Dark Savior: A Dark Bad Boy Romance (20 page)

My search soon takes me to a site that lists the kinds of incidents I am looking for. It is scary to see how much criminal activity surrounds the peaceful microcosm I am living in. A lot of attempted robberies, almost every day. Knife attacks, drunken men punching each other’s faces, a woman reporting that someone tried to rape her just two blocks from where I am living.

I swear to myself to never look at these again once I am done searching. This shit is crazy. I thought the kind of manuscripts I am working with were farfetched fiction, but looking at these statistics leads me to think otherwise.

I change the neighborhood I am looking at, now scrolling through the district to which I tend to escape almost every week. Not any neighborhood. It’s the closest I could call home, the place I have stayed at the longest. A place that has the strength and characteristics to pull you down, to destroy any decency, any dream and willpower, any ambition. There seems to be only one path to follow for kids who grow up there: down.

For me, it acted as fuel. While it took everything from me, trying to take me down with everyone else, I held on to the idea that there must be something else, something better out there. Something that may not feel to be within reach, but actually is, if I only tried enough.

My dreams weren’t that big, but big enough to give me something to strive for. Maybe that made it easier. I not only had something to get away from, but also something to get to.

As I scan through this much longer list of recent reports, I am instantly reminded of how bad it really was. How scared I was to take a step outside, even when my mother was with me. It was terrible.

As I approach the date on which I met the dark guy on the roof, my heart starts pounding with fear. Please, don’t let there be any reports. Please, please, please no report.

But there is.

It is the first incident listed for the day that followed the night I was chased away from my usual hangout spot on the roof.

47-year old man shot. Possible connection to mafia activity.

I inhale audibly and can almost feel the color disappearing from my face.

Fuck.

Somehow, it was so much easier until now. There was nothing in the news, and as long as it’s not reported, it hasn’t happened, right? I tried to convince myself for more than a week that what I had witnessed that night didn’t really happen.

No one had died that night—until now.

I have to go to the police. I have to report this.

But how would I explain myself? How would I explain the fact that I waited for more than a week to tell them? Maybe they’d think I was involved in the whole thing somehow.

And what good could possibly come out of this? It’s not like I could tell them a lot about the guy. I haven’t seen his face, just a quick glance of his eyes. It was dark and he was dressed in dark colors, hiding his face behind a scarf and his hair beneath a beanie. I don’t even know what hair color he might have, though something tells me that it was not blond. How tall was he? I don’t know. Was there anything characteristic about him that would help me to identify him? I don’t think so.

All I could tell them is that I saw him shooting with a rifle from that roof, and they probably know that much. Though, I wonder if they were able to unveil the exact location of the shooter.

Would it help them to know? Probably.

Would I become an accessory to the crime if I don’t report to the police?

My thoughts circle back to the concern of what might happen to me if I report him to the police. What if all this would lead to was me becoming embroiled in the mob somehow? The thought scares me so much, and I don’t think that it’s such an unlikely turn of events. After all, the mafia does act in its own little microcosm, at least that’s what it feels like to me. Everyone knows they exist and have their hands in all kinds of business affairs, but one hardly ever hears anything about their activities.

Like this one, a definite murder. Why was there nothing in the news about it? Not even in the local news that seemingly reports about even the dumbest shit that happens around here…

“Nike?” I hear Amanda yell from the kitchen. “You wanna eat something? I’m making pasta!”

I swallow hard. I feel sick to my stomach. My throat is shut tight by a heavy lump and the thought of food is almost painful.

I don’t know if I can eat, but I know that I would welcome the distracting company of my friend.

“Yeah, sure!” I reply and shut my laptop.

CHAPTER FIVE

Nike

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” my ever so observant friend comments when I walk into the kitchen.

I cast her a weak smile, trying to look less distraught. It never works with her, though.

“Tough day,” I lie.

“Oh?” She asks, turning back to the stove. Amanda is an excellent cook. While I am capable of feeding myself with somewhat healthy food here and there, always having to force myself to cook something that requires more than one pot, she effortlessly throws in ingredients and spices and creates amazing dishes.

“I thought your deadline was still miles away,” she adds. “How come it’s been rough today? Isn’t this one of the slow stretches right now?”

Damn. I’m such a bad liar, and I tend to forget how well Amanda listens every time I tell her even the most mundane stories from work.

“Oh, not really stress like that,” I try to explain, sitting down at the kitchen table behind her. I know she wouldn’t want my help for cooking, and if there is something to do for me, it’ll most likely be something that needs to be chopped and she’ll just place it in front of me along with the order.

“Just bad moods, people fighting. And I’m tired, haven’t slept well,” I continue my lies.

“I see,” she states, without looking at me.

She said she’s just making pasta, but there are three pots on the stove, a big one and two smaller ones. She is boiling water in the big one while throwing in chopped up onions in another. The third doesn’t seem to be in use yet.

“What are you making?” I ask in an attempt to change the subject.

“Pasta,” she repeats. “With a carbonara variation. Kind of deciding on the spot here.”

Almost everything Amanda cooks is a variation of something else. Sometimes, I wish I could be as creative as she is with her cooking, and her work, too. While I just polish the work of others, she’s someone who writes new pieces and can make up a story of her own. I don’t think I could ever do that, neither in cooking nor in my work.

