Ocean Kills (Ocean Breeze) (2 page)

The officer huffed, but let go. Unobstructed, I followed my captors into the building and waited to be processed.

The station was tired: faded paint, chipped flooring, florescent lighting that punched you in the eye, and a bunch of deadbeats asleep in orange plastic chairs. Yep. Same as last time.

A grey haired, pinch-lipped lady glared at me over her spectacles. Could this get any more cliché? First, the fat doughnut-loving cop, now, the bird-like receptionist and her half-moon glasses. I rolled my eyes. The sooner this was over, the sooner I could forget.

“Name?”

Male hands fumbled on my lower back and wrists, unlocking my handcuffs. When they popped free, I rubbed my skin, glaring pointedly at Mr. Fat Policeman.

“Ocean Breeze.”

The woman cocked her head. “No jokes, young lady. Name.”

“I'm not joking. Ocean Breeze.” I hated this. This happened every single freakin’ time. No one believed that my mother would name me after toilet air-freshener.

“Hold please.” The lady tap-tapped on her keyboard. A tense moment later, she nodded at the officer behind me. “We have her records. Take her into interrogation room four, Officer Wade.”

I sighed. I could kiss five hours of my life goodbye once I stepped into that room. This never went easy. Unless I left, of course. Hmm, there was an idea. Did I have enough calories to leave? Could I be bothered to sit through the pathetic glances, the snide remarks, the pity looks?

As I trudged after Wade, I tensed my stomach muscles. Almost instantly, a headache formed. Yep, I was strong enough to leave, but how far I’d get I didn't know. I needed food. I’d see how much I could take, and if they hadn't booked me by the time the sun rose, I was outta here. Hopefully.

The metal door clanged shut behind me and I plonked onto a very uncomfortable plastic chair. The viewing window showed my tacky, heavily mascaraed fake eyelashes; my ebony eyes were pits of darkness. I missed the blue. My eyes started morphing from sapphire to black when the scorch marks began in my twenty-first year.

And of course I had to think about that now. I hissed between my teeth as a lacerating burn erupted on the upper part of my spine. I should've expected it. I killed. A toll must be paid, but this mark was later than the rest, I was normally taxed the moment I took a life, not half an hour later.

I sat frozen as the branding heat spread through me, delving deeper into my soul. I gasped as ice and gravel replaced my warmth and will to do right. Another piece taken. Another fragment of soul sucked into oblivion. What was I becoming?

I jumped as Officer Wade appeared, spreading my file open on the table. His jowls and belly were suitable for a sofa, not a police station.

And just like that, all my nightmares reared their ugly heads. My heart refused to beat; my skin turned corpse cold. No matter how hard I became, or how much I lied to myself that I was a ruthless murderess, I could never escape the terror.

The scorn and annoyance lining Officer Wade's face evaporated, leaving only pity as he studied the photograph of a blood-soaked eight-year-old girl.

Go on. Tell me how I was statistically meant to be a screw up. How no one could survive something like that and be normal.
I sure wasn't normal.

Officer Wade refused to meet my eyes, instead he stood and opened the door. “Um, Callan? I mean, Officer Bliss? Can you come in here a tick?”

Now what? Calling for reinforcements to deal with the screwed-up girl? Of course. I was just
so
scary.

Another man entered; this one wasn't bad looking. His sandy blond hair was streaked by the sun—a dead giveaway that he was a surfer. Sun-kissed hair was a signature trademark in Aussie: Women with fake boobs had trophy children; men with sun-bleached hair surfed. 

His muscular chest stretched the material of his blue police shirt. The snaps hung on for dear life, holding the fabric in place. Either he shrunk his shirt in the wash, or it was the wrong size. Not that I minded. I appreciated a good physique as much as the next girl.

Was he as perfect beneath the shirt and trousers as he appeared? Not that I cared. 

A dimple appeared on one cheek as he smiled. “I'm Officer Bliss. I'll be sitting in on tonight's talk.” He moved like the sea he obviously lived in—he reeked of salt and freedom.

“Talk? Yeah, okay, let's pretend this is a talk,” I snorted, keeping a careful eye on Mr. Surfer Dude. He cracked a laugh, and took a seat next to Wade.

