BUFF (2 page)

His clothes were black and his hair looked black, but then everything at night appears black. Becky tucks her bottom lip in her mouth, the thudding in her chest softening.

That’s strange. She knows he was watching the house. His head was facing in that direction and it never moved, like he was studying something.

She strums her hands on the bottom of the window. He’s gone now. He could have been a drifter looking for a place to stay—or homeless. No matter what her creative mind conjures up, nothing makes her feel better. And that’s the oddest thing. If there’s one thing Becky is good at doing, it’s convincing herself something hasn’t happened, whether it’s true or not. Hell she’s been doing it since she was thirteen-years-old.

She checks the old clock hanging on the attic wall. It’s nearly 1:00 AM. She never likes to leave this place. It’s her haven. Everything about it and everything in it—from the peeled gray paint, the woody smell, to the dusty antiques—it is all hers and no-one can take that away from her.

No-one can take away her hiding place.

*     *     *

THREE IN THE MORNING
his cell phone wakes him out of deep thought—not sleep.

Colt sits in front of the window, his long legs perched on the wood, his motorcycle boots crossed over each other. His view is of a small parking-lot with ten empty spaces save for his Harley-Davidson Dyna. He’s watching nothing, but he keeps doing it anyway.

He leans against the back of the chair making the hind legs tilt to reach the table behind him. The scratch of the two-day-old stubble on his face has his other hand occupied as he presses the talk button.

He doesn’t answer, just listens. “What’s the deal?"

Colt doesn’t blink. His eyes train on the black Sky, the dingy streetlights and the buzz of the neon motel sign. No-one is on to him. Yet. His lips shift, puckering hard in thought.

“As expected," Colt answers.

“Good.”

Colt likes things done clean and cut, but when your back is against the wall, you have to face the music whether you’re ready or not.

“Look, you're the only one I trust to do this right. Can’t have any fucking slip-ups. That's how we got here in the first place."

“I know what to do."

Colt hears his boss swallow on the other end. They've been sidetracked for far too long and it’s cost them almost half their profits. Someone from right under their nose has betrayed them. And Colt is here to make them pay.

“Shut down the factory first. I don't want any trace left, then finish what that bastard started. For good, Colt. Finish him.” There’s a loud bang, the crack of an open palm against wood. Colt doesn’t flinch at the bite in Kulich’s command; he can practically hear his boss salivating. He knows Kulich’s thoughts are consumed with nothing else but of bloodshed.

Sweet revenge.

“Yeah. I need to go."

Kulich doesn’t argue but his words come out short and hesitant, “Check in with me tomorrow. Before everything goes down, all right?"

“Yeah."

He ends the call lost in thought. His mind's eye a straight line of concentration. Kulich’s words echo in his head. There’s a lot at stake here, but it needs to be done or they risk an even greater chance at being fucked from all sides. Competition, law enforcement, even an insider—they’re always ready to pounce when the iron strikes hot.

Colt rises to his feet and peers out the window. His hand comes up spreading over the glass like a fleshy spider. Colt is a ghost; the perfect man for the job. A ghost that moves in-and-out of towns so quick and quiet not even the tumble weeds stir from the aftershock.

He reaches behind his back, the semiautomatic tucked in his jeans is cold against his skin. He brings the .45 up to eye level and studies the edges, completely aware of how dualistic the gun is to its owner.

Cool hard edges all over.

He inspects the clip, draws it back and sighs when it snaps into place. It’s only been two days but he itches for action. Two days too long in one place. His fingers close over the handle then slips back under his shirt at the base of his spine, undetectable.

His eyes don’t leave the window. It will be dawn in a couple of hours. Tomorrow is the day.

Payback time.

“WHAT ABOUT THIS?”
Looking ahead, her eyes fix onto the skimpy black frock hanging in between Cleo’s two fingers. “Hello?"

Becky chews on the inside of her gum. “Yeah, I’m thinking."

“And not paying attention.”

“That's not a dress, Cleo. It's a piece of stretchy leotard.”

“Exactly. It's so you, its not you. Get it?"

“No,” Becky replies, “and I... don't think I want to.” She moves past the younger girl, sidestepping the dress as if it will bite her.

“Becks, hold up." Becky glares at the clothes Cleo brought over to her house, cursing each one. “Becks?"

