Scarlett Page 2

  Meet me in Savannah.

  Liam

  Savannah, Georgia

  “Matthew, chapter five, verse four, ‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.’” The old priest closes his worn bible after reciting the assumed consoling words. Words that I’m sure he’s repeated numerous times, at many funerals, and has likely had memorized since he was in seminary. That’s one of the things that always fucked me up about priests. Besides that fucking white collar, which I’m sure chokes the shit out of them, they believe their words actually provide some sort of comfort. Which is bullshit. Words mean jack shit to the lost and broken.

  A grieving widow cries violently, as mourners toss handfuls of dirt into a hole the expensive wooden coffin is about to call home. The black lace veil she’s wearing does little to mask the tears tumbling from her downcast eyes.

  She used to grieve with them. All of them. I’ve followed her for almost a year now, from one goddamn cemetery to the next, and although she always remained in the background, I’ve watched her break down over and over again. However, lately her tears have dried up, and the number of godforsaken funerals she’s attended has become less and less. Thank fuck for that.

  Using my boot, I grind my cigarette into the ground, trying to ignore the irony of the whole “ashes to ashes” thing. I begin trailing her again as she makes her way onto the old cobblestone street, the route she always takes now imprinted in my memory. Right on Park. Left on Oak. Another right on Maple. Then straight until she reaches that fucking fountain surrounded by so many goddamn tourists, I want to lose my shit.

  Perhaps she thinks she’s hiding in plain sight, as she unzips her backpack day after day, retrieves a coin, and then tosses it into the water. It always lands without a splash and sinks straight to the bottom. She’ll stay here for the next few hours, surrounded by fucking birds and people, and write in that journal she always carries around with her. This is her routine, so I know I have enough time to go home for a cold shower, some food, and possibly a quick fuck.

  I don’t have to worry about unlocking the door to this seedy ass apartment I share with Ace. Some fuckers recently kicked it in when they tried to steal our shit, so lately we’ve been using our Glocks to protect our shithole palace. The smell of marijuana slithers out of our apartment, but I know it’s the sting of heroin that’s got the bitches inside higher than a kite. The place is infested with drugs and littered with greedy whores, and if I didn’t trust Ace with my life, I’d have killed the bastard by now for making me put up with his shit.

  “Why the hell are you all wet?” Ace questions me as I walk in. “No, I’m not talking to you darling.” He grins up at the bitch riding his cock on our dumpster find sofa. “I know why you’re wet.” He winks at her before lifting her off of him. She pouts when he picks her crinkled dress off the floor and tosses it at her.

  “It’s hotter than fucking balls out there, man,” I say, as I wander into the kitchen. I find a clean glass in the sink and fill it with some water from the faucet. It tastes like chlorine and copper, but at least it’s cold. Ace follows me into the kitchen, fumbling in his steps as he puts his fucking dick back in his jeans. I notice the unpleasant hum from the fridge has gone silent, so I kick the dated appliance a few times and bring it back to life. I reach inside and grab a cold slice of pizza, barely chewing it up before swallowing it whole. It feels rough going down, scraping my esophagus, but my growling stomach doesn’t seem to mind.

  “Let me guess, another funeral?” There’s a layer of concern etched in his voice.

  I run a hand through my hair and let out a sigh. “Yeah, but on a positive note, she only went to one today.”

  He shakes his head as he reaches into the fridge and pops open a beer. How he can stand the taste of the cheap domestic beer is beyond me. There’s a reason they make the loser down it in drinking games. It tastes like piss.

  “I don’t know how you do it, man.” He shakes his head and exhales a deep breath.

  “I’ve been ordered to watch her, Ace. I don’t really have a choice.”

  He stares at me in silence, skepticism clearly in his eyes, as he chugs down the entire can, trying to get a fucking read on my emotions.

  “You’re getting attached,” he bluntly points out.

  No shit. It pisses me off how quickly he can call my bullshit.

  “Come on, man, you know me better than that.” But even I don’t believe the lies I’m trying to tell myself.