He dragged the file toward him and I had the pleasure of watching the healthy tan drain from his face. His sea-green eyes darted to Wade's brown ones. A silent conversation took place. Not that it was really silent. I could guess what they were thinking.

Is this real?

The poor girl!

How could anyone survive this?

Some people cannot be saved.

Well, I had news for them: I didn't need saving. I was in control of my life, thank you very much. I liked being me. I
liked
doing what I did best—killing.

I tensed, pulling energy from my molecules, wincing as my head roared with gushing pain. Time for me to leave.
Please let me have enough energy
.

“I'm sorry, Ms. Breeze. You obviously didn't have the upbringing I did. And for that I want to tear apart the bastards who raped you,” Officer Bliss muttered. A vein appeared on his temple, his hands curled.

The passion. That voice—like churning waves in a storm. The shock stopped my deportation power, and I stayed put. This might get interesting. He broke the rules. Cop protocol normally included me being ignored while they chatted as if I wasn’t in the room.

“Go on. . .” I invited, while watching every nuance of his body language. Over the years, I’d mastered the art of reading people. I was now a walking lie detector. If his anger was fake, so help him, I wouldn't just disappear—I'd take something of his, too. Namely his gun.

“How old were you?”

“It says it there in the file.” I crossed my arms, wincing a little at my sore elbow. Stupid Wade and his rough hands. I shot him a scowl.

“You don't want to talk about it?” Officer Bliss watched me with a predator stare. His gaze was as intense as if he touched me from across the table.

I barked a laugh. Was this guy for real?

Leaning as far back as the torturous chair would let me, I purred, “Do you
honestly
think I want to talk about it?”
Don’t make me!
  

Those sea eyes never flinched, but stress lines appeared around his mouth. “Alright. I'll talk about it.” Clearing his throat, he recited, “On the 26
^th
of May, 1996, your parents and older brother were killed by two madmen. You were forced to watch as the murderers sliced limbs off your parents with a chainsaw, and made you stand in pools of blood.”

Saliva pooled as nausea rolled through me. He was going to make me relive it. Bastard.

His eyes flickered to mine before returning to my file, but not before I glimpsed the harsh pity residing in his gaze. It etched his face, tainting the air between us. “Once your family was slaughtered, the men then killed your sheep dog, and used the blood to paint devil signs on your naked eight-year-old body.”

I was no longer in the room. I was
back
there.
Back in horror-filled hell. My eyes only saw blood and death. My heart ceased to beat. 

Officer Bliss took a shuddering breath. “You weren't found for two days. By then, you were catatonic. You hadn't moved from the spot where the murderers told you to stay. For two days you stood, naked and covered in blood, watching your dismembered family be consumed by flies. The rape kit came back positive and you didn't speak a word for three years.”

Terror, akin to what coursed through me when I was eight, made me shudder. The corpses of my loved ones were all I could see. Why did he dredge up the past? What did it accomplish? Other than hurt me beyond anything I’d admit to. Shouldn’t he be berating me for the so-called prostitution charge?

The interrogation room swam with ghosts of the past. Memories swarmed me, thick and fast. Bile lined my throat while my stomach squeezed itself to death. I tried to fight it, to keep my anger, but I was small again. Defenseless again. My quavering body was frozen with fear. Blood. Warm. Oozing. My nose full of the copper tang as my parents' life-force turned the lounge carpet into a swamp of death. Strong, hard fingers prying at my body. Grunts and thrusts as the two murderers ravaged my small frame.

No! Stop. It's over. No more.
No one would hurt me like that ever again. “Shut up! Stop it!”

Officer Bliss jumped and slammed the file closed. “I'm—I'm sorry.”

My eyes were wild. It was over. So why was I suddenly that eight-year-old again? I prided myself on being an ice queen. My heart had long ago succumbed to the cold embrace of frost, but even as I clawed my way back from the memory, the air in the tiny room was sucked into a black hole of misery and evil.
It’s in the past, Ocean. You survived
.

Fat Officer Wade cleared his throat and spoke, awkwardness in every word. “Tell me about tonight. I flashed my lights at you. Why did you run? Prostitution isn’t illegal, but you’re required to stop if requested to do so.”

I latched onto the topic. The memory of taking that bastard's life sent satisfying, fiery strength through me. The cold claws of anxiety let go, and I resettled into my actress self. This was safe. I was safe.
I ran because I killed a man
. Like I'd ever admit that.

