Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)

by J.M. Darhower

“If you give the monster a name, it takes away its power, because we’re really just afraid of what we don’t know. If you name it, if you know what it is, you can be stronger than it. So face your fears and wipe your tears, remember? Face your fears and wipe your tears.”

Footsteps started through the house, but they didn’t belong to her mother—too heavy, too measured. It sounded kind of like a robot. Made sense, since she called him the Tin Man. The little girl didn’t know if he was missing his heart, too, like the real Tin Man from the story, but her mother called him heartless once, so she thought it might be possible. She wondered if he rusted in the rain, since it was storming. Maybe that’ll keep him from finding me.

He came alone on the instructions of his boss, a man by the name of George Amello. Ol’ Mello Yello was one of many so-called ‘bosses’ to spring up after the great ‘Mafia Massacre’, as the media oh-so-poetically dubbed it, when the heads of the notorious New York crime families were executed in a room over in Long Island, paving the way for me to take over the city.

Who needs manners when you’ve got a face like mine? They expect the worst, and what can I say? I don’t like to disappoint.

But the gut? The gut knows. The gut remembers. You should always listen to it.

“And stop crying,” he demanded, standing up to walk away. “She is worth your heartache no more than she was worth mine. We will both get over it.” The little girl didn’t believe that. She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. She might face her fears and wipe her tears, like her mother had taught her, but she would never get over it.

Just call me Ward Cleaver. Leave it to fucking Beaver. The house is all mine. I’ve found the American Dream. I’ve got to say... the shit isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

I’ve been an insomniac most of my life, which is probably why I’m so paranoid. Sleep evades me and people aggravate me, making my trigger finger a little twitchy, if you know what I’m saying.

“Are you hitting on my girlfriend?” “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. “She’s not my type.” “Could’ve fooled me,” Leo says. “Thought your type was breathing.” “Ha-ha. I’ll have you know I’ve got standards.” “Like?” “Like a woman that doesn’t expect me to have a conversation.”

Who am I really? I like to think I’m somewhere in between. Maybe deep down I don’t want to hurt you, but goddamn it, I will, and I’ll destroy myself doing it if I have to. I’ll get you even if it kills me. I’m like a honeybee.

I wonder if she’ll smile then, with me pinning her down, my body on top of hers, keeping her locked in place. I wonder if she’ll smile when I wrap my hands around her throat, squeezing, pressing against the carotid artery, making her look me in the face as I wring her neck. I wonder if she’ll smile as the color drains from her cheeks, as the spark diminishes in her eyes, because I sure as fuck will. I get hard just thinking about it.

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” he says. “If you had enough balls to steal from me, you shouldn’t have a problem owning up to it.”

You see, men and women, we’re wired differently. Women look at me and think, ‘poor baby, he just needs some love’, whereas men? Men take one look at my face and think, ‘stay away from that motherfucker’. But go ahead and tell a woman that. Tell her I’m dangerous. Tell her to stay away. It’ll just make her want me more.

She plays people like they’re a piano and she’s Chopin, pounding away at their keys, and the ignorant fools don’t even hear her music. I hear it, though. It’s pretty goddamn loud to my ears, the kind of music that resonates with the deepest, darkest parts of the soul… or whatever bit of it you might have left. Her own little Funeral March. Dun, dun, da-dun…

Her voice was tinged with bitterness, sarcasm, clearly a defense mechanism, because those eyes that regard me silently scream tragedy, the kind that isn’t to be made light of. The kind of tragedy that breaks bodies and steals souls. The kind that twists decent people into sociopathic assholes. The kind that turns beautiful women into ghosts.

Someone once told me that evil can sense itself inside of others, our hearts beating in a different rhythm than most, playing a morbid song that only other evil knows.

Do you know what it’s like to be invisible? Do you know what it’s like to have the world turn its back on you, to turn a blind eye to your existence, like you never even mattered? Do you know what it’s like to scream until your throat is raw only to realize everyone tuned you out long ago and nobody heard a single word? Because I do. I know.

Morgan's POV

I used to believe a lot of things that were never true. Like, that Santa Claus brought Christmas presents, and fairy godmothers were real, and good things happened to good people, and love was something everyone deserved.

Death doesn’t always come with a scream and a bang, no… death, when premature, usually comes like a whisper on the wind, quietly stalking you until it can rob you of your last breath.

He lingers there, the rusty copper odor of blood greeting my nostrils as it mixes with his scent. I don’t know if it’s soap or cologne or something else entirely, but the man smells citrusy, fresh and vibrant. Blood orange.

Jesus Christ, he’s demented. There’s something seriously wrong with this guy. I should be repulsed, and part of me is terrified, but that’s the part that once used to be an innocent little girl. That’s not me anymore.

“I’d wreck you for any man that came along after me, put them all to shame, because I’d give you exactly what you wanted.” “How could you possibly know what I want?” “Because,” he says, grabbing a fistful of my hair and twisting my head, forcing me to turn away from him. “Looking at you is like looking in a mirror, Scarlet.”

