I don't have the attention for them, so I ignore them as I kneel down on my left knee, so that I'm eye level with Derrik.
“These streets are mine now, and as long as they are red with my brother's blood, I will continue to wash them clean with the blood of his killers.” Derrik's shaking, probably going into shock. I raise his wet chin with my gun barrel. “Traes muerte al reino del diablo. I have nothing to lose.”
Then I click the safety on the gun and stand, ignoring the blood and glass on my jeans. I turn to where Jack is sitting. He's astounded, staring with huge eyes and gripping the edge of the table as if he wants to move but can't. He feels my eyes, can't help but refocus to me. I'm numb. He must see it, my silent plea for him to take control, because he snaps out of his chair to come to my side.
“Get him out of here,” he says to the driver, who rushes to action to avoid dying. “And shut him up, he'll wake up everyone west of the Mississippi.”
Jack is like a rough and dirty dream, taut and bared arms, long face crunched in alarm and, maybe, surprise that I am that cold inside. I can't tell if he wants to slap me, or hug me, or ask me what the fuck I'm thinking, but he doesn't say a word.
I want to tell him it'll be ok, that I haven't lost my mind, that sometimes cruelty is necessary. But I don't speak. I can't even pretend to feel remorse when I still feel nothing.
I hear him telling our guests that we must regretfully suspend the meeting and that we'll be in touch very soon. With a steadying breath, I turn back to them, street-hardened gangsters, businessmen, scholars of the street. They hang on my every move.
Charlie never told me how easy it was to take control. Of course, he knew the power would go to my head. I give them a small smile and field their disbelief at what they have just witnessed, as I watch eyes roam the bloody bits of the front door. I receive a few nods as they rally to leave.
Then, as if I could keep it from him any longer, my attention slides back to Frederick, whose impish grin is set firmly. His gun hangs in one hand at his side and in the other he holds a dripping gold ring. I lay a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeeze ever-so-softly.
The contact brings him back to the present, and his grin fades as his eyes meet mine. There's blood on both of our faces, and a uniting hatred. We don't have to speak to know we're both checking each other's stability, that we're searching one another's eyes for regret. We won't find it and we know we won't. He assures me with a brisk nod. I grant him a more personal, tiny smirk.
Then I turn from him, unprepared in the heat of my performance to meet the faces of Joshua and Isaiah, both watching me in hushed astonishment. They're my ragged guardian angels, ever at my back to protect it. Why do I feel like I have sinned?
Izzy is holding a cigarette with ash an inch long, a sort of knowing sadness playing over his expression. He doesn't look all that different from the morning after Charlie died, after my pyrotechnic break and the escape mechanism I know he knows I chose. I wonder if he even hit the smoke in his hand before it burned away. The ash gives under the weight of my attention, a gray mess fluttering to the floor.
He sighs and stabs it into a nearby ashtray. He always withdraws his attention just before it gives him away. I can't know what he's thinking or remembering, because I've never been able to get him to put his guard down. Of course it makes me want to see what he's hiding.
Josh's gaze is so much more open, holds much more pain and, perhaps, disappointment. He's never been as cynical as the rest of us. Someday he'll do better things than this. I can't help but feel I've done him wrong by bringing him here. I can't help but think that he wants to take me with him on his way up the ladder, out of the gutter and the illegal life. He's such a good dealer, but his optimism doesn't fit.
The gathering had gone so smoothly it was unreal, until Derrik rose from the underworld to ruin the night. Josh had performed well, had drawn from some well-hidden and well-trained stores of experience, the likes of which I never knew existed. Maybe it's good for him to see this in me.
I feel like the blackest kind of witch for thinking it. How long have I seen his affection? How long did I ignore it before I broke? Love, he said. Love, he thinks, but he can't love a monster like me. No, my actions are not the cause of the anguish I see in those earnest eyes. I know him better.
The words 'nothing to lose' have broken his heart.
He told me he wouldn't go until I told him to go. I should have said the words already, but I can't honestly say I want him to leave my side for good. Now, after everything tonight, hesitation rises in my stomach.
I have to look away from his puppy eyes and bleeding heart. He needs to know what lies along the path he has so eagerly followed. Figure out what I want from him, he said. I could ask the same from him, to make the same decision. What does he want?
