His laugh took him by surprise. Kite couldn't resist copying my grin. “I'll never be that old,” he snorted. “Speaking of which, this place better get busy tonight.” Another gulp of whiskey, and when the bottle came down, Kite looked the way he normally did. That dark humor, those knowing eyes and sharp smile.
Yes. This was better.
“It's Friday night in downtown New York,” I said. “When has it not gotten busy in here?”
Chuckling, he jumped from his seat and brushed back his short, copper hair. “Fair point. If all else fails,” he said, pointing at Anabelle. “I'll just wet my appetite in familiar waters.”
Rolling my eyes, I reclined. “She's seen you take hundreds of girls into the backroom, I don't get why she puts up with you.”
“Because I'm good with my hands.” Winking, Kite looked over my head. Turning, I saw what he did; a crowd was forming, eager half-dressed women who were here to enjoy themselves. “I'm ready to have some fun.”
I knew what 'fun' meant. Enough substances in your brain or * on your cock, and you could forget about the dark pain, tortured cries, and twisted memories.
At least, for a little while.
- Chapter 2 -
Marina
––––––––
I couldn't stop shaking.
From the outside, my sweating face and sour-milk skin would have looked like fear. That was normal, right? When you were standing there, watching a man who seconds ago had been alive and was now solidly dead on the grass... you got scared.
But I wasn't.
I was trembling with excitement.
This dead man—a man I'd followed for over a week and had learned was named Frankie the Razor—was going to be the first man I'd ever killed. The start of my revenge.
And now, this monster was lying stiff on the ground.
I didn't understand how this had happened.
The tip of my toe touched something; the remains of a fallen hot dog. Around me, people were screaming. My ears heard it, the mayhem, but I was still in shock. The ruckus came at me from years away, not affecting me while I stood near the body.
He wasn't breathing, I thought he'd stopped before he hit the ground. Was that possible?
It had all gone down so fast. I'd been following Frankie, keeping my distance because that was what you did, if all the crime shows were to be believed. He was here to watch the marathon, I'd thought. Or maybe he was just strolling in the park. I couldn't know what was normal for him.
The sun was still shining, the beautiful day contrasting with the murder scene. I saw the blood, it was seeping from his shirt in a giant ripple. Some had begun pooling on the grass.
A hand shoved me, paramedics shouting for everyone to move. They crouched, examining Frankie and touching him with their hands and gear. They could have known just looking at his wide, glassy eyes. The man was dead.
And I'd seen it happen.
The guy in the grey coat. I hadn't spotted him until he'd bumped into Frank. The figure had materialized from no where. Then came the tip of the gun, knuckles that had been bone white and covered with tattoos.
In my moment of pure amazement, I'd actually read them. Swim. His tattoos said 'swim' across his hand.
The Starter had shot his pistol. I hadn't heard the other gun, just a few feet away from me. No one had. But unlike everyone else, I hadn't looked away.
I was the only witness to a murder.
The crowd was swarming, shoving to get close, cameras flashing photos of the grizzly corpse. Police were threading through, waving folks to retreat and asking if anyone had seen what had gone down.
Lifting my chin, I pushed the chocolate brown hair from my eyes. In this city, cops and I were not friends. Not any longer.
Ducking my eyes, I turned on my heel. My steps were fast, though I had no clue where I was going.
That man with the tattoos.
His sharp jaw, fine eyebrows and thunderstorm pupils entered my brain. Who was he? I wondered, burying my hands in my pockets in spite of the heat. Someone as efficient as that, he had to be experienced. Had Frankie betrayed him, angered him? Was there a motive to the killing?
My world was a wreck. Revenge, it was all I'd had on my mind since I'd seen Frankie's scraggly mug.
He hadn't recognized me, but he couldn't have. I'd been a six year old hiding in a closet on that fateful day, and the police had taken care not to plaster my face all over the news while they investigated the slaughter of my parents and older sister.
Finding Frankie had given me purpose, even if it was a vicious one. I knew nothing about how to kill, but I'd planned to end Frank's life.
It wasn't so simple, though.
It had taken sixteen years to come across one of the two assholes who were to blame for ruining my happiness. I needed Frankie alive so he could tell me where to find his accomplice.
In my memory—my nightmares—I recalled the other man as being gigantic, muscular. Dead eyes that held nothing, and a terrible smile that was missing a tooth. But I had no name, nothing of use.
I'd needed Frankie to lead me to him. Now, it was too late.
I need to find him, I realized. The 'swim' tattooed man who'd moved like a panther. He'd murdered Frankie so effortlessly, he had to know something about the guy.