Ballistic (3 page)

It took all the courage I had to go into our kitchen and ask her for advice. Most days she forgets I exist
, but liking a boy is serious and I have no one else to go to. Taking a dish towel and reaching for a wet bowl to dry for her, she smacks my hand, hard.

“What?” she sneers at me
.

“Can I ask you something?” I mutter
, reaching for the bowl again determined to do my part.

“Did you buy that bowl
, Halina?”

Looking
down at my red hand, I whisper, “No.” I answer knowing to keep my response short.

“No
, you didn’t, so don’t touch what don’t belong to you.”

Taking a step back I
mutter, “I’m sorry,” and attempt to walk away.

“No
. I’m sorry.” My heart fills up with hope at her words. I stop and turn toward her, desperate for her help, but when her frown deepens and she glares at me, I know she hasn’t suddenly begun to give a shit about me. “That you were ever born,” she says.

My shoulders dropped and I quietly went to my room and fell asleep with my original question unanswered
. I knew the answer to the other question I was always afraid to ask. My mother didn’t love me. It was one less question I needed an answer to now.

That sexy son of a bitch has some balls, I’ll give him that.

First, he stole my focus when he started following me. Second, he earned my respect when he stepped in to help outside the bar but he commanded my full attention when he got off staring only at my body. Maybe it’s pervy to some but for a woman like me with no morals to speak of, it was fucking hot.

I’m only entertaining meeting him out of curiosity. He’s invested quite a bit of time into me and I want to know why. The flash drive he took had a lecture I was writing on it, not an active case so I could really give two shits about that. But, I do not like people touching my shit. He knows who I am and no doubt knows what I do, if he thinks stealing from me is the best way to get my attention. I’ll be honest, he doesn’t just have some of my attention he has all of it.

Would I be giving my neck an extra squirt of Jo Malone if he wasn’t
panty melting hot? No. I can admit I’m totally shallow like that. Had he been a butter face, I’d have shot him and went back to sleep. You wake up to a hot man rubbing one out while staring at your naked body with flushed cheeks and shaking hands, you don’t shoot. You wait it out. You hope he uses his mouth to make you scream. But he didn’t. Instead after he came he wanted to bargain. Which of course makes me want to scream and not the “Oh, God, I’m coming!” scream, either.

It
is clear he doesn’t know what to do with me. He also thinks he’s king shit and is pissed to have to deal with me at all. He clearly has control issues and did his homework on me. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have watched what he said. Everybody thinks they know me at first, they think they can outsmart me, confuse me. It only takes moments for them to realize they’ve erred and that it’s too late. Unless I’m totally shitfaced, you can’t lie to me.

Which is why I prefer a life of solitude
with a whisky chaser and rap lyrics.

Like all humans, he’s not who he appears to be. We all have armor, a means of keeping the world from seeing us for what we really are. Personally, I excel at it. No one needs to know that I’m
an emotional shit show, that I feel things more deeply than they do. That I would give anything to be loved and accepted in spite of my curse. But outside of the girls, I keep everyone out. I wear heavy eye makeup, punk out my hair, always making sure to hide my figure. The girls always say my eyes see and express too much, so I black them out because it makes people uncomfortable. I can work with that, the less I’m seen, the better.  Humans take advantage of weakness. That’s survival 101, therefore, I refuse to show mine. There was no name for what I saw in his eyes, but if I had to choose one, I’d say fear. Fear of what? Meh, I’m not
that
talented, but part of me felt like if I had asked him what he was so afraid of, he would have told me. And no, I didn’t want the answer. Quite frankly, neither did he.