  “Just be careful.” He crushes the aluminum can in his hand and tosses it into the trash. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.” He punches me in the shoulder and heads back out to the women in our living room. For a brief moment, I consider allowing one of them to give me head, but I rule that out when a vision of her pops back into my mind. This is becoming a daily thing for me now. Coming home, thinking of her, and then jacking off in the shower to visions of her pouty pink lips wrapped around my cock.

  Fuck, this isn’t good.

  Frustrated, I shake that vision from my thoughts, skip the shower, and head back to that goddamn fountain, loathing the fact that the only time I feel at ease anymore is when I have my eyes on her.

  The daylight’s slowly dying as I find her in her usual spot, sprawled under the shade of a giant oak tree. I like this part of the day. The sun shines the brightest just before it’s about to be engulfed by darkness. Hungry blackbirds circle the fountain, then dive through the air in unison, eager to catch some bits of bread children toss into the sweltering summertime heat. Laughter erupts when an overfed bird takes a shit on one of the little bastards now screaming for his mother.

  Streaks of the afternoon sun cascade through the branches, illuminating her perfect pale skin, and hair so shiny and long. I want nothing more than to wrap it around my fist, so I can pull her into me and finally get a taste of her. This girl is a mindfuck. All that beauty wrapped into complex thoughts and unspoken words makes my dick hard for whatever the fuck she’d give me. Not that I can ever have her. She’s a goddamn angel, and I’m the reaper of darkness. That kind of beauty could never belong to a man like me, unless I took it.

  That won’t stop me from wanting her though. She’s my one weakness. Even if she can’t know I exist, and regardless of the fact I know she’ll be my downfall. She’s slipped under my skin. She understands what’s it like to live in darkness. To be forced into a life you don’t want to live. I understand her better than anyone else. The pain in her eyes. The secrets behind her smile. The way she thinks, and how her mind processes thoughts in silence. In solitude.

  Like me.

  I can still hear the unforgettable click from the prison guards locking me into the six-by-eight jail cell I earned for committing multiple sins for my stepfather. He could have bought my way to freedom. Made a few calls and paid off a judge. Instead, he let me rot like a decaying carcass on the side of the highway to teach me a lesson. To make it fucking crystal clear that he owns me. Yeah, I got his goddamn message loud and clear, but he won’t own me forever. Two damn years behind bars gave me plenty of time to think and get comfortable with the idea of being alone.

  Solitude is bittersweet. It’s easy to lose yourself in the replays of memories, long after they’ve transpired, and in the nostalgia of past regrets and “what ifs.” To realize you could have been anything, but instead, you became what they fucking molded you into. A criminal. Loneliness can drive a person crazy. Dark thoughts always have a way of surfacing, serving as a constant reminder happiness can’t exist for everyone.

  She may appear calm as she sits there, devouring books like they’re candy, but I know that on the inside she’s screaming, like me. Inner demons can only be fought in chaos. She’s like a falling star, exploding right before it burns out, making the darkness appear beautiful before it all fades to black.

  She laughs as a young boy chases around a girl he’s clearly smitten with. He’s holding a bright green frog in his hand, and demanding she kiss the slimy amphibian. I wa
tch as her gaze drifts to a mother blowing bubbles with her small daughter. The little girl is enchanted by the translucent orbs and giggles when she pops one with her finger.

  I put out my cigarette when I see her close her book. She looks sad as she begins to stuff her things into her backpack. When she stands to leave, her summery dress lifts with a warm breeze, and like the asshole I am, I try to get a peek at what’s underneath. My eyes follow her fingertips as she casually brushes off a few stubborn leaves stuck to her dress, and my dick hardens imagining how her long legs would feel wrapped around me.

  If only I had stopped thinking with my dick for one second, I’d have paid more attention to the lonely fucker in the Armani suit, sitting on the park bench, pretending to read today’s newspaper. If I didn’t allow myself to get lost in thoughts of her for the hundredth time today, I’d have picked up on the way he was watching her, and memorized his fucking face, but I didn’t.