Becky swallows, wipes her brow with her sleeve and bites her lower lip. “What, Cleo?"

“You're going to the ball, right? It like starts in an hour."

Becky leans her weight on her hip. “Right now… I don't know… I’m only going because somehow my mother persuaded me to.” She looks at her watch. Fifty-minutes stands between her and mingling with the very people she’s done her best to hide from. What is she thinking? “No... No, I’m not going."

Cleo places a gentle hand on Becky’s arm. “Becks, you’ll only regret this if you don't go."

“No I won’t."

“You’ll always wonder what could’ve been—"

“No I won’t."

"—What tall, dark stranger you could’ve met."

“Cleo."

"What fascinating things took place that you missed all because of a little wardrobe trouble.”

Becky picks up a white slip dress. “I'm the adult, remember? I used to babysit
you
."

“Yeah, yeah—look, it’s about time you show this hick-town they’re wrong about you. Take a risk for once, B."

Becky trails her fingers down the silk detailing of the dress in her hands. “I... just don’t think I can pull this dress off... it’s too… pretty—"

“Hey, hey—stop it. Do you hear yourself? You are beautiful. I can’t believe you haven't caught on by now. You’re—"

“Stop.” Becky’s throat tightens and strains.

“You’re gonna look super-hot and when you get there—O.M.G!—the guys are not gonna know what to do with themselves."

Becky shakes her head, laughing, “Let's not get carried away, Cleo." She places the dress back down on her bed.

Her only true friend smiles at her. “You're gonna rock, Becky! I promise, this is gonna be a night you'll never forget."

*     *     *

“CHECKING IN."

“Everything ready?"

“The guards are making rounds on the other side of the factory. Going in five."

“Remember I want everything destroyed. I want the hardware, software, all the files burned—all of it."

Colt's eyes glow in the dark. “Done."

“Once you've done—”

“Shit. Gotta go. Check back with you."

Kulich’s voice wavers. Colt can’t decipher if it’s in anticipation or anxiety. “When?"

“When I'm done.” Colt's response is signature. Concrete without forethought. The line goes dead and Colt slides the cell into his front pocket, his hand going back to brush the gun underneath his shirt. It’s a habitual act, but it calms him.

The sensory lights click off just at the prompt time they should. Like a panther he crawls, kneeling ever so slightly forward, his brow alert to the unimaginable circumstances. Everything is mapped out in his head, every avenue and shadow of the building. He leans his weight onto the garbage disposal closest to the door. His fingers graze the lock-pick in his back pocket. He fishes it out, nipping the opening with his teeth and trapping the metal utensil with his lips, placing the cover back in his pocket.

He counts to sixty and the lights flash on again. That’s the second consecutive round. Next round he goes—bypass the alarm and get to the south-corner office. He only has a window of roughly twenty minutes before someone from the main security calls in asking about the dead alarm. That gives him a solid fifteen minutes to do his job and not get pinched.

The guard's footsteps fade as they round the corner again and the light switches off just as his watch lights up.

Time to play.

*     *     *

SHE HAS TO ESCAPE.

Becky has only been at the ball for a few hours and the need to flee is greater than ever.

Emmett Irving is here.

Why is he even at the school ball? He isn’t a student.

She paces as fast as she can in her heels, needing a breath of fresh air. But strolling under a rose-lined archway, Emmett creeps up behind her.

“What do you want?” she spits.

The smirk on his face makes her skin crawl. "Why don’t I give you a ride back to my place,” he says, stepping so close to her she can smell ashtray and whiskey on his breath. “This is your last chance…” His fingers snake up her arm. “…before you fuck off to college, Petal.”

Suddenly, a sickening sensation clenches in her stomach when he calls her
“Petal.”

Her instincts tell her to runaway, but before she can react he slips one of the spaghetti-straps of her dress down off her shoulder. “I know what’s you like,” he slurs, “jus’ a quick dirty fuck in the backseat.”

“Get off me!” she shrieks, pushing him away.

“What’s the matter, Petal? You use me and think—”

Becky kicks him in the groin with her three-inch heel. He plunges to the ground, moaning. His body curls up like a baby, his face reddening like fire.

“I’d. Rather die,” she says, through gritted teeth, “than let you touch me ever again.”

