End Game (22 page)

“Usually when a girl is naked in my shower, I’m with her.”

“I bet she isn’t handcuffed to the bed, either.”

Humor glints in his eyes. “Sometimes.”

But he gives me no time to respond. With the gentle touch of his finger under my chin, my head turns closer to his, until soft lips kiss mine so tenderly that I feel a different sort of desire stir inside me.

He pulls away and my heart is still banging against his chest. He picks up the soap, oblivious to the feelings he stirred inside me, and runs his hands down my body as he washes me. I take the razor sitting on the wall.

“Can I use this?”

“You’re not going to slit my throat, are you?”

I shake my head and bend over to shave, my ankle protesting slightly.

“You shouldn’t be standing on that.”

“I shouldn’t do a lot of things.”

He wraps his arms around my waist and blood rushes to my head, when I feel his cock hardening against my leg.

“I can’t keep my hands off you.”

A sharp pain shoots up my leg and my face crumples into a whimper. Joe gives me a concerned look and shuts off the water. “You need to stay off that leg.”

He brushes my back as I lean on my other leg. “You’re very bossy.”

“I
am
the boss of you, remember?”

I turn to his face with a smile, but there’s no laughter on his face. “Yeah. Whatever.”

I don’t feel like a fight, anyway. At least, that’s what I tell myself. This was what I wanted, right? For someone to swoop in and take control?

Be careful what you fucking wish for.

After we’re toweled and dried, Joe hands me a pair of his black exercise pants that I have to roll up three or four times, and a Rolling Stones t-shirt that drowns me. He tries not to laugh at me.

“We can get some of your clothes later.”

He pulls on a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt, looking far better than I do at the moment. Joe takes my arm and steers me into the living room, which looks slightly better than yesterday. It’s as if he spent the morning cleaning. The broken glass is swept up and the bottles of beer are gone. A wet streak on the coffee table hints that it was recently wiped. A small smile tugs at my face when I sit down. He joins me on the couch and I take in the room for a moment and reel in the strangeness of it all.

I gingerly take a photo from the end table and study it, my mouth dropping.

The smile of the man in the photograph is so ostentatious that I have to do a double take to realize that it belongs to Joe. He looks a few years younger; his arm wrapped around what must be his sister—a pretty, vivacious girl with the same eyes. He wears a ridiculous grin, the dimples in his cheeks carved in deeply. He’s fit to burst. What a remarkable change from the sullen man sitting next to me, watching me study the photo. Joe does smile, of course, but it’s never really authentic. He gets amused, he laughs—but there’s no joy in his smile. The man in the photo looks like he’s in love with his life.

“You look so happy.”

He takes the photo from my hands, frowning at it. “I’m not that guy anymore.”

“Is that why you have all the pictures facing the other way? Or is it because you can’t bear to look at her?”

Joe gives me a sharp look, and for a moment I’m afraid I’ve crossed some line. I inch closer to him on the couch as he returns his gaze to the photo, his eyes glazed over.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re the one who told me that it doesn’t mean you’ll never laugh again.”

He slams the picture frame on the coffee table and I jump into the couch, trembling. “Just because I get to babysit you for a few days doesn’t mean you get to ask questions about my life.”

I don’t know why I’m prying into his life. I guess I just want to help him. He’s running away from dealing with his feelings. It’s so obvious if you look around at the place.

But it’s really not the time.

I avert my eyes from the frightening heat in his gaze. “S—sorry.”

We lapse into silence for a while. Joe watches the news and Comedy Central and flicks from channel to channel restlessly. I fidget in the couch, wrestling with questions I want to ask him, until I can’t take the silence anymore.

“What’s going to happen to me? Am I going to die?”

Joe looks annoyed until he hears the tremble in my voice. Then he sets the remote down and slides next to me, the heat of his body instantly calming me. He pulls me into his chest and cradles my head in the crook of his neck.

“That’s not going to happen, Marisa.”

“You don’t
know
that.”

“Trust me.”

