BUFF
Authors: Mandy Burns
BUFF
Mandy Burns
Copyright © Mandy Burns 2015
The right of Mandy Burns to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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Dedication
To all readers
Table of Contents
“
Shssh, you know you want this. I’ll make you feel
real
good. I promise.”
Becky's pulse pounds in her throat when his tongue grazes against her neck, burning her skin. He must have spiked her drink. She doesn’t remember getting into his truck.
“Wanna know what it’s like to be a real woman?” Tears well under her eyes and her throat stings with the bile rising up and down her throat.
But the knife is so cold against her neck she dares not move.
He forces her over the hood of his truck. There is nothing she can do. She is helpless. A lamb to the slaughter.
The Sun seems to set faster out here in the outback and what little light is left in her world, vanishes.
This isn’t happening, this is not happening—
A loud rumble pierces the air.
For a second her mind reads it as thunder roaring. But this isn’t thunder. She sees something moving in the distance. A dark shadow.
And it’s heading straight for them.
The dark figure rides up like a stallion, skids to a halt, the mud splattering beneath the rubber and metal. A large presence dismounts the bike and the crunch of heavy boots pound the ground as the roaring engine of a motorbike fills her ears.
“Get the fuck off her.” His voice is fierce, oddly comforting in this nightmare. He steps toward them, his gun pointed. She can only see little more than his silhouette against the burning Sun and through the haze of her tears.
“Fuck you, shit-head! Stay the fuck outta this.” Her assailant yanks her up from the truck, dragging her back with him. “You ain’t gonna shoot-for-shit unless you wanna hit this little bitch.” The edge of the knife cuts deep and the feel of warm liquid trickles down her neck.
She’s nearing on death.
“I won’t ask again. Get your fucking hands off her. You’re on Royal Reapers’ land. The fuck you think you are telling me what to do on my own goddamn turf?”
From behind her a bitter laugh slices the air. “From what I hear on the streets, asshole…” His free hand reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a gun, aiming it head on. “…there ain’t no Royally shit
Reapers left no more, so you see—this is how it is: I’m taking this virgin bitch to Hell and you're gonna motherfuckin’ die with her.”
“I’m warning you.” The mysterious voice is low and guttural.
With the rapist’s attention on the other man, the pressure of the knife lessens. He’s going to kill her either way.
So she moves.
Driving her elbow as hard as she can into his stomach, his gun goes off and the bullet hits its target. The stranger plummets to the ground. He doesn’t move.
No, no, no—help me, please!
With no time to think she swings her clenched fist up into her attacker’s nose. He bends forward, winded. If she runs now he'll only shoot her. She has to act fast.
She tries to kick him in the balls with her heel but misses, hitting his thigh instead. Before he can aim the gun at her she grabs hold of his hand and bites down, hard, on the first exposed skin she finds, tasting blood as he drops the gun.
“Fuck! You fucking bitch!”
He doesn’t stay off balance for very long and lands a punch at the side of her face. Her head splats hard into the mud as she plummets to the ground. It hurts everywhere.
His hands wrench at her leg like tentacles.
This is it. This is her end.
All of a sudden he lets go of her...
Her vision doubles and through the ringing pain inside her head she hears two more shots. Did her attacker release her only to kill the other man?
Oh God, Oh God, I’m next...
She tries to get up and run, refusing to die, but she is dizzy and only manages to drag her crumbling body a couple of inches before someone comes for her.
“Please! Please don’t hurt me, please!”
"I’m not gonna hurt you—hold still, goddammit." Someone strong and sturdy scoops her up before carrying her in a set of big, burly arms—one side covered in blood.
The punch to her head must have hit her hard because her head begins to sway, her vision slowly fading.
She doesn’t remember anything after, except: A silver cross glistening over ‘Olivia’ and her whispering the words, “Please don’t hurt me...” before darkness consumed her entire world.