Women are distractions and feelings are detrimental, but I’m finding myself feeling some type of way about this woman at the moment, and I don’t appreciate it. There’s voodoo in her blood, and it makes me want to slit her fucking throat so it’ll all spill out, rain red down on the city beneath us before shoving her over the side. Fly, little witch. Don’t forget your fucking broom.

Mind your own business and you’ll live a hundred years. Problem is, you know, a hundred years is a long time. Do I really want to live that long? My curiosity says, ‘I don’t think so’.

She’s gritty and raw, but goddamn, the woman is beautiful. The more I look at her, the more I see it.

Jesus, this woman knows her anatomy. A+ Top marks. Summa cum laude. Valedictorian of her motherfucking class.

There’s a reason girls yell ‘fire’ instead of ‘rape’, why we lie and say we have boyfriends instead of just saying ‘no’ when we’re not interested. Because a lot of men respect another man’s property more than they respect a woman’s right to her own body.

There used to be ten, a nice, round even number, but the other three? Well, they met unfortunate ends due to their own stupidity. I don’t have many rules. Do what you want. Screw who you want. Steal, and lie, and cheat, if you must, but when I tell you something, you listen, and it’s in your best interest not to annoy me, because I can be a bit touchy. Oh, and don’t step foot in my library without my permission.

Most days we just sit around, waiting for something to happen. It’s monotonous. The world, it’s all in black and white, but you? You’re so many shades of red, woman, and color me curious, but I find myself not so bored with your bullshit around.”

“You zone out, I choke you. Whether or not I let go is anybody’s guess. You still okay with this?” I nod, no hesitation.

The man is rough around the edges, something so primal about him, but there’s something else there, something unexpected. So much passion.

Because Lorenzo? He’s not the kind of guy you get attached to. Especially when you’re me. I can’t let him get so far under my skin that I can’t get him back out again.

Test

So while I don’t really know what it’s like being a teenage mother, calling me his father isn’t enough, because you’d be hard pressed to find another ‘father’ who did as much as I did for that little fucker. I poured what was left of my soul into him.

Promises. I hate promises. People break them all the goddamn time.

But being around him, it makes me feel things, things I’ve missed just as much as the music and the laughter, things that make me feel alive again. He’s excitement. He’s adrenaline. He makes my heart do stupid shit. Shit my heart shouldn’t be doing.

Lorenzo turns to me and leans closer, like he might kiss me, but instead he lets out a stream of smoke. My lips part, and I inhale deeply, taking the remnants of the hazy air into my lungs, closing my eyes as I hold it, relishing the slight burn in my chest.

“You’re not dressed yet? Why do you women take so long to get ready?” I roll my eyes, pushing past him. “Why are you men such assholes?” I hear his laughter as I go into his room, followed by his answer: “Probably because you’re so fucking slow.”

“Sorrowful.” Scarlet turns to me when I say that word. “That’s how you look,” I tell her, grabbing her wrist, my fingers pressing into the ‘S’ tattoo. “Sorrowful.” She glances down at where I’m touching her, giving a small half-smile, before looking back at the club in front of us. “That’s not what it stands for.” “I’m starting to think it doesn’t stand for a damn thing,” I say. “Sucker. Me. For fucking thinking it had any meaning. Maybe you just like the letter S.” “Maybe.” “Maybe it’s not even an S at all,” I say, examining it. “Maybe you got fucked up one night and woke up the next morning and there it was, and even you don’t know what it stands for.” “Maybe.” “Or maybe you’re just being salty as hell.” She pulls her arm from my grasp. “Or maybe it doesn’t involve you, so it shouldn’t concern you. You ever think about that?” “Smart ass.” She laughs, the sorrowful look fading. “Shut up.” “Make me, slut.” She gasps, shoving me so hard I stumble a step. “You asshole.” “What? It starts with an ‘s’.”

LMFAO

“You have to be careful who you give pieces of yourself to, because even a little bit here and there adds up to a hell of a lot eventually, and it’s not worth it, losing yourself to them, giving yourself to people who don’t give a fuck about you. You keep pouring yourself into other people and you’ll just wind up empty.”

She sighs. “You’re—“ “An asshole, I know.” She cuts her eyes at me. “I was going to say you’re right.” I cock an eyebrow at her. “I’m what?” “You’re right.” “Well, I’ll be damned. She’s learning.” “Kiss my ass.”

It’s funny, I think, how looks can be so deceiving. Here we are in suburbia, with picket fences and big backyards, perfection from the outside, yet nobody knows what goes on within the walls.

“Go tell that Russian bastard I’ll think about accepting his call when he grows some balls and unblocks his number, because pussies don’t get talked to, they only get fucked.”

Whoever said there were no such things as stupid questions was wrong. I’ve heard some stupid questions in my life. Usually they come in clusters: Why do you have that gun? What are you doing? Are you going to kill me? Uh, duh. I’m sure as hell not going to shoot myself. The fear of death, you know, it tends to override common sense, which makes the end, for some, pretty damn pathetic. Oh God, why are you doing this? How could you? BANG.