Lovely Vicious (22 page)

Mom. I have to help Mom.

Leo’s heavy footsteps thump towards the stairs.

I try to scream to warn her, but the blackness consumes me.

***

Isis Blake’s house is intimidating.

It shouldn’t be – it’s a tiny one-story that looks like it’s survived at least two house fires and a tornado. The yard is unkempt and the railings and gutters are rusty and clogged with leaves. The paint peels like a bad sunburn, the windows are fogged with age and smoke exposure. The wind chime clinks pathetically against itself.

Is this really where she lives? I check the address Kayla gave me just to be sure. My GPS points straight here. It’s a hole, a hovel. I expected a grander palace, with the way Isis struts about with perfect self-confidence. It’s plain and run-down and exhausted looking, the total opposite of her. It’s a dump.

And yet it’s still intimidating.

It’s because I know she’s inside. Her; the girl who wars with me, the girl who smirks at me, the girl who gave me a kiss that still lingers when I close my eyes.

The girl I injured. Twice. No, three times? How many times have I crossed the line and she just hasn’t said anything?

I get out of the car and walk up to the door. The sound of someone screaming is faint, and disturbing. I look around for the source, but there’s no one on the street. It must be a horror movie blasting loudly in a nearby house. I shake my head. Stop, Jack. No distractions. You’re going to apologize for that bullshit you said the other day, and you’re going to do it right now.

I’m so wrapped up in what to say when I first see her, how to play it off like I’m cool and composed, that I don’t see the glass at first. But when I get to the first step on the porch, I freeze. My shoes crunch glass. The mottled windowpanes for decoration on either side of the door – one of them is smashed.

And the screaming is getting louder. It’s definitely not a movie.

Cold dread grasps at my throat. I open the door and hiss.

“Shit! Isis!”

I collapse at her side. She’s sprawled against the wall, unconscious. I push her hair from her face, check for blood anywhere. There’s a dark red wet spot on the very back of her head, and a splatter of blood on the wall.

“No,” I croak. “No, no, no, you can’t. You can’t!”

I fumble for my phone and dial 911. The operator insists there are already people on their way, and I roar.

“Make them faster! Get an ambulance!”

“Sir, we’ve done all that we can. Help is on the way –”

“Useless cow!” I snarl. “If she dies – so help me if she’s dies –”

The screaming upstairs pitches, glass-shattering in its intensity. I swear and look around for something, anything.

That’s when I see it. A closet half-open, full of sports equipment.

And a baseball bat.

Aluminum.

I grab it and take the stairs two at a time, my fury red-hot lava pulsing through my veins. My mind screams at me to calm down, to wait for the police, but the other part of me that’s lain dormant for so long whispers encouragement. Urges me on. It’s wanted this. It’s missed this.

The man towers over a woman cowering on the bed – Isis’ mother. He’s unbuckling his belt, holding her legs in place.

The smell of the forest comes back to me. The feel of pine needles beneath my feet. Fog encroaches, soft and white on the edges of my vision. Sophia, curled up against a tree trunk, and the shadow men advancing.

I walk behind him. Isis’ mother sees me, her eyes terrified and wide as a dying fish’s over the man’s shoulder. He’s enormous. At least twice my weight and nearly my height. His arms are thick with muscle and sinew and the scars of hard work. Evil work.

Sophia cried, her head in her hands, her wrists thin as a bird’s wing.

“Help me, Jack.”

I was pinned by a man, his hand holding my arms behind me. They were going to make me watch.

“Just stay still, princess. This’ll all be over soon,” One of the advancing shadows cackled. Some swayed drunkenly. Five of them. Five huge men, shoulders broad and grins oily in the forest moonlight.

Isis’ mother looks at me and croaks.

“Help me.”

They started pulling Sophia’s dress off. I bit the man holding me and picked up the bat he dropped. Swung. And swung. And kept swinging through the cries and the blood.

I grip the bat, spread my feet, and pull back.

The first hit gets the side of his head. The ear. His eardrums bursts instantly, blood spraying. Hot droplets land on my face. He turns to look at me, and I smile.

