Vendetta

nine

DEVON

There's nothing to killing a man.

The first time I did it, I was sixteen, just a boy, really. My uncle sent me out with Stevie to take care of some business. On the way there, Stevie's expression got serious; too serious, I thought. After he parked the car he looked at me, taking out his gun. Then another. I remember the dread I felt when he pointed the gun at me, but then he laughed at my expression. I laughed, too, pretending I understood the joke.

I almost shit my fucking pants then.

He turned the gun handle my way. When I did nothing, he nudged it toward me, and I hesitantly took it into my hand. It was heavier than I’d expected, and the cold metal shocked my fingers, but I steadied my hand and gripped the handle like my life depended on it. I thought of making the same joke Stevie made, but chickened out at the last second.

He explained it to me: This is how you unlock it, and This is how you aim, and Keep your hand steady, take a deep breath, and exhale when you pull the trigger.

It felt like I was being initiated into a secret society, a special order.

Stevie took me into the warehouse, toward a black sedan parked inside. He opened up the trunk—two pairs of wide eyes stared at me. They weren't big men, but they were bigger than me. Stevie dragged one out, and the man whimpered, a girly sound. He resisted Stevie's pull, but to no avail, as he rounded the car with him then threw him on the floor. Then he cocked the gun and fired off three shots straight to his head.

I wouldn't have done anything about it even if I hadn't been stunned, frozen in place.

“Your turn,” Stevie had said, giving me a grin as he went back and dragged the other man out and over to me, practically throwing him at my feet.

The gun became heavy in my hand; so heavy I thought I would drop it if I didn't grip it harder.

“Do it, Devon. Just like I told you.”

And I did. I held onto that gun for dear life with my sweaty hands as I raised it. I kept them steady as I cocked the gun. I inhaled. I exhaled.

Time didn't slow down, the earth didn't move. It was over in a second.

Stevie fired another bullet into his head. For good measure, I guess.

He came over to me and slapped me on my back, and then he left me to look at the two slumped bodies on the ground.

I kept waiting for that nausea to kick in. I kept waiting to feel different. I just killed a man, for fuck's sake. But none of it came to me. It disappointed me. For sure, it meant I was a bad man. It thrilled me because, yeah, I'm an Andre. I have the proof lying in front of me, its head blown apart.

“I've made a bit of a mess,” Stevie said into his phone.

I shake off the memory of that day long ago as I walk the aisles of an art supply store in Cambridge. I never feel bad after I kill someone. Usually, I just get it over and done with, and then I move on. There are no feelings associated with it.

So I ignore the overwhelming feeling of satisfaction as I pick up random drawing supplies: pencils, colored and graphite, sketching pads, charcoals.

The girl at the checkout gives me a flirtatious smile. “Oh, you're an artist?” she asks, batting her eyelashes.

“No, my girlfriend,” I answer automatically, returning her smile politely.

“Lucky girl.”

“Yeah.” A stand with erasers and sharpeners catches my attention, reminding me I didn't get her any. I grab some and add them to my pile. I look around to see if maybe I could have gotten something else as well, but decide it's enough.

It's more than I should be getting. I bet Hayley will love this.

I stop on the way home at a donut place. I frown, trying to remember if I know what her favorite kind is. In the end, I just get two boxes with every choice available.

I open the door, and Hayley looks up at me, smiling until she sees the bag in my hand. Then she purses her lips, shaking her head. Leighton is on the bed, her gaze fixed on the television, ignoring me. I drop the bag on the floor and place the boxes with donuts on the bed, then walk over to Hayley. She stands up and gives me a kiss on the cheek as I give her a half hug.

I catch Leighton rolling her eyes.

“Leighton,” I say. She ignores me.

“That took longer than you said,” Hayley says, jabbing my chest with her finger. “I have to go, but I'll be back tomorrow to talk.” She glances at Leighton, and then looks back at me. “Don't think you're off the hook.”

“I'll be here.”

“I'll see you tomorrow, Leighton.” Leighton harrumphs, but doesn't say anything. Hayley shrugs, giving me another smile, then turns and leaves the room.

I lock the door from the inside, then pick up the bag with the art supplies and cross the room. The pencils clatter against each other as I spill the contents of the bag, breaking the thick silence in the room. Leighton's eyes stray to the heap on the bed, the hard lines on her forehead softening for a moment, then she looks at me, and I almost do a double take at her shuttered expression. Her eyes are guarded, not giving away any hints of what she’s thinking.

I start to go to her, but then decide against it, and sit in my chair instead.

“Can I trust you with those?” I ask her, pointing at the pencils.

“What could I possibly do? Stab you to death with a pencil?”

At this, I get up and walk over to her, taking a seat next to her on the bed. She's trying to look anywhere but at me, so I take her chin in my hand and make her look me in the eyes.

“I wish things were different, Leighton.”

“But they're not. You have to do what you have to do, Devon, and I have to do what I can to protect myself,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest in a protective stance.

I search her eyes, trying to see how serious she is. Her breath hitches as I skim the pad of my thumb over her bruised bottom lip, her lips parting slightly in invitation. I lean in and take the same lip my thumb just grazed between mine, needing to taste her, our foreheads touching and her face still cupped in my hands.