Something punches hard inside her, squeezing her strength like a damp rag. Her knees knock together, her joints and muscles scream to ball up and release itself.

Don’t… Don’t let this bastard see you cry.

Tugging the strap back over her shoulder, her skin prickles as though his touch was poisonous.

She should call for a taxi and leave. But Becky is at the mercy of her anger and she has to get away from him. Immediately.

She storms off and walks all the way back to her house, leaving the hurt pride on Emmett Irving’s face to match the hurt in his groin.

The slam of the front door shakes the house and the walls vibrate. Her mind finally catches up with her blinding fury.

Crap.

She probably woke Toby.

Stomping for nearly an hour, in high heels, makes a stinging friction against her skin. She uses the wall as support to kick them off.

Looking ahead, her home is so dark and ghostly she thinks she’s alone. But then she hears papers
whooshing
around in the study. The light in the den is swallowed by the darkness of the house. Her father must be working late again. She won’t disturb him, especially this late at night. If the thud of the door didn't wreck his concentration he must be swamped.

She checks the clock at the top of the stairs. 12:59PM. How did she even last that long at the party? Becky bounds up the stairs, her body worn and wound tight. Her spirit is tired, her mind hurt and all she wants is endless sleep. But she hesitates just outside her bedroom door, looking in. Her bed is unmade, the blankets are lopsided, the puffy waves of fabric inviting her in. She leans in like they’re calling to her but she can’t accept. She needs time to let her skin settle in and breathe.

Fresh air fills her nostrils and her senses relax. The afterthoughts of the ball already bleeding out from her body. Becky half-smiles at the thought of Emmett having a permanent limp and brushes the cascading hair from around her face. The sweet coolness from her window breezes around her. She peers in catching the bright end of the Moon through the half-slit window.

The view will be spectacular in the attic. Aching with a parched man’s thirst to be up in her hiding place—where she can just be—she twists round to face the stairs. But then her body snaps back just as her mind pauses.

That’s strange... I don’t remember opening the window...

Her mother.

On tippy-toes, Becky ascends the remainder of the creaky wooden steps. Her mother is always snooping in her room, but it isn’t like her to leave windows open at night...

The attic is painfully quiet and everything appears dimensionally flat like a portrait. An unfamiliar feeling crackles inside her and she’s reluctant to enter as if she’s disturbing something.

As her bare feet settle onto the attic floor, the uncanny sense stays with her. It doesn’t break like she thinks it will. It clings to her body like a swarm of hungry mosquitoes.

Moonlight spills around her as she closes in on the window. Her breathing settles through its trembles, yet the skin on the back of her knees starts to tingle along with her spine.

Her anger, her mortification, her bruised pride—it all comes beating down on her at once. Tonight is something that will never happen again.

Her finger skims the edge of the window. “OW!” The wood isn’t sanded down and a drop of blood appears on her finger. But something sticky, something darker, tears Becky's gaze from her wound to look down and discover a dark spot of liquid on the ledge.

She backs a smidge-of-an-inch away, her eyes following the spot of liquid down the ledge and the ones that accompany it on the painted wall below.

Wait… That’s not paint...

She hasn’t painted today and what lays on her finger is warm and... fresh.

Unaware her breathing is gathering in her throat she tilts a finger into the moonlight and gasps.

It’s red.

Dark crimson red.

Oh my God... it’s blood.

She smears a little red on her finger with her thumb, the tremble starting in that one finger and crawling all over. It doesn’t make any sense. Tendrils of terror weave around her spine. Her mind races and her body slows down at the same time.

Run... Run... RUN!

She begs her body to move when the hairs on the back of her neck buzz in attention. Everything goes from slow motion in her brain to fast forward. She hears herself yell the word
‘run’
and just when her body reacts, something black surrounds her.

Her mouth opens to cry out but the cry falls muted to the black blockade of a glove over her. Her mind screams in her brain, her arms and legs paralyzed by the cement force fenced around her.

Whoever has her secures themselves further with their other arm—a very thick, weighty arm—by pushing her deeper into their very large and hard body, locking themselves around her torso.

Her assailant leans in.

The voice is sonorous, imposingly deep and full when he speaks—a low husky timber. But all Becky can comprehend in the hazy blur is leather creaking and the smell of blood on her finger as he mutters against her ear, “Don't move."