Another swing.

Kneecaps. They tried to grab me, but I was fast, strong, stronger than they thought. Too young to fight back, or so they thought. The first and second had weak skulls. The third pulled out a gun to shoot me and shot the fourth, instead. I smiled and launched myself at the third, slamming the bat over his neck. There was a sickening crack and he went still. The fifth barely had his pants on when I slammed the bat into his side. He staggered, reached for a gun, but I swung again.

The man’s dark eyes widen as the bat connects with his arm. Elbow. I hit three times in quick succession and there’s a cracking noise. He howls, stumbling away from the bed. Isis’ mother crawls under it, sobbing. The man clutches his arm, bent at the elbow in an unnatural direction.

“You fucking bastard!” He screams, and lowers his shoulder, running for me. I laugh and step aside at the last moment, and he crashes into the dresser, disoriented for a few seconds by the impact. I use those moments well.

I cracked his gun hand. He was so shocked he just looked down at it, like it was a riveting TV show instead of something that was happening to him. And I swung again. The bones cracked, his hand split open, blood and meat spraying over the pine needles. He cried. He crawled away from me and cried, begging.

“Please, man, we didn’t mean – we weren’t gonna –”

“L-Listen, kid, I’ll just leave, okay? There’s no need for –”

I swing again, into his gut. And again, between his legs. He keels over, howling, and I step on his chest and look down at him.

“There are crimes. And therefore there is a need,” I say. “For punishments.”

“Please –”

I smile and tap his nose with the end of the baseball bat lightly.

“No begging. Die with some dignity.”

I raise the bat, level with his head, and he screams and shields his face with his good arm.

The thing in me laughs with delight.

3 Years
                           

23 Weeks
 
                      

2 Days
                           

I wake up in Satan’s butthole. Everything is white – white walls, white beds, white light. Or Narnia. It could be Narnia. Did I die and go to Narnia? Because that would be
rad
. But then I see the IV attached to my arm and hear the steady ‘beep-beep’ of my heart monitor and all hope deflates out of me quickly. Nope. Satan’s butthole, aka a hospital.

I sit up from the pillows and my head tries to turn itself inside out and run off my neck. The headache splits me down the middle and sews me back up again with electric pain.

“Hairy monkeyballs!” I hiss. “Dogshit on a stick! Puke pancakes!”

A head pokes in. Wren, green eyes smiling, walks over to my bed.

“I knew you were awake. Who else spews such original and captivating swears?”

I feel my head.
 
A massive, turban-like bandage wraps around it. There are flowers on the small table at my side, and a smiley-face balloon cheerfully watches me from a corner, slowly rotating just to get a better view of me. From all angles.

“Where am I? Other than hell.”

“St. Jermaine’s Hospital,” Wren offers, pulling up a chair and sitting on it. “You’ve been out for a week or so.”

“Mom!” I sit up. “Is Mom –”

“She’s fine,” Wren puts his hand on mine reassuringly. “She went to work today, but she said she’d be back at night. We’ve all been taking turns coming to see you. Me, Kayla, Avery –”

“Avery? Like, red-head Avery? Avery who hates me? The Avery we threatened?”

“It’s weird, I know. But she brought flowers.” He motions to a bunch of white camellias on the desk.

“What about Leo? The guy who broke in –”

“The police said he knocked you out, and then went upstairs. And then –”

Wren’s expression cracks with uneasiness.

“Then what? What happened?”

Wren’s eyes slowly move up to meet mine. “Jack. He said he came over to talk to you, and found you on the floor passed out.”

“Who?”

“Who what?”

“Jack who?”

Wren smiles. “C’mon, don’t play dumb. Jack. He came over, and he took care of Leo. Four broken ribs. A broken arm. A burst eardrum. Fractured skull.”

I suck in a breath. Wren shakes his head and tries to smile.

“You have one too, you know. Skull fracture. You hit your head pretty bad on the wall. For the first few days the doctors didn’t know if you were going to slip into a coma or not. But you pulled through. There was some internal bleeding, and bruising. But they patched you up and you pulled through.”

