Bitter Angel (22 page)

The non-negotiables I’ve been able to stamp down so far are: I need to smoke Alpha out, meet him in a public place, and at least claim I have dirt on him. If this guy is as tough as Trigger says he is—as tough as I know he is—then dirt is the only kicker that will guarantee he comes my way. When I call him, that is, and I still haven’t figured out how I’m going to do that. Pay phones aren’t exactly a hot commodity in the city anymore. They do
have them, there just aren’t five to a block.

As the ninety-five chugs to a stop at Tombsburrow Street, I hop off, spying a phone booth a few blocks down the road. I am now officially in what that driver earlier called “the heart.” Encroaching on me are skyscraperish buildings and cafés and hot dog stands and city folk rambling in every direction, beelining for their shiny cars to vacate their work-life and scooch onto the freeways before they’re pulverized by the boredom of bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Oh, the joys.

At the pay phone, I actually have to wait because it’s in use.
Who knew?
I stand there, fisting my hips and tapping a foot, not even pretending to be patient.

Dammit.
I hate how helpless and alone I feel.

How am I going to do this by myself? I still only have a half-memorized script of what I’ll say, and I’m not so confident in my speech skills right now.

Damn you, Jay!

I overhear this greasy chick tell her kid “I’ve gotta work another shift tonight, but I’ll be home in time to tuck you in, baby.” I glance around with furrowed brows to see exactly where this chick’s extra shift is. I only see a bunch of suits, skirts, and skyscrapers. No restaurants, no extra-shift-type jobs.

She steps out of the booth and slides the door closed behind her, giving me the evil eye. She has probably picked up on the fact that I was eavesdropping, but that’s not why she adds an edge and
bitch, please
to her glare. That’s because of the way I’m staring at her.

I keep staring, my brain having just turned to mush as she traipses away with her long, skinny body clad in a ratty jean miniskirt and a skintight lace top that doesn’t reach her bellybutton. Her long, oily brown hair barely moves in the wind.

Behind her glare, I saw it. All of it. The pronounced red veins that looked like spider webs in the whites of her eyes. The red-purple shadows that hung beneath her eye sockets. The hollowness in her cheeks. The chalky paste color of her skin. The cracked inkiness of her lips, still stained from days-old lipstick. The worn-out sag of no sleep and all-nighters of drugs and sex, whether it was paid for, given, or taken by force.

I saw the hopelessness with an ounce of defiance that said,
I dare you to offer me better.
Because she knew I saw it—what she was. She has probably done it all, had it all, and had it all done to
her.

Is she the future? Of what will become of probably fifty percent or more of all of Alpha’s—and whoever else’s—victims? One of the weak ones that didn’t know what to do with the trauma? Didn’t know how to pick up the pieces of her broken soul? Couldn’t overcome the images stalking and creeping around the edge of her dreams, transforming them to nightmares?

All day I haven’t let myself see it. I’ve closed my eyes and thrust away the demons. I’ve been so intent on my mission, but now…
no. No. Not Heather and Nilah. That would never be them. It would never be me.

This girl probably never had a savior to catch her. No hero to carry her away. No boyfriend to sing her to sleep.

On second thought, screw the shiny knight and white horse. She probably had no loving parents or a friend with the balls to show her what it’s like to want more—or the balls to show up at all.

Now I know. Goosebumps spread up my legs and down my arms. This is exactly what’s been haunting me all day—the only reason I’ve been meandering around this blasted city with no real plan and chump change in my pocket.
This is my chance.
Maybe she didn’t have anyone to stop that uncle or neighbor that molested her, abused her, stripped her of her precious value, but I can be that person for someone.

I can be that person.

Suddenly, my tongue loosens, itches with words, long strands of conversation. I know exactly what I’ll say.
I’m ready.
Stepping into the booth, I slide the door closed and pull out the few quarters I exchanged a couple bucks for back when I was waiting for my third bus. I hike up the hoodie and T-shirt and punch in the numbers.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

I hold the receiver to my ear and lick my lips. I tap my fingertips against the phone above the dirt-coated number buttons.

Oh God, oh God, dear blessed God.

It rings twice, three times, four. And goes to voicemail.

Damn.

I hang up the receiver, taking a few breaths for puffs of courage. I double and triple check the number to make sure it’s correct, and I dial again.

Holy Jesus
. My heart is about to burst from my chest! I’m hot all over. My skin is already damp.

It’s ringing. I run my tongue over my lips again.

“What the fuck, Mitch? I told you to get yourself a goddamn phone!”

Jesus!
The venom in his voice catches me so off-guard the receiver topples from my grip. As it dangles, he bitches on and on about how he doesn’t answer unlisted numbers.

Familiar nausea is churning my stomach. I swallow and pick up the receiver. I put it near my mouth and clear my throat. “I have something you want.”

This time it’s my voice that catches him off-guard, and he’s silent for so long that I wonder if he hung up.

Then he says, “Hello.”

Aww, hell
, I think. Then I notice he doesn’t say it the same way he said it earlier. Something’s different. It’s more calculating than flirty.

I cover the mouth speaker because I don’t want him to hear me clearing my throat again. I have to come out loud and clear. “I have something you want.”

There’s a pause. “And this is?” It sounds polite, but again it’s calculating. Maniacal in a too calm way.

Shit. Can I really handle this? No choice.

