at first, like static along my skin.
Suddenly, it’s a burn, scorching hot, searing into my flesh as if I’ve been set on fire, though I never saw anyone light the match. The pain thunders through every molecule of my being, setting every hair and cell in my body ablaze. I feel so cold.
I look down to find my hand already on my chest. Trembling fingers pull away to a liquid sheen that catches the light on my leather gloves.
My body gives out beneath me, and my knees crash against the concrete. The pain is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Pure agony. The basement was better than this. The belt hurt less.
The burning worsens, swirling, until dots dance in my vision. As the world turns bright, something rough hits the back of my head. It’s not so dim anymore. The sounds are clearer. But I can’t make out any of them. Something presses against my chest. I want to scream, yell, yank this pain out of me.
I can’t breathe. It hurts too much. I can’t—oh, God. I’m going to die.
No.
No.
Bella.
Who’s going to watch over Bella?
Who’s going to take care of my princess?
I can’t die. I need to take her to school. I have to make sure she’s okay. I have to be there for her. What if she forgets to bring her inhaler again? What if she doesn’t have enough money for lunch, or has a nightmare?
No. I can’t leave Bella. We finally kissed, and in one year, it’ll be just us. We’ll be going around the country to camp by the beach and see New Orleans, just like she always dreamed of. I’m meant to take her back to Disneyland and give her everything she’s ever wanted.
We haven’t gotten our high energy dog that’s been trained to protect Bella. Or flown to Italy so she can have authentic pizza, and to Greece to relive our ancient history obsession. I’m meant to be putting three kids in her, and we’re supposed to have an unconventional wedding, where she’d wear a white dress and start crying as she walks down the aisle.
I can’t die. I won’t.
But I can’t fight it.
The last thing on my lips when the lights go out is her name. "Bella."
Chapter 13
ROMAN
Three Months Ago
Roman: 22 years old – Isabella: 19 years old.
“Inmate 25963, today’s your lucky day.”
It takes far too much physical effort to look away from the piece of paper in my hands to Rico’s stupid face. I’m not a portrait artist, but I’ve had nothing but time on my hands to try to draw her. This particular one is my favorite piece.
I managed to get the soft bow of her lips, the sweeping lashes framing big almond-shaped brown eyes, and the little dot on her left cheek. It’s the only way I can see her in this shithole, and I don’t want to forget what she looks like.
The drawing doesn’t come anywhere near the real thing. I could spend a lifetime perfecting my skill, but I will never do her justice.
Adjusting the hand beneath my head, I sink farther into the cot before finally looking at Rico, who’s leaning against the bars with his arms crossed over his chest.
I smirk. “Jealous?”
He whistles and shakes his dark brown hair, then nods at the drawing. “Going home to that pretty thing? Damn right, I am.”