Seven Sons

Eighteen

It takes a week to organize my little plan, all the while being fucked by Dornan at every opportunity he can find. He fucks me in the shower, in his office, in his bed, and over a pool table. I thank the stars that he has not thought to fuck me on the stage of the burlesque club, because if he did, I think I would evaporate under the burden of my lies and he would surely guess that my real name is Juliette Portland.

Ten days after my arrival, I enact my plan. It is a quiet Sunday afternoon in the clubhouse, and Chad is alone in the massive garage where all of the bikes are parked. There aren’t many bikes here today – Dornan and most of the club have gone on a ride, and Chad has had to stay back, having just had his knee operated on. I can immediately tell that he is pissed off at being left, and he is hobbling around furiously, clanging spanners and swearing at his bike as it sits on its stand, most of its parts on the floor in messy piles.

I saunter in and close the door behind me, an open can of his favorite energy drink in my hand.

“Hey, Chad,” I say, tilting the can as if I am drinking it. I don’t let a drop of the liquid touch my lips, though.

I mean, I don’t want to die.

Chad looks up, wearing an annoyed look, and his eyebrows bank together when he sees me.

“What the fuck do you want?” he asks, clanging more tools around. He does a double-take and stands up again, hobbling around the bike to me. He snatches the can out of my hand and I feign surprise. “Don’t drink my fucking drinks, bitch,” he says, slamming the can onto the counter next to him. I wait patiently as he continues to work on the bike.

“I didn’t think you’d mind,” I say, leaning on the counter next to him, making sure he has a good view of my cleavage. It’s always a great distraction. “You shouldn’t drink so much of that stuff, you know. Your body can’t handle it.”

He snorts and throws his spanner to the ground, narrowly missing the bike. He reaches for the can and takes a giant gulp, sneering at me. Bingo.

“What the fuck you smiling at, bitch?” he asks, slamming the can back down beside me. Almost immediately, he appears confused, and I can only imagine how fast his heart is starting to beat. He becomes drenched in sweat instantly, and sways on his feet.

I shrug, making my eyes wide and innocent. “Feeling okay, Chad?” I ask, laughing as he crashes to his knees. He screams as his freshly reconstructed knee makes a meaty pop and a cracking noise, and I can only guess that the operation has been reversed quite severely.

“What the–?” he pants, clutching his chest with both his hands. I kneel in front of him so that we are eye to eye, and pat his head condescendingly.

“There, there,” I mock him as if he were a dog, “it’ll all be over soon, Chad. You won’t suffer as long as you made me suffer. That’s unfortunate, but necessary.”

His eyes blank out for a second, and I shuffle backwards, not wanting to be pinned by his burly weight when he keels over in about ten seconds.

“Who are you?” he splutters, holding his chest.

I smile as a feeling of supreme triumph washes over me. I kneel in front of him and lean close to his ear, my breath on his skin the last thing he will ever feel. “My name is Juliette,” I whisper, “and you just got fucked, Chad.”

I climb to my feet and continue to watch as he struggles.

“You bitch,” he spits, his face turning red. He keels over, his shoulder hitting the floor with a solid thwack.

It takes forever for him to die.

When he is good and dead, I smile. Because it feels good. It feels even better than I thought it would.

One motherfucker down. Six to go. I wipe my fingerprints off the can, place it back on the bench, and step over Chad’s motionless body. Making my way out of the garage with the tenacity of a stealthy cat, I head to the roof unseen. Along the way, I grab a beer from the fridge and knock the lid against the timber bench to pry it loose. Taking the stairs quickly and quietly, I burst onto the roof. Jase is sitting in a beanbag he has dug up from somewhere, watching the sun set over Venice Beach. I stand behind him, admiring the view.

“Hey,” he says. “I just came out to watch the sunset before I go to work.”

I sit cross-legged on the enormous beanbag beside him, sinking into the beans, my body so tired, so spent.

“You even brought me a beer,” he jokes, gesturing to my full Corona. I smile and take a sip, holding it in front of him. “Here,” I say. “I only wanted a taste.”

His hand brushes mine as he takes the bottle from me, and I wait a second too long before I let go. Our eyes lock together, a dark worry settling over his features as he, too, must feel the spark that alights between us.

“Samantha–” he says.

I shake my head. “Don’t.”

He frowns and takes a swig of beer. “Don’t what?”

I stare at my hands. “Don’t say it.”

He takes a long, deep breath and lets it out in a whoosh. “How do you know what I was going to say?”

I put my hand back over his, both of us gripping the bottle. “I just do,” I reply, squeezing his hand tight.

I think about how much I love him, how much I have always loved him, and it is enough to make me sob. But I don’t. I can’t.

I’m not finished yet.

There are still so many things I have to do.