“Hey, I heard today that you guys are involved in that Connor fundraiser this weekend,” Amanda says, casting me a quick glance over the shoulder.

I’m startled. “Yeah, how did you know?”

She grins at me. “Darling, I know everything.”

I tilt my head in question.

“Boss told me about it,” she explains. When Amanda says boss, she isn’t talking about her actual boss, but about another journalist from her big social circle. She’s had flings with him on and off, a strong and domineering guy whose decisiveness and commanding behavior she craves on one side, but deems too much once she has gotten another taste of it. “He has an invite and asked me to be his plus one.”

“Plus one?” I muse. “It’s not a wedding.”

She rolls her eyes and throws her straightened long brown hair back over her shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

“Sure,” I say, winking at her. I’m pretty sure that she likes boss more than she is willing to admit.

“Did you get an invite?” she asks. “I mean, I know it’s probably not—”

“Actually, I did,” I say. “I don’t know why, but Mr. Campbell let me know that I was—and I quote—‘free to join.’”

Her eyes widen with excitement. “Awesome! We can go together!”

“I thought you’re going with your boss?” I say, casting her a naughty grin.

“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. What a great opportunity, though! Free drinks and so much networking! You know who’s going to be there?”

“No,” I say, even though I’m sure it’s just a rhetorical question.

“Everyone!” Amanda beams, proving my assumption right. “Make sure you pack your business cards!”

“Sure,” I say. Somehow, the thought of networking never entered my mind, even though I know how important these things are, especially in the publishing industry, where there are so few jobs for so many hopeful candidates.

“What are you going to wear?” Amanda asks next.

I smile at her. “I might need your help with that.”

“Oh, you do!” She agrees. “And you better look nice that night. There are not only business connections to be made, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

She turns around to me, winking. “Lots of suitable bachelors, too.”

I raise my eyebrows at her. “Need I remind you that you’re going with boss? I don’t think he’d like to see you flirting with others in his presence.”

“Not me, silly!” Amanda says. “I’m pretty set for now.”

A chuckle from my side causes her to pause and cast me a warning look.

“You on the other hand,” she says, raising her voice like a scolding mother. “You really need to get out there! I’m tired of watching you mope around all weekend. And that weird habit of sitting around on rooftops at night is really starting to scare me.”

The mentioning of my rooftop pastime sends a cold sting through my heart. The melody, the muffled sound of that one shot. The certainty that someone died that night. I watched a man kill another, and was chased by him afterward. I wish there was a way for me to believe that all of this never happened…

“Are you okay?” Amanda asks, her question underlaid with laughter. “Dear God, I had no idea how much the idea of having to flirt with someone scares you!”

I wave her off, and try to dismiss the dark memories by joining her laughter.

“You know it’s not as easy for everybody as it is for you,” I say, trying to sound lighthearted.

“Darling, I’m not saying it’s going to be easy,” she says, stirring the content in the smaller pot. “But you need to get out of your comfort zone.”

“What a cliché thing to say,” I interject.

“Maybe,” she admits. “But you know that I am right.”

Of course, I do. I let out a deep sigh, silently wishing that having to flirt with strange men would actually be my biggest concern right now.

“Yes, I know,” I say. “You’re right.”

A triumphant smile appears on Amanda’s face.

“You know what,” she says. “I will make it a little easier for you.”

I cast her a quizzical look.

“The next time you see someone you like and you don’t do anything about it,” she begins to explain. “You will have to clean the apartment all by yourself for an entire month.”

“Why would I agree to that?” I reply, shaking my head.

“Because I will clean the apartment for an entire month if you do make a move,” she says, beaming at me as if she just solved all of the world’s troubles. “Really, it’s a win-win for you if you find the courage to approach someone, don’t you think?”

I regard her with a raised eyebrow, expressing doubts.

However, I like the idea. If anything, Amanda’s little challenge will keep me busy and distracted, delaying any thoughts about the scary encounter I had during what will most likely turn out to be my last visit on that rooftop.

“Okay,” I agree. “It sounds like I will get more out of this deal than you, so how could I say no.”

I wink at her and Amanda laughs.

“We need to set a time limit, though,” she argues. “You’ll have to approach someone within the next two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” I ask. “You know I don’t run around through bars every other night like—”

“Like me?” she interrupts, throwing me an offended look.

“That’s not what I was going to s—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Amanda says. “Like I said, that fundraiser will be a gold mine!”

“Business contacts? I don’t think so…”

“Not them,” she objects. “But there are going to be journalists and patrons, too.”

“Patrons?”

“Yes,” she says, winking at me. “Wealthy guys who invest, but are not professionally involved in publishing at all.
They
are the ones you should look out for.”

“Great,” I sigh. “A bunch of old dudes with money. How sexy.”

Amanda shakes her head. “Oh no, not all of them are old! I did some research—”

“Of course you did.”

She ignores my little comment and continues: “Some of them are the sons of aforementioned ‘old dudes’ and others are completely new to this, young CEOs and managers who are still on their way up with their companies. The fundraiser is supposed to attract young innovators, did you forget?”

I shake my head.

Amanda drains the pasta and turns off the stove, stirring the sauce she made one last time before announcing that dinner is ready.

“Let’s eat,” she suggests. “And after that we’ll look for something for you to wear to that fundraiser.”

She regards me with a mischievous smile and winks at me. “It will be an important event for you, young lady.”