“I wasn’t doing anything wrong; I saw no reason to stop. Excuse me if I don't trust the law. If you continue with the gruesome details of my file you will also know the two men were never caught.” I hated myself for the rush of tears that pressed on my eyelids. I would not cry. Not now. Not ever. “How can I respect the law that let the devil's spawn live after my family died?” I pierced them each with a glare. “Believe me, you would run too.”

Officer Bliss clenched his jaw.

I couldn't understand him. He wore an aura of old cop, which couldn’t be true since I guessed he was only in his late twenties, but his tanned face was ashen. Had he never seen a case like mine? I was hardly unusual. Not common, but not unusual.

He shook his head, clearing the horror from his eyes. “Why sell yourself? After everything you survived, why allow sleaze-bags to touch you? To buy you?” He swallowed hard. The way he asked was very personal. As if
he
needed to know, not the cop force he represented. “Kings Cross is the capital of prostitutes, so why degrade yourself?”

He truly did care. It wasn't an act. I would have sniffed that out of him in a heartbeat. I couldn't afford to allow sympathy to thaw my frozen heart. I was an assassin. A killer who took the lives of men who didn't deserve to live. Men like the ones who took my innocence—my chance at a happy life—and chopped it to smithereens with a chainsaw.

Sniffing, making my voice as cold as Antarctica, I said, “Are you going to wrap up this pity party and book me? Or should I order a pizza and get the tissues ready for a cry fest?”

Officer Wade spluttered, but it was Bliss who gave me a wry smile. “You're tougher than you look. I respect that.”

Despite myself, I returned his smile. It was nice to invoke pride in a man's eyes for once, rather than the fear and knowledge he was about to die.

“Well, we don’t have any evidence you were up to no good. So what should we book you on?” Officer Bliss asked, picking up a pen to flick over his knuckles.

Ah, he was one of those: never able to sit still. I always wondered how people did that with a pen. I watched in fascination as he balanced the thin Bic, twisting it between his digits effortlessly. My face grew hot. His fingers were agile. Long, graceful. . . what else could he do—?
Stop that, Ocean. You're dirtier than a truck driver.

I leaned forward, well aware that my cleavage was pushed to the max, and spilling over my boob-tube. Tacky, smutty, but I’d been bait tonight, after all. It wasn't like I always dressed like this. It was the price to pay on this particular mission. 

It took me seven years not to slice and dice at the barest of brushes against my skin, but now I was a robot. I was as good as dead inside and it was only going to get worse. My back twinged in agreement. The scorch marks on my spine held evidence: I was a ticking disaster.

I smirked, answering his question. “Well, Mr. Tub-o-lard over there seems to think I was selling my booty. So I guess that's what you book me on.”

“Were you? Selling yourself, I mean?” Officer Bliss's eyes practically begged me to say no. What was with guys wanting to believe in innocent women? Did it matter I'd only slept with two men in my entire twenty-four-year existence?

“Yes. Yes, I was selling myself. Good coin, too.”
Take that, Mr. Sympathetic. I don't want your pity.

His eyebrows fell, causing a slight frown to appear. I bet he had a little wifey at home who was curled up asleep, waiting for him to finish work. Men like him didn't last long on the market.

“Officer Wade, would you mind stepping outside for a moment?” Officer Bliss looked pointedly at Chubby.

“Eh, sure. I'll be close if you need me.”

“Care to bring back a doughnut? I'm starved!” I called after him. I didn't get the reaction I hoped for. The door slammed shut.

Officer Bliss eyed me. “When was the last time you ate?”

Oh please. Here we go with the protectiveness
.
Lay off already
. I wasn't his to protect.

“A few hours ago.” It wasn't—more like this time yesterday. You needed money to eat. I could get my hands on stacks of the stuff, but I wasn't a thief.

“Where do you live?”

“Around,” I hedged. Did he really want to hear that my accommodation normally included a cardboard box or a dingy mattress in a safe community house for the night?

“Do you do drugs?”

Now hang on a freakin’ second.
“Do you truly think, after the fucked-up childhood I've endured, I would put crap in my body?” I jutted my arms out, showing perfect pearly skin with no track marks. “See?”