⊰ 2 ⊱ Shadow of the Past

The icy cold water is refreshing as I chug it from the glass cup, its coolness kissing my tongue. The remnants of the joint I’ve just smoked linger in the air, its scent infused in my blood-red sweater.

I stink. I need a shower.

My hooded eyes are redder than usual—a direct result from smoking an entire gram on my own.

I cross my arms in front of me, taking the hem of my hoodie and t-shirt together before pulling it up and over my head. In one swift motion, I draw it from my body and toss it into the brown hamper positioned beside the bathroom doorway.

With this, I reach behind me and unclasp my bra, slipping it out of my arms as I kick the white sneakers off of my feet. As high as I’m riding, by the time I recognize my next movements, I’m standing naked in the shower with the steaming hot water cascading through my waist-length hair.

The sweet scent of the strawberry shampoo that washes my hair makes me smile in contentment as I throw my head back and run my fingers through it. Nothing brings me greater joy than taking a hot shower while enjoying my flight on cloud 9.

Well, that is if you exclude the ten buffalo hot wings and box of fries that I plan to devour once I’m done.

After scrubbing my body with my vanilla coconut body wash and conditioning my hair, I find myself wrapped in a towel and sitting at the foot of my bed. Casually, I moisturize my skin with my favorite cocoa butter lotion, ignoring the water droplets dripping from the ends of my wet hair.

Those wings aboutta SMACK.

I grin like an idiot as I fantasize about the delivery I’m so anxiously waiting for. In the meantime, I take the next round of minutes to brush my hair, slip into a clean pair of soft black leggings, a comfortable black bralette, an oversized pastel yellow t-shirt, and my favorite cow print fuzzy socks. Between applying face moisturizer and deodorant, I’m staring at the delivery app as I watch the tracker navigate the driver to turn down the block that leads them to my apartment complex.

“Eeeeeep!” I squeak excitingly as I turn to rush out of the bathroom, leaving my phone on the counter.

“I’m ready! I’m ready! I’m ready!” I mimic my favorite line from Spongebob with each slippery step that I take toward the front door. It’s only seconds before I come to stand a foot short from it, and just as I cease my movements, a knock echoes through it.

YAAAASSSS!

With a smile plastered on my lips, I unwaveringly take the handle, the pad of my thumb pressing down the latch. At the familiar click, I pull the door open, and just as my eyes lift to meet those of whom I expect to be a delivery driver’s, my heart stops in my chest.

You…

His golden-brown eyes captivate me, his shooting a string of chills down the base of my spine. For a moment, it’s as though I’m stuck in the limbo of time, the fragments of my mind colliding in its divide, and all I can do is fall back into the memory of the last time that I saw him.

I had just turned 18-years-old, and I was only a few months short from graduating high school. My brother said he’d be gone all night again. He said he’d be busy working, and despite him telling me to stay home, I blatantly chose to go against his wishes by making a quick run—or walk—to the gas station up the street.

I really wanted a chocolate bar.

If I’m meant to be unlucky for all my life, don’t I know it?

After standing in the aisle for five minutes, scanning the shelves thoughtfully, I had finally narrowed it down to two different chocolate bars. I knew that I was never going to make up my mind if I tried to discipline myself into picking just one, so I decided that night would be the night that I’d happily chow down on a pound of chocolate and a coconut milk tea—the perfect recipe for a sugar rush to get me through the next season of Sons of Anarchy.

I made my way to the far end of the convenience store, coming to a stop before the large refrigerators next to the hall that leads down to the storage room and restrooms. As I reached for the silver handle, my eyes locked on the white liquid bottle, a strong hand suddenly gripped my upper arm, pulling me into the hall.

Before I could mutter a sound, my lips were pressed together, a second hand tightly covering my mouth. My gasp was muffled, my eyes widening as they fixated on a pair of golden-brown orbs.

He murmured softly, whispering, “Sh…”

Those eyes—those beautiful golden-brown eyes—are looking back at me once again.

It’s all too familiar: before I can mutter a sound, his hand finds the back of my head, the other pressed firmly over my mouth as he invites himself into my home. My breath hitches in my lungs, my eyes widening as the pair of men in leather jackets that I hadn’t noticed standing behind him invite themselves in after him, quietly shutting the door behind them.

For a moment—just a moment—I convince myself that I’m imagining things. I tell myself that the pot that I smoked wasn’t just pot and I’m hallucinating.

Unfortunately, it can’t be farther from the truth.

As my back meets the wall, my hands come up to his forearm, attempting to push him away from me as he holds his grip steady. He doesn’t budge, and with my heart at my throat, I attempt to scream only to be sorely disappointed: my cries are muffled.

“Now, now, doll,” he tsks. His eyes bore into my own, warning me to stop fighting against him.

Okay…okay.

…

Please don’t hurt me….

A whimper emits from the back of my throat as I force my shaky hands to release him, bringing them up beside my head.

I surrender—just as I did that day.