Trust him? How am I supposed to trust him? He doesn’t even trust
me
. Hell, I don’t trust myself. I have these weird, inappropriate feelings for a man who is supposed to keep me prisoner here. Maybe he’s even supposed to hurt me. I take his hand in mine and I feel a rush of revulsion for the violence I saw him commit, but he’s never really directed that violence towards me. At times, Joe can be firm, but he’s never hurt me. That’s why I believe him.

I pull away from him and wrap my arms around my knees. “I’m all confused. I can barely wrap my head around what’s happening, and now…”

His body turns towards me. “And now…what?”

Can he really not see the conflict I’m struggling with? “I have all these fucked up feelings for you.”

He shakes his head. “Well you picked a great time to talk about them.”

“When else am I supposed to? Between getting the shit beaten out of me and getting handcuffed to your bed, I haven’t had much time.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

Say you feel the same way.

But he shifts and squirms on the couch, looking uncomfortable at the very idea of talking about feelings. “I feel sorry for you if you think I’m the kind of guy that you want. You’ve seen what I’m capable of.”

“Yeah, I have,” I swallow hard. “It frightens me, but not as much…not as much as if you weren’t in my life.”

He opens and closes his mouth, looking lost. What he does frightens me. Not him. Never him.

“Look, you can repeat that badass rhetoric that you throw around all the time, but I know you care about me.” At least, I fucking hope he does. “I don’t know why it’s so hard for you to admit it.”

He looks down at his hands. “I don’t want to care about anyone. I don’t want to feel anything, that was the whole point of ‘no strings.’”

“How was that going for you so far?” I try to keep the edge out of my voice.

Deep brown eyes glaze over with pain as he rubs his palms together, looking increasingly uncomfortable. “Not well,” he admits.

So it’s about his sister. He still hasn’t dealt with her passing. It’s a defense mechanism, the oldest one in the book. Don’t get close to anyone, and you can’t get hurt. Unluckily for me, dying seems to be a very likely prospect in the next few days. It’s strange how little I worry about it. Maybe it’s because he’s here.

“I don’t think I’m capable of no strings. I don’t think you are, either.” My chest squeezes painfully when he looks at me with slightly wide eyes. “I want to be with you. I don’t want to just be your
comare.
”

His hand finds mine on the couch and squeezes, a pain issuing from his throat as he sighs. “Marisa…” He looks like he’s on the verge of rejecting me, of saying no. The delicate fortress I’ve built around myself to keep the pain outside is about to collapse. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I just don’t feel the same way.”

“
Oh
.”

Shit. I was wrong. I was so wrong and said all of that embarrassing shit.

He hurt me anyway. My insides crumble and the world falls away. I thought, at least, that I had him, but it turned out that I had nothing. Joe gives me another pitying look as he gets off the couch and walks away, presumably to leave me alone out of respect for my feelings. To leave me alone to
cry
.

I don’t feel like crying. I feel empty. That’s it. There’s no hope for me, now. The sting of unrequited feelings hurts less than the pain of a bullet, and the walls feel frighteningly close around me. No escape. No security.

JOE

I’ve read about this thing that happens to kidnapped victims. It’s called “Stockholm Syndrome.”  It’s a phenomenon where victims start to express feelings of sympathy and empathy for their captors. Is there such a thing for something happening in the reverse?

I feel sorry for her.

It was bad enough seeing her face all fucked up at her apartment. My heart broke when she cried, her small hands cradling her mangled head. I couldn’t stand to watch her get so upset, so I left. Now that I know who did it, my mind has been obsessed—
consumed
with thoughts of violent reprisal. I already killed one of the pricks, but the rest will have to go.

I walk into the living room to see Marisa sitting on the couch, watching the Disney channel. Christ, I didn’t even know that I have it. The moment she sees me, she swallows hard and shuts the TV off. She balls her fists at her sides and cringes when I walk closer.

“Sorry.”

The tense tone she uses and her darting eyes fill me with searing guilt. She’s back to being afraid of me.

“You can watch TV if you want.”

“Thanks,” she says tersely, but makes no move to turn it back on.