I expect her to respond, to kiss me back as I taste her lips, to tangle her fingers in my hair and pull on it until it hurts, but she doesn't do any of that.

“Kiss me back, dammit,” I whisper against her lips.

“Please don't touch me again,” she responds. I let go of her as if she's on fire. “You're being so unfair to me, Devon.”

I get up and cross the room before I do something to make things worse.

“I'm sorry,” I say, my back turned to her as I unlock the door. I don't think I've ever apologized to someone so much in my entire life. I look back at her sullen expression once more and then leave the room.

LEIGHTON

He’s sorry.

I know he is, but it doesn’t change anything. If I’m going to die no matter what, at least Devon will be okay. If anyone finds out about the two of us . . . why didn't the possibility of that ever cross my mind?

I think about how he lost his whole family. He shouldn't have to suffer any more than he already has. That doesn’t mean I want to die, or that I’m going to stop fighting or accept my fate. If I get the chance to escape, I’m sure as hell going to take it. If only there was a way for both of us to win, but I just can’t see it.

Oh, God, I can't even imagine what that must have been like; to have your world torn away from you in the blink of an eye.

I stare at all the beautiful art supplies on the bed while rubbing the back of my neck. Hayley is right. She’s a bitch, but she’s right. Devon is loyal, almost to a fault, and if he decides to go all in with me I can't even imagine the outcome.

I may have nothing left to lose, but he has everything. I can’t do that to him.

What happened, all those years ago? Why did my dad do this? I rack my brain for any piece of memory, but I was just a kid. I don't remember anything significant at all.

Maybe I'm better off not knowing. I'm on the verge of begging Devon for their lives, as it is. I understand what he has to do, but it's my whole world.

Not that it will matter. I'll be gone as well.

I run my fingers along the charcoals. I know that I need to warn my father about this. They're my blood. It's not like I thought they planted trees for a living.

I eat first, knowing once I start drawing I’ll probably never stop.

For some reason, I feel lonelier than usual. I think it’s because Devon could be here right now, but I’m the one who pulled away. It would be so easy to give in.

So easy. And selfish.

And to be honest, I'm hurt. I'm trying not to let it get to me, but I'm so damn hurt by what he did.

I pick up the pencils and open the sketchpad, and then make myself comfortable on the bed. Then I draw.

“Leighton,” I hear Devon say. I look up to see him standing right in front of me.

I put the pencil down. “Hey.”

“You didn’t even hear me come in,” he says, frowning.

“Sorry, I kind of get lost in the zone.”

“I can see that. I called your name twice before you looked up.”

“Thanks for the art supplies,” I say quietly.

His eyes soften. “You’re welcome. You didn’t eat much,” he says, looking at the donuts, disapproval etched on his face. I only ate one, and even that I forced down.

I shrug. “Not very hungry.”

He leans in closer to me, and I flinch when his finger touches my cheek. He instantly pulls it back, scowling.

“What, you seriously won't let me touch you now?” he asks, taking a seat next to me on the bed.

“It’s better if you don’t,” I reply, my voice sounding hollow.

“You don’t mean that.” His eyes bore into mine, studying me, making me squirm.

“Yeah, it’s exactly what I mean.” I stand up from the bed and move toward the chair where he usually sits, feeling trapped by his gaze all of a sudden.

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” he says under his breath.

“No one is forcing you to be here right now,” I say, my tone emotionless. Except, I don’t want him to go. Devon doesn’t reply. Instead, he lies on the bed with a frustrated growl.

“Come here, Leighton,” he says, staring at the ceiling.

“No.”

He repositions his body and lifts his head up, so he can see me. “Come here,” he repeats.

I ignore him.

“You telling me that you don’t want to come here and lie in my arms until I have to leave?” he says, his voice knowing. I do want that. I want that more than anything, but sometimes we don’t get what we want.

I should know. I've wanted him all my life, and he was someone else's.

“What changed since this morning?” he asks, sitting up.

“I had some time to think things through.” I make it sound harsh, angry. I sit down in his chair, staring across the room. “Where were you the other night?”

“What?”

“The other night, when you came home drunk. Who’s Amber?” I don’t know why I ask it. It will only hurt me more once he admits he left me to go and screw someone else’s brains out, but maybe it’s what I need to hear.

His eyes widen. “Fuck.”

“Just tell me.”

“Leighton,” he says softly, reverently, so much emotion in that one word. He rubs his face wearily, looking frustrated and tired. He mutters something under his breath and then stands up and walks toward me, a purpose to his stride.

He lowers to a crouch in front of me, as close as he can get without actually touching me.

“Nothing happened,” he says, his eyes roaming my face. He takes my hand in his. “Nothing happened.”

I look away. I don’t believe him.

He lowers his head and I close my eyes, shuddering when his lips make contact with my skin. His mouth lingers on my cheek, and I can feel his reluctance when he moves away.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks, his eyes guarded. He already knows what I'll say. I almost want to prove him wrong.

I shake my head. He nods once, and leaves the room without looking back.

I stare at the door for a few minutes after he leaves, wanting him to come back, but needing him not to.

I bury myself into the chair, his chair, and let the tears put me to sleep.