I look at my hands, and lift the sheet to look at my body. Almost-healed bruises cover my legs and arms.

“Leo’s in custody,” Wren says. “Jack’s mom got him a lawyer. He’s not locked up or anything, but he’s on watch. The police say he’s got a really good chance of getting away with no charges if you and your mom testify, but Leo’s going to jail, definitely.”

“I should hug this Jack guy. Show him my gratitude. Give him, like, a gift card to Starbucks at least.”

Wren snorts. “Really? I thought you and Jack were at war. Do they typically give hugs during war?”

“War? No, I’m not fighting anybody. Well, I have to fight on a daily basis not to marry myself, but no. I’m not at war with anybody,” I laugh. “And definitely not with this Jack guy. I’ll figure out a good way to thank him. He saved me and my mom’s butts after all. Is he old? Is he young? Does he go to our school? ”

“Okay, Isis, cut it out. It was funny the first time.”

“Cut what out?”

“You know Jack Hunter. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

“Jack Hunter, huh? What a name. Sounds like the kind of name a pretentious asshole on Wall Street would have. But, uh, he saved Mom. When I couldn’t. So I guess he’s more of a really remarkable not-asshole.”

The door opens and a doctor comes in. He smiles at me, and checks the monitors.

“Good to see you awake, Isis. Are you feeling up for some cognition tests?”

“Do I get an unbearably bright light shined in my eye?”

“Yes.”

“Awesome.”

“Doctor,” Wren says, and pulls the doctor away by the elbow. They whisper in the corner.

“Hey, I am right here! That is kind of really rude!” I shout. They ignore me and keep talking. I huff and put my arms over my chest and look out the door.

There, in the doorway, is a hot pretty-boy. I say that with equal parts disgust and admiration, one, because pretty boys are usually insufferable, and two, because he’s so good looking even someone like me who dislikes pretty boys has to admit he’s hot. He’s tall; six two? Six three? He’s lanky, not built, but the barest muscle definition stands out under his black shirt and jeans. His bone structure is something out of a Roman pantheon, but his nose is perfectly straight and his lips softer-looking. His hair is golden-brown, cut to barely grace his narrow, ice water eyes that pierce right into me. Even if they’re cold and unreachable, I can see dark shades of sorrow in them.

We stare like that at each other for a good four seconds before I yell;

“Okay, I know you want me all to get better, but ordering a stripper is going too far!”

The guy, instead of getting offended, smirks. The sorrow in his eyes softens minutely, and he walks in. Wren looks up from his place in the corner, and he rushes over to the guy.

“Jack, there’s something you need to know –”

 
Jack pushes past him and offers me a black rose.

“I figured you’d hate flowers, so I decided to get one that matched your soul,” He says. I take the flower, careful not to touch any of his long fingers.

“Gee, thanks.” I smile. “You must be Jack. Nice to meet you. Also, thanks for saving my butt. And my Mom’s butt. From what I hear you went pretty apeshit on the guy. Claps to you.”

I applaud. Jack’s smirk fades slowly. The doctor hurries over to my bedside and checks the monitor, scribbling on a clipboard.

“Isis, we’re going to get you into the CAT scan for a few checkups. You’ll need to drink something, so let me get that for you. Sit tight.”

“Okay! Thanks, doc.” I wave at him as he scurries out. Wren is pushing Jack gradually away from my bed.

“Jack,” He says with a desperate kind of urgency. “Jack, they’re going to find out what’s wrong, okay? They have to do tests; he said it’s probably not permanent –”

“Isis,” Jack says over Wren’s head. I look up.

“Yeah?”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what? Being so sexy? I know, it’s hard, but I just can’t –”

“Stop it,” He growls. “You know me.”

“Uh, yes? We met like, thirty seconds ago,” I chuckle. “So I guess, yeah, technically I know you.”

“You’re lying,” He snarls.

“Lying about what?” I frown. “Look, buddy, I’m grateful for what you did, but calling a hospitalized girl a liar is going a little far, don’t you think?”