Four years later…
“I WANT THIS DONE
soon as possible. No mistakes. You hear me?" The static on the cell crackles. His boss is angrier than usual; not that he can blame him. Betrayal has a funny way of bringing out the worst in people.
“Got it."
“No mistakes. The minute you’re done, get back here. We’ve arrangements to take care of."
“Consider it done. Back Monday morning latest."
“Good.”
The line goes dead and he knows exactly what to do. This job courses through his veins; it’s second nature to him.
Someone disrespects you? You get rid of them.
Someone double crosses you? You get rid of them.
It’s that simple. Get in, execute the mission, then get out. Leave nothing behind. He knows exactly what to expect.
Someone is going to pay.
Someone is going to die.
BECKY HAS TO RUN
at night.
Night time is perfect for the quiet. And it’s been one of those days where silence is the only thing that feels right and good.
She turns right and heads uphill toward the public park. The shops are closed and dark. Aside from the glow of the street lamps, the only lights are coming from the local church.
Peace...
It ate at her.
The unhappiness over the past five years has slowly become this living, breathing thing. It follows her wherever she goes.
Her running becomes a jog as her legs begin to weigh her down.
Keep moving… Just keep moving.
Wentworth Creek has always been an untroubled little town and the slow measure pace of life here makes her more determined to escape and head for Stanford in a few weeks time. This town isn’t simply sleepy and tiresome, but dead—
She stops dead in her tracks.
A noise disturbs her train of thought. She hears something—someone—up ahead. She’s not alone in the night and fog. She looks ahead then behind and then to the other side of the street. No movement. She’s unaware of any sound other than her own raspy breathing and thudding heartbeat; only instinct tells her to be on alert. Probably just another runner... at night... though she is the only one she knows of to run at this time.
As she sprints up the sloping main street, through ripples of amber light, through the thick shadows cast by the trees lining the pavement she still sees no signs of movement other than her own and the sluggish, serpentine advance of the thin fog through the windless air. The only sounds are the
pat-pat
of her sneakers and her labored breathing.
Yes, Becky has to run at night; it’s like being the last person on Earth.
No-one can watch her.
But when she rounds the building on the street corner she crashes into a... a wall?
It’s hard and grunts, “Watch it.”
“You watch it,” she replies. As soon as the words spit out from her mouth Becky feels the chill in the air, fear seizing her heart.
She looks up, way up, and discovers a looming tower of chiseled features. The full Moon’s silver light penetrates the mist surrounding whoever—whatever—she just collided with. Her nerves stand at attention.
All is revealed in the milky, shimmering, lunar glow.
Her movements stop when her body inside does. A ruckus of awareness strikes beneath her gray sweats and skin—and every layer in between. She goes to reach for something but she doesn’t know what.
Leather stampedes her senses and the scent cracks her into alert. He stops from retrieving whatever is in his inside pocket of his leather jacket. He’s handsome, more than handsome, and looks to be in his mid-twenties.
He doesn’t move.
She freezes and his shadowed brow follows her transparent reaction, seeming to know where she trembles.
His eyes meet hers.
It’s like watching lightning strike-open water. She’s never seen such brilliant blue. His eyes ignite her fear, piercing like eyes of a wild animal revealed in headlight beams.
The heaviness of his stare makes her uncomfortable and whatever rude comment tips weighty on her tongue, it melts right then and there. Her stomach ices up and bunches together just as a warm tingle crawls over and curls around her backbone. She has to look away.
He might be dangerous…
Her instincts snap.
Her eyes flare back at his, his eyes dart down to her hands, her physical response to him evident as they continue to shake. She shoves them into her sweat-pant’s pockets not breaking her stare with his.
When her chin angles up the heat in his stare evaporates, a tinge of amusement permeating through. The back of her neck burns. He breaks contact first and something intangible falls between them when he looks away. His teeth scrape his bottom lip in a measured step and his eyes narrow around the area as if contemplating whether it’s safe to look at her again. His head then shakes slightly, his mouth never smiling.