Opening the door to
Zef’s, I see him in the back booth sipping coffee. Man, do I have a love affair with coffee. Especially when hot stalkers with an affliction for hotel room masturbation drink it. This guy is six feet of primal male. Perfectly done hair which comes to his shoulders that he usually slicks back. Part of me wonders what kind of product he uses, I bet its TIGI or something sexy like that. Personally, I’m all about Suave and some de-frizz spray. He’s manscaped to perfection with the most arresting blue eyes I’ve ever seen. I stop myself from touching my own eyebrows because I haven’t plucked them in days, whereas his are arched and even. He’s buff, but not overly so. I have a thing about corded forearms too. Like I want to bite, lick and be carried around by them. If I could find a willing participant, I’d like to use him as a monkey bar and swing from them, but that’s on the bucket list. Then there are his teeth and lips. Don’t even get me started on what I could do with those things. All in all, he’s
too
perfect. You can’t trust perfect because perfection doesn’t exist. Reminding myself he has an agenda, I fall into the booth across from him, signal our server for a cup and cross my arms over my chest. A chest he can’t take his eyes off of, I get it, they’re huge. Try lugging these bitches around on a daily basis, the term fun bags is grossly misused.

“First, I want my key back,” I say sticking out my hand. When he reaches into his pocket and places the key into my palm
, I pretend to ignore the sizzle that blazed through me at the contact because even I know that’s fucked up. “Second, who are you? Third, why are you following me? And forth,” I say leaning forward narrowing my now make-up free eyes, “What the fuck do you really want?”

“I’m Anthony,” he
smiles showcasing those magnificent teeth. I bet his parents had a killer dental plan and got him braces. “But the few friends I have call me Tony, three and four are one in the same.”

“Anthony what?”

“Gallo.”

Everything in me
just goes still. I feel like him telling me his name was linking him to me in some way and I didn’t like feeling like this, not even a little bit. I’m not big into prophecies and shit like that, but I knew, I fucking knew I was destined to know this guy. This is the guy Jules has a hard on to find and here he is sitting across from me sipping coffee wearing a Michael Kors button down. The only reason I even know who MK is, is because of that Big Sean song and even then I had to Wiki that shit. Once I did, I started ordering his goods online because the man makes solid clothes. This set up is not a coincidence. Anthony planned this and his timing sucks. I don’t want to get to know this guy. I mean, I’d bang him because, why not? But help him? I’ll pass. However, if my vagina could talk, she’d be getting his number, telling him I like it from behind then offer to do his damn laundry for his trouble. My vagina is not a rational thinker.

“My name is Anthony Gallo,” he
repeats taking my hand in his because my mind and vagina were elsewhere, we didn’t stop him. “And I need your help.”

Taking my hand back, lowering my eyes so he can’t see them
and reaching for my coffee, I assess him as much as possible. Whoever he is, whatever he wants, is not going to bode well for me. I can feel it in my bones. By bones, I mean vagina.

“I’m listening
,” I offer, but hide both hands under the table so he can’t witness them shaking.

“If you look into independent profilers one name comes up
. Yours. If you talk to anyone in law enforcement it’s your name they mention. You are the youngest profiler in the state, despite your rare ability. The simple fact is, you were born to solve mysteries.” He finds my hands again and squeezes them under the table. “It just so happens I have a mystery that needs solving.”

Taking my hand
s back for the last time and throwing cash on the table, I grab my key and stand up. Following suit he does the same prepared to stop me. I knew it. Another human who needs my fucking help with a case. Figures. “Where are you going?”

“Thanks for the wakeup call, Anthony,”
I say, walking toward the door, pretending not to be hurt. “I’ve had worse.”

“I saved you last night,” he growls
down at me. “You owe me.”

“
From where I’m standing, I don’t owe you shit.”

“Forget something?” he asks smugly like he knows some big secret that I don’t. “Nope,
” I say, patting my pockets. “Got everything I need.”

Reaching in and palming my flash drive
, he smiles. “Sure about that?”

“Keep it
.” I offer, opening the door. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”

I step
out into the sunshine and make a right to head back to prepare for another long day. Part of me wants to cabbage patch for getting a leg up on the guy, but the other part, the sane part, (or at least what’s left of it), knows I’ll be seeing him again.

So my vagina did the cabbage patch instead.

“Vera!” Pops yelled coming into living room. “What happened?” When he pulls her into her arms, she wipes her tears and says, “I’m fine, love. Junior saved me.” Looking relieved, he pulled me to him as well. “I’m so proud of you, Junior, thank you for keeping her safe for me.”

My chest puffed out with pride at the compliment
. “No problem Pops,” I tell him. “I don’t think it’s broken, but she should probably see a doctor,” I offer checking my mother’s knee.

