Black Hearts (Sins Duet #1)

“Hey,” Ginny says, nudging me. “Snap out of it. Join me in the now.”

I give her an embarrassed smile. It’s one thing to be a crappy friend from afar, it’s another thing to be a crappy friend up close and personal.

I do what I can to push Vicente from my brain. The drinks help. And I talk with Ginny and enjoy the rest of the mayhem that is tonight’s “entertainment.”

I actually have fun, once I learn to let go a bit and start living outside of my head. The best act of the evening was the drag queen with the monkey who would braid her hair. That monkey could have a nice little gig doing hairstyles outside of Powell Street station.

But when the crowd gets too loud and boisterous, I’ve had enough. I’m drunk and horny and Ginny and Tamara are making out and Vicente isn’t anywhere nearby.

I decide to walk home but once I get a few blocks up the hill and away from the hustle and bustle, I chicken out and try and get a Lyft through the app on my phone.

Shit.

Phone’s dead.

At least there’s no fog for once. Foggiest October on record, I swear.

As I walk down the street, the moon is nowhere to be seen. It’s pitch black and the clear air brings a chill as I hug my jacket and scarf close to me, peering in the windows of the Victorians as I pass them by. For some reason the sight of people inside, watching TV or reading by the windows, lights on, brings small moments of comfort. It’s like they let you know that the world is chugging along as normal and nothing is as bad as it – I can’t finish the thought.

A hand goes over my mouth. Cold pressure to my temple.

Oh my god!

I’m grabbed from behind and before I can do or say anything I’m twisted off the street and into an area beside a dumpster, shoved into the shadows.

The person holding onto me doesn’t say anything, my mind goes wild trying to figure out who it is. They smell like bad cologne, so strong it makes my eyes water. Their breath is loud and raspy, like they have breathing problems. From the way their belly pokes into my back, I’m guessing they’re out of shape.

But they have a gun to my head.

A gun.

And that’s when all instinct inside me, the one that tells me to fight back, that knows how to fight back, takes a moment to breathe. To think.

But I can’t think.

I can only moan against the person’s gloved hand and stare at the street. This street that only a few seconds ago brought me comfort and security.

I’m so fucking close to home.

I didn’t even pick up on someone following me.

I didn’t pick up on anything.

“Violet McQueen,” the man says in my ear. A strange voice, hoarse and echoing. No accent, no interesting dialect. A voice I’ve never heard before.

I can’t say yes or no to his question.

I can’t do anything at all.

I’m useless.

“I don’t want to hurt you but I will,” the man says. “I’ll need you to come with me. Be a good girl now.”

He starts moving, taking me out of the shadows and to the black van parked nearby.

Once I’m in that van, I’m as good as dead.

I know that.

The fear is unreal.

It’s a bear inside me, growling with fangs, hovering above my heart, ready to tear in. Terror is sweating out of my pores, perfuming the air with something metallic.

My tongue tastes like nickels.

I think of Ben. I think of my mom, my dad. I think it’s something to do with them.

I think of Vicente.

I think it’s something to do with him.

But I know if I get in that van, I’ll never be able to tell them.

I’ll never be able to tell anyone anything.

He drags me foot by foot and each inch I move across the rough sidewalk I pray for someone to walk past, maybe with their dog on a nightly stroll, maybe drive by dropping off a friend or returning home from a late shift. I pray for someone, anyone, to tear their eyes away from the TV and look out the window.

I know prayers still need a boost.

He seems to be alone. He has to open the door of the van and he’s either going to do it with the hand that’s over my mouth or the hand that has the gun. I’m betting it’s the latter. It’s too much of a risk if I scream, too many houses around, too many eyes.

He reaches out with the hand with the gun.

I don’t even have to think.

My body moves on instinct, forged in training, an automatic reaction.

I bite into his hand over my mouth and while his head whips toward me in shock, just a flash of his eyes boring into mine, I raise my elbow and clock him right in the face.

I’ve never hit hard like that before, with the intent to maim, not even when I was attacked outside Buena Vista park.

I like it.

I like the sound of his bones crunching from the hit.

I like the feel of my body as it spins, stepping back as my hand jabs up, getting him on the nose and breaking it, blood spilling on the street, moonlight reflected in the splatter.

I like the violence of my results.

I like it to the point it distracts me.

He flies at me, butt of the gun crashing into my cheek bone and temple.

I cry out, shrill. The pain is like stars and gunpowder inside my skull.

But my body moves like the pain is fuel. It silently thanks my father for making me fight all those years.

I try to kick at his face, but I’m too short, the ground too uneven, my legs not as flexible as they used to be.

The tip of my boot catches his chin.

It’s enough.

He drops his gun, his body momentarily slumping against the van.

But he’s not a weak man and he’ll come after me harder than I can come after him.

So I scream.

I open my mouth and I scream my heart out.

Loud.

So fucking loud, like a million banshees are soaring out.

You know when you have those dreams where someone is after you and you try and scream and run but you can’t? Your screams die in your throat and your legs move like molasses?

Well those are just that – dreams.

In real life, you can scream until the whole city hears you.

Until every house turns on their lights, opens their doors.

And you can run.

Oh, yes.