Oh God, is he looking to see if there’d be any witnesses?
After what seems like an eternity in Hell he finally moves away in the opposite direction. She watches making sure she’s not followed. His stride is arrogant and wide. He’s definitely not from these parts and Becky is more than glad.
A shaky breath escapes her body, the only breath she’s let herself have in the past minute. Her fingers pinch the inside material of her pockets before using the back of her hand to wipe the sweat on her forehead. Her feet feel stapled to the floor, but she forces herself to walk.
Out-of-towners, could be... Stop this. Don’t think about it. He’s just some guy... Just some big-city macho guy who thinks the world revolves around him.
She decides to head back home, busying her mind with unyielding thoughts of packing for college and buying the rest of the medical books she still needs to purchase.
Stunning blue-eyed strangers with haunting devil eyes and breathtakingly handsome features that spell nothing but trouble—from nowhere—do not fit into her time at all.
When she reaches the quiet of her street it doesn’t take long to step into the safety of her home and for the front door to click-shut behind her. Closing her eyes relief washes through her. She made it home. Safe. Centering her eye onto the peephole she watches for any strange signs of life.
“Pumpkin?"
She jumps clipping her head on the door. “Shit!” Her hand is frozen over her heart when she turns around. “Dad! Oh my God... Don't creep up on people like that! Maybe a little warning next time.”
“I wasn’t creeping, Rebecca. What’s wrong? Did something happen out there?”
“I thought I, uh… no, nothing, Dad.” The thumping in her chest begins to fade as she walks over to the landing.
“I really wish you wouldn’t run so late, you—”
“Dad, please. Not now. I thought you guys were still at the factory convention thing."
“I had to leave early... work…” he replies, rubbing the back of his neck and sighing. “I have a lot to do." His face is the color of ashen and his eyes are plagued with some unknown trouble. Becky's eyes squint, her head tilts and a small trail of panic sets in.
The study, as though it plummets down from the Sky, catches her eye. The whole room glows from his dinky desk lamp. She sees papers scattered and two different calculators with receipts long enough to hit the floor and wave around the desk like streamers.
“Dad, everything okay? You never work this late."
“Fine,” he says, shaking his head.
Fine...
The ambiguous word ticks inside her mind knowing
‘fine’
means the exact opposite of its definition:
‘I am totally dying inside, please save me from this utter hell that my life has become.'
And that is exactly what she hears from her father.
“Dad, what’s going on? Is business bad or something? You forget to add or subtract a number somewhere?" Her small brittle laugh tries to lighten the thick air. But it just seems to make it stuffier.
He steps toward her placing his hands on her shoulders. They’re warm and protective. “Everything’s fine. Better than fine. I just fell a little behind that's all. I want to make sure everything gets in on time so… This is part of the job, Pumpkin. Being Kulich’s accountant never stops.” He taps her chin with his fist. “You know that."
She hears herself saying, “Okay,” but it clashes with the alarm bells ringing in her head. The small drops of perspiration over her father's brow, the sunken gray bags under his eyes, it all speaks—screams—something horrible is happening.
“Hey, don't you go worrying about this. I have taken care of this family pretty well so far. Remember I promised you and your mother we’d never have money problems again, so no loan sharks breaking down the door this time. Don't go thinking the worst like your mother. We’re safe now."
Her mouth moves to trip over her brain. “I'm nothing like Mom, please."
“Go to bed.” He tries to smile but it doesn’t reach his cumbersome eyes.
“Sure you don't need any help?" He shakes his head. “Never off the clock, I guess. Right, Pops?" A half smile pushes at the corner of her lips.
“Never,” he sighs, rubbing his forehead raw, pointing at the stairs then at her like she’s eight again. “Get some sleep—a good sleep. Your mother’s worried about you. Thinks you’re a social recluse.”
