my original question. How do you feel?”
Her body felt like she had been run over like a Mack truck and she had a monster headache. And her mouth was so dry that it felt like she had been sucking on cotton balls.
“Awful. Like cobwebs on my head or something—can’t really explain,” she said, trying. Trying to explain her aches and pains was just too much energy, energy that she simply didn’t have.
The smile on Jean’s face stretched wider.
“Why does me feeling awful bring joy to you?” Calliope demanded to know. “And where is my brother?” She tried to rise up but the muscles in her body didn’t cooperate.
“Calm down,” Jean coaxed, and he moved the pillows, helping her get comfortable. “You are going to hurt yourself more than you already are.” He explained. “I didn’t smile because you aren’t feeling well, but because awful is an upgrade from the condition we found you in.”
He told her how, along with the plethora of scrapes and bruises, she suffered a fractured rib and a major concussion. Jean had paid a nurse to watch over her 24/7, pumping her with painkillers, tenderness, and care.
Absorbing the details of her injuries, she placed a hand on the bandage wrapped around her head and remembered the Russian, the one that slithered from the closet, Rusty’s head exploding—blood and brains splattering the wall like a gory abstract painting—right in front of her very eyes. She was next. It was all coming back to her.
Calliope said, “I was shot in the head.”
“No. Not shot, but hit hard with a butt of the gun, but thankfully not shot,” he said, looking up to the ceiling as if he was giving thanks to the man above. “You were definitely spared.”
Jean passed her a cup of water from the glass night table on the side of the bed. He placed the straw in her mouth as his hands rested on hers because he was unsure of her grip.
Room temperature, the water washed the dryness away. The liquid felt cool and refreshing going down. “They killed Rusty,” she said, letting go and handing the glass back to Jean. “Why was I so lucky?”
“Being lucky had nothing to do with it. From what I could discern, somebody with very deep pockets put a green light on the head of the cop Rusty. The Russian you encountered took the contract. And in a clever way they used you to catch Rusty slipping at his own game.”
She thought for a second and it did make good sense to her.
Rusty had crossed a lot of people for many years. She herself had encountered at least eight of those people who knew about the scam that he was running with Calliope. She never thought it was a real good idea—blackmailing influential men, with the threat of exposing their perverted habits, which could ultimately result in them loosing their families and livelihoods. Calliope was only sixteen—jailbait—and if a successful man was exposed he would be ruined and the effects would be detrimental.
“But why not kill me too?” Calliope asked, shaking at how close she’d come to being exterminated right alongside Rusty.
“Oh,” said Jean. “There is a simple answer to that.”
“All ears.” Calliope waited to hear the reason.
Jean said, “The Russians, as mean and violent as they are, don’t murder people for free, unless it’s personal. And you weren’t part of the invoice.”
Miami could be as dangerous as it was glamorous, a known fact among those who lived there. But Jean made the bottom line of why Calliope didn’t die with a bullet to the head sound like a mere business transaction.
Asshole! Damn, did he have to be so blunt about it?
“I hope I didn’t come off as an insensitive butthole.”
Too late, Calliope said to herself, and rolled her eyes.
As close to an apology as she would get, Jean said, “Sensitivity isn’t one of my strong suits. Sometimes it’s hard to say or show that I care, but I’m a good guy.”
Before she could think about the words that Jean said, her brother entered
Her body felt like she had been run over like a Mack truck and she had a monster headache. And her mouth was so dry that it felt like she had been sucking on cotton balls.
“Awful. Like cobwebs on my head or something—can’t really explain,” she said, trying. Trying to explain her aches and pains was just too much energy, energy that she simply didn’t have.
The smile on Jean’s face stretched wider.
“Why does me feeling awful bring joy to you?” Calliope demanded to know. “And where is my brother?” She tried to rise up but the muscles in her body didn’t cooperate.
“Calm down,” Jean coaxed, and he moved the pillows, helping her get comfortable. “You are going to hurt yourself more than you already are.” He explained. “I didn’t smile because you aren’t feeling well, but because awful is an upgrade from the condition we found you in.”
He told her how, along with the plethora of scrapes and bruises, she suffered a fractured rib and a major concussion. Jean had paid a nurse to watch over her 24/7, pumping her with painkillers, tenderness, and care.
Absorbing the details of her injuries, she placed a hand on the bandage wrapped around her head and remembered the Russian, the one that slithered from the closet, Rusty’s head exploding—blood and brains splattering the wall like a gory abstract painting—right in front of her very eyes. She was next. It was all coming back to her.
Calliope said, “I was shot in the head.”
“No. Not shot, but hit hard with a butt of the gun, but thankfully not shot,” he said, looking up to the ceiling as if he was giving thanks to the man above. “You were definitely spared.”
Jean passed her a cup of water from the glass night table on the side of the bed. He placed the straw in her mouth as his hands rested on hers because he was unsure of her grip.
Room temperature, the water washed the dryness away. The liquid felt cool and refreshing going down. “They killed Rusty,” she said, letting go and handing the glass back to Jean. “Why was I so lucky?”
“Being lucky had nothing to do with it. From what I could discern, somebody with very deep pockets put a green light on the head of the cop Rusty. The Russian you encountered took the contract. And in a clever way they used you to catch Rusty slipping at his own game.”
She thought for a second and it did make good sense to her.
Rusty had crossed a lot of people for many years. She herself had encountered at least eight of those people who knew about the scam that he was running with Calliope. She never thought it was a real good idea—blackmailing influential men, with the threat of exposing their perverted habits, which could ultimately result in them loosing their families and livelihoods. Calliope was only sixteen—jailbait—and if a successful man was exposed he would be ruined and the effects would be detrimental.
“But why not kill me too?” Calliope asked, shaking at how close she’d come to being exterminated right alongside Rusty.
“Oh,” said Jean. “There is a simple answer to that.”
“All ears.” Calliope waited to hear the reason.
Jean said, “The Russians, as mean and violent as they are, don’t murder people for free, unless it’s personal. And you weren’t part of the invoice.”
Miami could be as dangerous as it was glamorous, a known fact among those who lived there. But Jean made the bottom line of why Calliope didn’t die with a bullet to the head sound like a mere business transaction.
Asshole! Damn, did he have to be so blunt about it?
“I hope I didn’t come off as an insensitive butthole.”
Too late, Calliope said to herself, and rolled her eyes.
As close to an apology as she would get, Jean said, “Sensitivity isn’t one of my strong suits. Sometimes it’s hard to say or show that I care, but I’m a good guy.”
Before she could think about the words that Jean said, her brother entered
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