“Bah,” she says
, messing up my hair I spent all morning getting just right. “I slipped on the ice. I’ll be fine.”

“I can’t stand the thought of you hurt,” my father says
, kissing her cheek.

“With you two around I’ll never be hurt,” she smiles at us
.

“We’ll protect you
, Mom,” I tell her, walking to the fridge to get more ice.

“A good man always protects his woman
Junior. A man isn’t whole until he finds her, but when he does…”

“Then what happens
, Pops?”

Looking over at her on the couch then back at me
, he says, “She keeps him that way.”

It has been three days since she made a fool of me at that restaurant. Three days of not being able to find her, either. Of course she checked out and hasn’t been back to any of her usual hang outs. Now I’m not only pissed off she can lose me so easily, I’m also running out of time. I’ve got Max calling, texting and threatening to kill me, claiming he needs my help. Then I’ve got Rogan calling, (because he hates to text, claiming his fingers are too big), that Venessa is worried, and then there’s the spit fire, Red, Max’s wife. No doubt she’s got him chasing his tail figuring out how to keep her around this time. This is one problem he’s going to have to fix himself, considering it’s his own fault he’s in it.

In the meantime,
I roam the streets looking for her H2. How many people in Detroit drive a black on black Hummer? The answer surprisingly is, too many.

Spotting a matching truck
, I slow down and check the plate and see it’s hers. I park my own car a few spots up, try to figure out where she is. Walking past a tattoo parlor, I see a woman getting ready to be inked, but I disregard her because that wouldn’t be… I back up and look again. It
is
her. She did something different with her hair today. It’s ratted on top and blends into a pony tail high on her head. But it isn’t the hair style that upset me. It is the man who is about to brand her. Suddenly angry at the thought of her marking her skin, I walk into the lobby, let the guy there know my woman is getting inked and he decides to show me the way instead of putting up a fight.

Smart man.

Opening the door, he gestures, letting me in. She’s facing the artist and the he’s working on his desk, but I can pick up the gist of their conversation and I don’t care for it, at all.

“
Good girl, you didn’t wear a bra, so shirt off, on your stomach and show me that sexy fucking back that I love.”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever had their hands on it as much as you have
.” She laughs, a fake laugh if I ever heard one, then notices me. “Oh,” she says, rolling her eyes. “It’s you.”

“Sup
’ man,” the artist says, pouring ink into little caps. “You don’t usually bring in company, sexy.”

“No,” she says
, glaring at me with her makeup back in place. “I don’t.”

“You stayin’ or goin
,’ man? I’m not trying to give the guys in the lobby a show.”

Pulling up a chair and crossing my ankles
, I give her a look that lets her know that I’m getting comfortable. I’m pissed at her running from me and if I find out this guy has fucked her, I’ll mentally kill him with a pipe while I’m here too.

“Staying.”

Ignoring me, she peels her shirt all the way off and folds it up to use it as a pillow. I don’t even hear the machine buzzing because I’m too busy staring at her back. If it wasn’t for what was facing me, I’d be covering her back up so no man could see any of her skin. I don’t, though, because I’m in shock. It’s a fucking canvas. It begins at the back of her neck, spreads out to both of her shoulders and ends at her sides. The art covers three-fourths of her back so far, and judging by the outline, she intends to keep going. Clinching my jaw, I stay seated while he begins the task of wiping her skin slowly before he starts the tattoo. Watching this guy touch her skin is killing me. Don’t ask me why because I don’t have a plausible answer other than I haven’t had sex since… Fuck, I can’t even remember. When the needle meets her skin and the noise level changes, I cringe. It’s obvious the needle is in there deep which causes me to tighten my fists. She may have come willingly but this stranger is hurting my woman.

Every few minutes he asks how she’s doing and she says “Dandy
,” so he keeps going. She doesn’t speak to me and I try not to speak to her because I imagine she’s in pain and if I open up my mouth it’s not going to end well. About an hour later, he smacks her ass and helps her sit up. He applies a bandage and she pulls her shirt over her head, hands him money. The tattooer attempts a hug she doesn’t return, and he spanks her ass again before she’s out the door. Snapping out of it, I decide to let the guy live for now so I can follow her instead. Just as she’s preparing to step up into the truck, I’m there putting myself between her and the seat.