  Instead, I just followed her home, making sure she got in safely, like I do every single night.

  Scarlett

  A plume of wispy gray smoke curls through the air, choking me as I head downstairs. The lingering scent of overcooked food is a clear indication Mrs. Pearl’s been cooking again. The burnt smell of smoke is embedded in the fibers of the carpet, yet the woman still refuses to use a kitchen timer. When I first moved into her home, I wondered why all of the smoke detectors hung from the ceiling in need of repair. However, on my second night here, I watched her take an old broom to one last stubborn alarm that feared for its life. The poor thing never stood a chance against her.

  “Evening, sweetheart,” she croaks out in her cigarette-laden voice. I’m greeted with appliances coated in decades’ worth of grease as I head into the kitchen. As always, she is experimenting with absurd ingredients, this time trying to whip up some sort of meal with what appears to be left over Spaghetti-Os and a box of off-brand Bisquick.

  It was an unfortunate coincidence how her husband passed away just before I landed in Savannah, leaving her with an empty house and a stack of bills and final notices. She placed an ad in the newspaper about a room for rent, and since it was cheap, I was quick to snatch it up.

  “Hi, Mrs. Pearl. Something sure smells delicious.” I grin because this woman knows how to make my heart smile even when it has no reason to.

  “You’ve got perfect timing, love.” She looks into the oven, in hopes that whatever’s inside doesn’t burn like breakfast did this morning. “I was just whipping up something special. I call it the ‘Savannah Surprise!’” She opens the oven door and takes out what appears to be some sort of charred spaghetti casserole.

  “Do I dare ask what’s the surprise?” I tease. Her gray hair is folded into a messy bun, and the apron tied around her middle reads, “Hot Stuff Coming Through.” She’s the type of chaos I embrace. The kind that makes you feel like home.

  “Pistachios!” she says victoriously. “Why don’t you have a seat? I’ll have supper on the table before you know it!” She pinches my cheeks and gives me her signature toothless smile.

  “You’re too good to me, Mrs. Pearl.” I give her a warm hug and she returns it the way my mother always did. It’s funny how something as simple as a hug can make you feel whole again. Even if it’s just for a few seconds. “I had a really big lunch though,” I say, patting my stomach. “How about I cook you something special tomorrow night, and we have dinner together?”

  I appreciate her kindness, but even if she knew how to cook, I’d never take food from her knowing she needs it more than me. It’s the same reason I always make sure the power and water get paid before the bills land in her mailbox.

  “Oh, that sounds wonderful.” I can see the wheels spinning in her head as she taps her cheek, trying decide what she wants me to cook. “How about you make us some chocolate salami and fried pickles?” The lines around her eyes crease when she smiles.

  “You got it.” I wink. “Have a good night.”

  I toss her a small wave before sneaking out through the squeaky back door. The night is muggy, and the humidity hits me the moment I step out into the darkness.

  I hate it here in Savannah. I don’t fit in at all. I’m suspicious of everyone I come across, and I know they’re just as wary. No one ever prepares you for death. They never sit you down in school and warn you how difficult it will be watching the people you love slip away. How they can move on and go to someplace better, without you.

  I take a deep breath, and mentally prepare myself for another night of disappointments. Answers don’t come easy in this town.

  My father once told me, “What the world needs more of is love, for sin cannot exist amongst love.” I wish that his words were correct, and that I still saw the world through his eyes, but that is simply not the case.

  Moral codes are ingrained in our culture, neatly packaged and presented to us with a bow in religious texts and proverbs. They warn that when taking revenge, to only do so in proportion to the wrong that has been done against you. An eye for an eye. A death for a death. And while my father always preached love and forgiveness, he was never left to deal with the fallout of someone stealing his world out from beneath him.

  I’ve been told that God is the ultimate judge, but I’ve been told a lot of things. Some grievances are impossible to let go of, and some wrongs require retaliation. My thirst for vindication runs deep. For until these wrongs are righted, it’s impossible to find peace.

