Page 6 of Arrogant Bastard
A tiny bit of regret for his cowardice lingers as I step out of the ring and head for the shower. For several minutes I stand beneath the hot spray, accepting what I can’t hide from anymore.
This can’t go on.
Fight or flight. I need to pick one and get the hell on with it. Except the fight went out of me a long time ago. In a cold, dark room in Cairo four years ago, my heart stopped beating, and it took everything else with it. No, not everything. Raw, eviscerating guilt remained. For a long time, it was the only emotion to cheerfully take root and nurture itself with absolutely no help from me at all. But slowly, other emotions invited themselves to the party.
Fear. Anxiety. Apathy.
Craving. At times that was the worst of all, that dark, merciless, gouge-your-soul-out craving. For him.
My nightmares are filled with him. My lustful dreams too. My waking hours are spent fighting the thought of him. But he never goes away. Always lingering. Always taunting.
The memory of him pulses through me so vividly that it’s almost as if he lives inside me. In my darkest nights, I toy with the possibility that he left something inside me on that last assignment in Cairo. It’s not outside the realm of possibility. It was why I paid a few thousand dollars to undergo a thorough body scan in a black site lab just to find out. The evidence that I wasn’t carrying a metal tagging chip that would lead him to me didn’t dispel the notion that the object of my craving still had a hold over me, even if it was all in my head.
The piece of my wasted soul that I sacrificed on the altar of my forbidden desire will forever be its own testament to how far gone I was by the time I left him behind.
Perhaps it’s the reason I’ve thrived as manageress at the Punishment Club. It was supposed to be a six-month gig. It’s been over four years. At first I imagined I could find salvation for my own sins within the walls of the private club. After all, it’s the place I created for other people who wanted to atone for their sins. As a moneymaking venture, it’s been obscenely successful. But I quickly accepted there would be no such salvation for me. There was no going back for the person I’d become. So I embraced my role as the punisher.
And then I became complacent. I even attempted a friendship.
Until the first phone call came three weeks ago.
Fight or flight.
I turn off the faucet and step out of the shower, my thoughts still turned inward. I dress in my customary black getup of yoga pants, tank top, and zip-up hoodie, stuff my damp hair under a nondescript black cap, and shrug on my backpack. I pause with my hand on the door handle, my heart hammering its urgency about what I know I should do. I take a few breaths to center myself, slow down my heartbeat. Solidify my decision.
Flight.
After four years of leading a near-stagnant life, acceptance that I’m about to run again is easier than I thought it would be. Maybe it’s because I know Axel Rutherford, my boss, will understand. Against all odds, he’s finding his own shaky salvation with Cleo McCarthy. I’ve learned a few things about him that tells me he could make my life difficult if he wants to, but I know he won’t prevent me from disappearing as quietly as I arrived.
Flight. Okay.
I leave the twenty-four-hour fitness club, stepping out after a quick, customary surveillance of the quiet streets. I picked this club purely because it was located in the most unsavory part of Soho. Some helpful soul also disabled a couple of street cameras a while back, and the city authorities didn’t replace them after the third vandalism.
That has worked in my favor, although I have to carefully navigate about a dozen more between here and my apartment six blocks away. I pull my hoodie over my cap for added protection and quicken my footsteps. I’m itching to add sunglasses to my disguise, but that’ll draw too much attention at this time of night, so I pull out my phone and adopt the universal fuck-with-my-phone-time-at-your-peril position.
Three blocks from home, I feel it. I don’t recognize the tingle at first because it’s been a while since I last experienced the unmistakable sensation. Or perhaps I resist it because I don’t want this, like the phone call three weeks ago, to be true.
The sensation spreads fast and hard and real. I’m being tailed. Shock punches through me. It’s enough to weaken my knees, almost making me stumble. Enough to drag a set of icy claws through my gut. I snatch in a breath, gauge my surroundings without looking over my shoulder, and mentally zip through escape possibilities.
There’s no way I can go back home now without leading them right to my door. The subway is out of the question. Too many cameras. Same goes for other forms of public transportation, even at this time of night.
Without hesitation, I break into a sprint, heading north. Luckily, this being New York City, no one raises an eyebrow at a woman fleeing her demons at one o’clock in the morning.
Within five seconds, I know this ploy isn’t going to work. The distinct sound of a large engine—possibly a van or an SUV—speeding up confirms my tail has backup on four wheels. Maybe more than just one.
My heart leaps into my throat.
I’m fit enough to keep running all night if I have to. But I get the feeling my pursuers have other ideas. I can’t hear the ones on foot yet, and stopping to check behind me will slow me down, but I know they’re there. And I don’t fool myself into thinking they’re not as well trained as I once was.
Shit. I need to get off the streets. I check out the restaurants and open establishments a block away, wondering if I can slip inside and out the back of any of them. But I’ll still be on the street, possibly cornered in an alley. I rule it out and sprint across another street. I spot a familiar monument up ahead to my left.
Washington Square Park.
Too many open spaces but with enough tree cover at this time of night for it to be a better bet than the street. The pedestrian crossing sign lights up, and I dare to hope it’s an omen that I’m headed the right way.
The sound of the revving engine smashes that hope to shit a second later. They’re no longer making an attempt at stealth. This is full-on pursuit.
I still can’t make out footsteps behind me, but I run into the park, through the marble arch, and veer left into the nearest clutch of trees. I get a little bit of that smashed hope back when I see that the early summer foliage will provide even better cover than I’d hoped for. Enough to hug the edges of the park’s perimeter until it’s safe to return to the street.