“Mom's always worried,” she yawns, as her father begins to head back to his study. “And I prefer my own company than Wentworth Creek School of Neanderthals,” she calls out.
“Up. And don‘t wake your baby brother.”
Becky rounds the small foyer, her toes slipping in between the stairs, desperate for words of encouragement. Her father must think she’s already gone. He doesn’t see her examining him. His shoulders shake heavily. Becky doesn’t see any tears spill but his eyes—two small black clouds of hopelessness—close and remain that way for the few minutes she stands, not able to stop herself. She’s seen this before.
The last time their family fell apart.
“If you need anything…” she whispers, but the rest die in her throat. He can’t hear her, but she says it anyway. For herself, for his problem, for the naïve hope that it will reassure him, comfort him in some way.
Something is definitely not right.
She makes her way to the second floor but passes her bedroom. She will go to sleep.
Eventually.
Ascending the final set of stairs that lead to the third floor she opens the door to a whole other world.
The attic.
Her escape.
Her hiding place.
She spends the next three hours on the canvas. Every streak and slap of paint clears her somehow, drains her of all the anger, the hurt, the regret in all its brilliant nonsense. The paint splatters one last time before she steps back in reflection, her eyes squinting.
Focusing on the blue paint it drips down on the long white canvas in a musical sort of swaying way. The Moon's beams strike against it and like a ghost, the blue—sharp and loud—almost provokes the same reaction a certain set of blue eyes had done earlier.
Becky scratches her cheek, the thick liquid streaks down in a line where her finger had been. Her emptiness goes from hollow to an alarming buzz. Wired and nowhere to go. She tosses the old paintbrush into her bin and takes a few steps toward the only source of light. Here she can always look out at the Sky for hours at a time, undisturbed.
Leaning her chin on the base of the window her eyes scan the surrounding darkness. She enjoys the after-sunset world, watching the star-speckled Sky, listening to frogs and crickets. Darkness soothes, softens the sharp edges of the world, tones down too harsh colors. And with the coming of twilight the Sky seems to recede and the universe expands, offering her more possibilities.
Her hand comes up and she watches her fingers press into the glass, strum the transparent barrier that separates her from the rest of… everything.
The pain she carries never rests.
Heart or mind she hopes going away to college will cure it. Take away the ache in her core, the bitterness under her skin. It’s lonely being so out-of-tune with everyone.
The vantage point up here makes everything closer and more intense. It’s like a framed painting come to life. Her fingertips tingle with the need to reach out and touch what lays so close before her.
A slow and steady breath from her nose steams the window. The Moon is brighter than most nights and its reflection turns the outside surfaces silver. The leaves on the trees rustle together like an orchestra. Life on her street is still and eerily dead, waiting for dawn, for life to come back and saturate nature again. Like her, there isn’t a single thing moving—
Becky's eyes halt.
Something dark moves in the left corner of the window.
Her head slants, coming up on her toes. For a moment nothing changes and she’s back to relaxing, her tension fleeting as quickly as it had pounced on her.
But then she sees movement again…
Across the street, between the sidewalk and the tree on the neighbor’s yard...
There it is.
A figure in black.
Her ribs suck in, her skin singes with some sort of fear she doesn’t know what to do with and a thousand ants seem to crawl over her skin. Whoever it is looks right at her house; the form never wavers, just stands and stares.
Watching.
She’s been day-dreaming out the window for at least five minutes now…
Has he been there all this time…? Watching me...?
She feels stripped, a little violated, and a sudden urge to check the locks downstairs clunks in her mind. But she can’t move. Stricken with fear it takes her prisoner.
A moment later—a moment too long—the man turns, slowly, and walks away. He heads in the opposite direction, vanishing without a trace.
Nothing about him is distinct enough to make out any sort of identification to the police. Besides what will she say? A figure in the dark was staring at her house past town curfew? Whispers in a small town are hard to block out; the town already thinks of her as strange, a recluse.