  Eyes. They’re everywhere. Bearing holes into my empty soul. Watching me. Following me. Wanting me. A particular pair of piercing blue eyes with silvery flakes and amber flecks has been stalking me all night. They notice every time I inhale a deep breath, and every swallow I take of the smooth whiskey with the delicious burn. They’re analyzing me. Memorizing me.

  Hopefully, it’s me that they want. Not my breasts I have on display, or my legs highlighted by a pair of six-inch stilettos. Because tonight, I want him. The man with the icy blue eyes in the expensive Armani suit, carrying today’s newspaper.

  You notice a lot when you become the pair of observing eyes.

  I don’t make it a habit of frequenting the same underground clubs each night. I usually go in, get the information I need, and then move on to the next. This one looks nearly identical to the others I’ve visited. Same dark wood bar, copper ceiling, and exposed brick walls. Same hidden door guarded by a brainless bodyguard, with the same password to get in. Canary.

  I leave my lonely table for one and approach the quiet bar with my empty tumbler. I put myself between the man with the prowling eyes and a vacant stool, and lightly shake my glass in the air. The ice cubes clank together, drawing the attention of our bartender. I smile at him, then slide my glass across the varnished wood, leaving a slippery trail of cool water in its wake.

  “I’ll have another round, please.” I keep my voice low and velvety. The man drums his fingers against the bar, as he pretends to read the paper. His strong jaw is set in a perpetual frown, yet the lines around his eyes give him a mischievous look. He’s older than I am, and if I had to guess, I’d place him around thirty. He smells of soap, sandalwood, and money, and I’m sure that if I sat here long enough, I could get drunk off the scent of him alone.

  “Put it on my tab, Marcus,” he instructs our bartender, without looking up. His smooth southern draw rumbles over the elegant piano music.

  Our bartender nods his head in acknowledgement, as I take a seat next to the man. An intoxicating buzz goes straight to my brain, and I can feel my heart throbbing in my temples, but it’s not from the whiskey. At least that’s what I’m telling myself anyway. After months of endless digging, I’ve exhausted almost every lead. I’m hopeful that this man may have information that can lead me to the monsters who murdered my parents.

  “Thank you.” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Beau Bellamy.” The sound of his voice warms my body as he turns to face me. Eye contact can be a dan
gerous thing. He establishes dominance with just one stare. The intensity in his eyes is hypnotic and demands attention, and the intimacy in his look is more powerful than words.

  “What brings you to Savannah, Miss…?” He allows the question to dangle from his lips, as he looks for me to confirm the name I’m certain he already knows.

  I extend my hand for him to shake. “I’m Scarlett, and how do you know I’m not from around here?”

  “The accent gave it away.” He winks at me, and I nervously bite my bottom lip. He smirks, as he gently grabs my hand and brings it to his lips. They’re soft and I’m sure capable of doing many wicked things. His breath is warm, and it feels as if he is sealing my fate with one innocent kiss to the top of my hand.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Scarlett.” He lets his words vibrate against my trembling fingers, and I hate my body for betraying me in this moment. This is not why I’m here. I gulp and quickly remove my hand from his. The loss of heat is immediate and noticed by the both of us. I take another sip of my whiskey, needing a moment to collect my thoughts.

  “So, Beau, do you come here often?” I blush, immediately regretting the question as soon as it leaves my lips. I mentally wish I could blame my poor word choice on the liquor, and not on the effect he clearly has over me. He chuckles and my insides melt.

  “Why, Miss Jacobs, are you hitting on me?” He smiles, and I have to remind myself to breathe. His teeth are so perfect and white. I’m pretty sure he’s a wolf and I just became the prey.

  I let out a small laugh. “No, I’m sorry, that came out wrong.” He clearly enjoys watching me squirm, but I plan on putting an end to that quickly. “I’m afraid you do have me at an unfair advantage though.”

  “Is that so?” he asks, and I know I’ve piqued his interest.