“
Your back, what does it all mean?”

“Hello
, Anthony. Long time no see,” she says, smiling up at me. “Dare I say you’re slipping?”

“Answer me.”

“A person’s art is their own, therefore, Namaste.”

“Namaste?” I ask
, confused.

“I’m trying to say ‘fuck’ less, so instead of the big ‘F’ I’m saying
that. It channels my Zen and it’s like my own private joke only it’s funny to me and well now, you I guess.” She shrugs. “Whatever, you’re welcome.”

Having no idea what she’s talking about
, I get back to the subject at hand. “Why do that to your skin?”

“Why do you care?”

“I’m curious, is all. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Then she leans in and whispers
, “Then you’re fucking the wrong women.” Speechless, it doesn’t even register that she pushed me away so she could jump in and drive off, until she did. When she does a U-turn and approaches, she rolls down her window and yells “Namaste!” with her middle finger in the air, then floors it. Unlocking my own doors, I keep sight of her as she navigates the streets at warp speed, but I don’t lose her. I refuse to lose her again. Instead, I ride her ass all the way to the other side of town totally shocked we both weren’t pulled over. She drives like a bat out of hell.

When she parks, grabs her
duffel and walks into the Masonic Temple, I realize I have no fucking clue who I’m dealing with, but I do know for the first time in a long time, I’m enjoying finding out.

I love
the chase.

As women of
various ages and sizes come through the doors, I follow the crowd. The Masonic is a place of history, an icon in the city and right now its home to a roller derby match.

Laughing to myself
, I take a seat and check my messages. Then I watch as women start to skate around the track. Looking for her in every face that passes by frustrates me because I can’t find her and given her stature, I should be able to. It doesn’t help that these women are dressed as clowns either. All of a sudden a whistle blows, the skaters pick up their speed and within seconds there’s pushing; elbows flying and women are whipping their teammates ahead of themselves. I’ve heard of roller derby yes, seen it? No. But, I’m on the edge of seat because it’s fast paced, violent and quite frankly knowing she’s out there, it’s extremely hot knowing she can hold her own with women twice her size. Although, personally I don’t consider this more than a comedy act, it’s actually fun to watch.

During a break some women continue to skate while others check their phones or grab ice packs. When a wom
an is within speaking distance, I get up and tap her on the shoulder.  “Excuse me,” I say, getting her attention, “I’m here to watch a friend, Lina Tomek?”

“Oh!” she says
, spitting her mouth guard into her hand which I find disgustingly inappropriate. “You’re here to see Happy?”

“Lina,” I correct
, wondering if she took a blow to the head. “Lina Tomek.”

Ignoring me
, she yells over to the group on the bench. “Paging Happy Killmore, Happy Killmore!”

“What?” I hear and look over to see her take off her helmet and see she’s sporting pig tails, a bloody lip and a scowl. The scowl
is for me, I’m sure because it’s obvious I bring out the best in her.

“You got a visitor!”

Rolling her eyes, she skates over to my side of the rink and stops short of plowing me over. Even with skates on she doesn’t meet my shoulders. “You need friends, Anthony.”

“I have friends.”

“They busy tonight?”

“Probably,” I answer
vaguely seeing my opportunity. “It’s funny how small the world is. I bet we even know the same people.”

“Look, I’m not an interesting person. I work, I skate sometimes and when I’m not doing that
, I’m drinking, chain smoking and causing minor amounts of chaos. Detroit’s a big place. There are plenty of other women who probably get off on this sort of thing. A few are even affordable if you catch them on an off day. Hint hint, I am not one of them.”

“Venessa, Macy and
Jules
,” I say, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “Friends of yours?”

When her eyes narrow and her nostrils flare
, she turns and yells to the group. “I’m out! Hold my calls.” Then turns to me and says, “Meet me out front in ten minutes and if I were you, I’d keep my distance.”

Nodding
, I watch her skate off. I make my way back out to her truck to wait for her. Let the record show, she was out in seven minutes. Yeah, I’m that good.