I frown. I didn’t like rejecting her. Hell, I felt like an asshole when her face fell apart. Of course, I lied out of my ass. The truth is that just hanging around her makes me happier than I’ve been in months. If things weren’t such a fucking mess and if I’d met her under different circumstances, it would be a different story. I just don’t think it’s wise to have her as anything more than a
comare
. Jack wouldn’t like it, and when Jack doesn’t like you, he gets rid of you.

That’s the reality.

It was a nice game to play with her, but it has got to end. I have to end it.

If only the suffocating feeling in my chest would disappear.

I sit down next to her and absorb her silence, the way her chest rises and falls, the careful manner in which she places her hands on her thighs. Her face looks a lot better. Almost healed, really, except for a faint yellow shadow on the side of her head.

“How are you feeling?”

Oh, I
’
m sure she
’
s fucking feeling great after you shot her down. Stupid question.

“Okay.”

“Listen,” I begin in a low voice, “about yesterday—”

Marisa suddenly grabs my bicep and a rush of dizziness makes me forget the rest of my sentence when she climbs onto my lap like it’s the most normal thing in the world. I have to appreciate the gall of this woman. Did I say she could do that?

But then she straddles my waist and my mouth is suddenly dry. Blonde hair falls around my hands as I touch her small face, which is wretched with sadness. Her hair tickles my face as she leans into me, and her lips fall on mine, my mouth open in surprise.

What is she doing? I told her yesterday—

Dude, shut up.

My heart pounds a bit faster and I wrap my arms around her back, playing with the seam of her t-shirt. I pull her closer to me, feeling lost in the sensation of her tongue playing with my lips. Both of us are fucked in the head. She’s in over her head, and I’ve completely lost mine. I realize that.

No strings!

It’s a feeble shout in the wind, swallowed up almost immediately when she sits up and tears her own shirt off her body. Her
naked
body. Two perfect tits stare at my face and I feel my jeans tighten around my cock. My hand slides up her silky skin and grabs her tits. She leans forward, pressing herself against my palm. Her breath tickles my ear.

“You know, this isn’t so bad. No work. Just relaxing with you.”

My fingers dig into her sides. She has no idea what the fuck she’s saying, has no idea of the danger she’s in. I’m such a fucking asshole. If I cared about this girl at all, I would give her the two grand I have stashed here and tell her to run. Get out of New York.

She’s relaxed, but I spend the days wanting to claw out of my skin. If they want her dead, they’ll expect me to do it—and I can’t! I can’t do this hit for them. Vince was right, I have gone soft.

Fuck!

Her hands freeze on my chest. “Are you okay? You look a little tense.”

No, sweetheart. I definitely am not okay by any stretch of the imagination.

“I’m all right.” Then I shake my head, realizing how that sounds. “I’m more than all right. You are beautiful.”

I bury my face in her chest, trying to get lost in the feeling of her tits in my hands. They’re warm and soft, and for some reason they make my cock hard enough to gouge holes through my jeans.

At the back of my mind, I’m worried about the guy I killed. Sooner or later, they’re going to come after me. They probably already suspect what happened. I don’t know if he was made or not, but if he was that will have serious repercussions for me. Jack might be working out a deal with them right now, and I would have no idea. I won’t know until it happens—you never know. One minute, you’re going out to eat with friends, and the next your head is wrapped by a plastic bag, and they sink two bullets in your head.

I wouldn’t see it coming.

Fuck the half naked girl in your hands.

I’m about to rip off her pants, when
a flashing screen fills my body with dread. The small cell-phone to the right of my head plays a merry tone. I look at it. Jack.

“
Fuck
! I’m sorry, Marisa. I have to take this.”

She slides off my lap and I watch her pick up her t-shirt, feeling deep regret inside my throat.

I have to answer it.

“Yeah?” I clear my throat.

“
Joe! How are you holding up there?
”

I still have a huge boner. I tug my jeans painfully, and will it to go down. “Can’t complain. What’s going on?”

“
I
’
m going to be sending someone down to watch the girl. I
’
ve organized a sit-down with Carmine
’
s underboss. I want you to come with us.
”