Jack’s eyes go wide. His fists clench. Wren pushes him back father.

“Please, Jack, just go home. I’ll call you when they do the tests, okay?” He whispers.

“You’re lying! You’re still mad at me so you’re lying to see me squirm!” Jack shouts. Male nurses walk over to my door to see what the commotion is about.

“I’m not lying! I don’t even know what you’re talking about!” I yell back. My head throbs with a fresh wave of pain and I clutch it, wincing. “Can someone just get him out of here? He’s hurting my head.”

Jack’s face goes slack, all emotion draining from it in a split second.

“Sir, if you’d come with us,” one of the male nurses says.

“I’ll be here with her. I’ll call you if anything changes, so please, please just -” Wren assures him.

“Isis,” Jack says softly. I look over at him.

“What?”

“Do you remember me?”

“Uh, no, I was sort of knocked out when you came in and saved us. Sorry. But, you know. I’m awake now. We can get to know each other. I can buy you a puppy or something. You deserve it, for helping a total stranger.”

Jack doesn’t blink. He stares, the sadness back in his eyes. Sorrow clogs them, makes them dark and heavy. And then he’s gone.

He doesn’t come back.

The doctors do their tests. Mom sees me awake for the first time and collapses, sobbing, her arms wrapped around me for hours, apologizing. We fall asleep like that. Wren stays around me the most, and Kayla does, too. She thinks it’s weird I don’t remember Jack, but I keep telling her I wasn’t even awake when he came in the house. She doesn’t get it, though. Avery doesn’t visit as much, either. She comes maybe twice. The first time I pretend to be sleeping. She stays for only a few minutes, sitting in a chair and watching TV with me. The second time I open my eyes and start to talk, and she darts out of the room.
 

The doctors prescribe me medicine, and physical therapy. I do treadmill twice a day and some lady comes in and talks to me about what happened in the house, but I don’t want to talk about it. Mom says I should but I hate shrinks and she says she knows, but that it will help heal me. But I’m not broken! I’m just cracked! Down the middle. On my skull. It’s healing pretty well, but the doctors keep me for observation and recuperation, whatever that means.

One day, I take my lunch tray and eat in the second floor lobby. There’s a balcony that opens up to fresh air and a few plastic tables. The city thrums around me, the sky overcast and the wind chilly but refreshing. I poke at my jello and chicken patty and try unsuccessfully for the millionth time this month not to die from boredom and or terrible reconstituted astronaut-grade protein.

“Hi there,” A girl’s voice comes from behind me. I turn. A pretty, short girl with pale blonde, platinum hair smiles at me. Her skin is milk-white, and her eyes are a steely, dark blue. She’s thin, wearing a sweater and a flowery skirt. But there’s a hospital band around her wrist. She looks so delicate, like a white dandelion, or a beautiful spirit.
 

“Hey,” I say. “Nice day.”

Her button nose wrinkles as she smiles. “Yeah, but if it rains again I’m going to lose my mind.”

“I hear ya,” I stab my patty and motion at it. “You can sit, if you want. Watch me eat space-chicken.”

She laughs, the sound melodious and sweet. She settles across from me and picks at a dead leaf on the table. I offer her my apple, and she takes it gratefully but doesn’t eat it.

“I’m Isis,” I say. “What’s your name?”

She smiles, the weak sun catching her hair and making it shine white-gold.

“Sophia.”

Acknowledgments

~To the reader; Yes, you. You’ve just finished reading a piece of my heart. Keep it safe, will you? Thank you.

~To Laura, Sarah, the LBs
 
– you are the stars in the sky that light my way.
 

~To Katie Ashley, Emily Snow, Michelle Valentine, and all the other wonderful authors-friends I’ve made in the romance indie community along the way – thank you. You have been nothing but kind and loving, and I can only hope to show you the same love and support.

~To the community, reviewers, book bloggers, goodreads librarians – I’ve never in my life felt more accepted and appreciated. You are a wonderful group of people, with wonderful hearts. You are each a part of this story. You help it become real. Thank you so, so much.