I copycat his tone. “You know who this is. Meet me in Lockshire Park in an hour, or you’ll be all over the fucking news in less than twenty-four.”

I hang up, giving him no time to reply. I give him no chance to talk me out of it, manipulate me, threaten me, et cetera. Once the receiver is on the hook, I press a hand to my heart and lean against the dirty glass for a few deserved breaths. I got it out. Step one is complete. I have to admit that I’m feeling like a genuine badass right now, but there’s no time to celebrate.

Step two:
I pop two more quarters in the slot and dial.

Lockshire Park is beautiful. I found it listed in one of those flyers. It sits in a square just outside “the heart,” surrounded by low-rise apartment buildings and small mom-and-pop shops. It’s not Central Park by any means, but it has several acres. The perimeter is lined with flowering pear trees that are all in the midst of their fall shed. In the middle stands a gorgeous oak that has to be nearing a hundred years old. That’s probably why this site was conserved for nature. No one has the guts to chop down that tree.

I chose this place on my last bus trip because I knew it was within walking distance of where I’d be getting off and it’d be teeming with people.

And it is.

As I stand on a stone bridge that crosses a man-made pond, I see teens playing Frisbee and dogs on leashes. Kids with carefree rosy-cheeked faces frolic around while their parents look on, and none of them have a clue that I just invited Satan to come watch.

I’m kind of bummed that it only took me a half hour to walk here because now I have to wait, and I’m way too anxious to stand still. Hood over my head and hands in the front pocket, I scan the area, keeping my gaze as natural as possible. I don’t need some paranoid mom thinking I want to hijack her kid.

Another fifteen minutes pass, and my pulse ticks like a metal detector. Here comes the worthless gold. Alpha crosses the street and starts across the paved walkway that curves into the park. He’s wearing the same get-up he had on earlier, hands stuffed in his pockets. He peruses with a smirk on his face, his attention stopping on each person. I can almost see the gears in his head turning, spinning, hypothesizing.

Once he’s near the tree, I move to the other side of the bridge and approach him from behind. I’ve mentally prepped for this since I saw him this morning, but I’m again getting the deepest itch to run, to turn around and race away until I have no breath in my body. It’s so strong I almost feel it might be radiating in a localized perimeter around me.

I keep my hands in the pocket and the hood on my head. “You showed.” Miraculously, I’m able to pitch my voice in that same badass tone. My face is deadpan. I could’ve gone for tough but that route wasn’t working for me earlier.

He turns, and, God is he slow. It’s like a horror movie. I’m just waiting for the clown makeup to complete the illusion.

When he sees me, he looks me up and down like he did this morning. Then he laughs. “Is this for real?”

I remain deadpan and come close enough to smell his cologne, which is sickly sweet and really
makes me queasy. “Laugh your ass off if you want. I know what you and your friends do. I have names and pictures. There are three envelopes that will be mailed tonight if you don’t do exactly as I say.” I could mention Jay and Trigger, but for all I know they haven’t even met up with him yet. I can’t out them either. That would be bad for business.

That smirk of his drops just a hint, enough to know I’ve got his attention.

His eyes narrow as he cocks his head. “And what is that?”

“Call it off.”

The arrogant bastard snickers again. “Look, I don’t know what this is about. I mean, it’s hard to take you seriously when you look like you just got fucked by a pumpkin, but more importantly, I don’t know who the hell you are.”

“But you do know,” I say, going off his attitude toward me earlier when I wanted to snap that pic, and he slammed me into the wall.

Before I have time to react, he shoves the hood off my head, and his hands are in my hair. To anyone watching, we are just another couple reuniting after a day apart. But his hands are not gentle, and his eyes…let’s just say if they had lasers, I’d be dead.

“Look, princess, I told you to tell your boss—”

“I have no boss.” His fingers clamp around the back of my neck, and I do my best not to wince or change my tone. “What I said was true. If you don’t call off tonight’s
event
, everyone will know who you really are. The police, the press…your father.”

I’m going on fumes and bullshitting my ass off. I have nothing. I know it. But does he?

Funny how I can bullshit him, but I totally flunk out with the police. I’m desperate. This is my last card, and I need it to count.

He yanks my ear to his mouth, but this time I’m not putting up with it. My hands are at his chest, pressing, pushing, and getting me nowhere. Instead, he locks an arm around my waist and
hugs
me.

I cringe and writhe, but he’s got a lock on me.
How on earth can he be this strong?
He’s got about half a foot on me but still. My face heats with shame that I can’t even defend myself in a public arena. I could scream, but if I give myself away, I blow all my chances at making this work.

His whisper is deadlier than all of his other words combined. “You won’t do shit. I don’t give a fuck what you say. You’ve got nothing. You wanna know how I know? ‘Cause I told your cop friend you were just an ex that wanted a piece of me. And of course, the fucker believed me.”

What? How would he know it was me that reported him? Isn’t that stuff confidential?

My hardass exterior is cracking, and my expression makes him chuckle, a whisper-soft sound that ruffles the hairs at the nape of my neck and covers my body again in goose bumps. This time they’re not fueled by inspiration but cold fear.

Why didn’t you run when you had the chance?

“If I see you again, rest assured you’ll get your piece and so will everyone else.”

Don’t know what that means. Does he know I’m connected to Trigger and Jay? Has he met with them? Or is he referring to breaking me into pieces and giving all of his other clients a turn?