I surrendered—not knowing that he was about to save my life.

He nodded toward the cash register, my eyes snapping to the side to see the pair of men standing across the counter with guns pointed at the cashier. The brown turban on the cashier’s head trembled with his hands as he anxiously opened the register for the tall men in black masks.

“Hurry the fuck up!” They snarled at the terrified man.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” He cried in his thick Indian accent as he threw his hands up in the air and backed away, allowing the pair of thugs to wipe out the register.

But it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough that they had gotten what they came for, and despite having done as he was told, the criminal who held his gun to him while his friend emptied the register fired a round of bullets into the cashier’s chest.

My body involuntarily jolted, the tears that I hadn’t noticed gathering at the brim of my eyes suddenly falling as I watched the man collapse onto the hard floor. I trembled beneath his hold, my gaze snapping back to the man who was holding me silent against the wall.

His gaze watched the pair of criminals cautiously, his hand releasing my arm, reaching behind the lapel of his black leather jacket. The fluorescents reflected off of the shiny silver gun that he drew, holding it firmly and steadily as he brought it to his side.

He was ready, his finger on the trigger as he watched the men briefly scan the aisles before rushing out of the store. If it weren’t for the shaky breath that I caught passing his lips, I wouldn’t have noticed that he’d been holding his breath.

He didn’t give me the opportunity to take my own, his hand falling away from my mouth only to take my arm in his hold and drag me down the hall and into the storage room.

I didn’t question him, following willingly as though I had a choice.

Down the aisle with boxes stacked upon boxes, he led me to the wide, white door that read ’Exit’ in big red letters. I heard tires screeching and police sirens wailing, and in the midst of what I thought would be the last night of my life, I didn’t hesitate to jump into the shiny black pick-up truck with the man who still held a gun in his hand.

The same gun that he now takes from the holster hiding behind the lapel of the charcoal gray suit jacket when he relinquishes his hold on the back of my head. The light that flickers from the silver piece makes my erratic heart pound harder in my chest, my eyes following it as he brings it to his side.

“I don’t have to tell you not to scream, do I, Mercy?”

The sound of my name rolling off of his tongue makes my blood run cold. That same deep, husky voice that rang in my ears for months resonates like the paralyzing call of a mermaid’s symphony.

It’s as though I’ve been sobered up, and no amount of weed in the world can calm my uneven breath. Despite the turning in my empty stomach, I shake my head as though it were instinctive.

No. I’ll be quiet…I swear.

Still, he hesitates for a moment, studying my fear-filled eyes before reluctantly lowering his cupped hand from over my mouth. Knowing I’d be an idiot not to, I refrain from crying out for help as I lower my arms from beside my head. I’m careful, crossing them beneath my breasts as I hug myself in a desperate attempt to ease my anxiety.

“W-What do you want?” I stammer helplessly, my voice softer than I intend.

The smirk that once played on his lips returns as though it never left, and he taunts me, teasing me for his own amusement, “What’s wrong, doll? I thought you’d miss me.”

At the time, I didn’t know it.

As I sat in the passenger seat of his pick-up truck, too distracted by the gun in his hand to notice the brand new car smell, all I could do was cling onto the door’s handle as he drove off. The sirens wailing behind us were the least of his concerns, running through red lights as though it were just another casual Friday evening.

His sharp jaw slacked beneath his neatly trimmed beard, his gaze snapped to the rear view mirror every so often. Whatever—or whoever—he was driving us away from was more than I cared to concern myself with, and after speeding down more than a handful of miles from the scene, he drove into the empty parking lot of a plaza, stationing the oversized vehicle between two vacant spaces.

He shut his headlights off, and as his fingers hugged the gun resting on his lap, he cocked his head to the side, turning to look at me. I hadn’t realized it, but I’d still been clinging onto the pair of chocolate bars in my hand.

He noticed.

He was nonchalant, carefully placing his gun back into the holster behind the lapel of his jacket before reaching over to my lap. I involuntarily flinched, my eyes snapping to his hand as he abruptly took one of the bars from me. I watched him tear the wrapper open, peeling it back before taking a generous bite.

“Hmm…” he hummed thoughtfully, nodding in approval as he eyed the bitten chocolate bar in his hand. “Great choice.”

For a long moment, I held my silence.

I didn’t know him. I didn’t know what his plans for me were—if he had any.

I should’ve listened to Levi…I should’ve stayed home.

After his third bite, only two bites short from finishing the rest of the bar in his hand, I muttered, “Who are you?”

“The guy who just saved your life,” he mused without hesitation, his husky voice tinged with arrogance. “Who are you?” He arched a brow as he motioned to all of me with the chocolate in his hand.

Although every bone in my body was telling me to jump out of the car and run as far away from him as possible, my fear failed to override my open mind.

“Mercy,” I said softly. “My name is Mercy…Carter.”

I saw it: the intrigued glint that flashed in his eyes.

“Any relation to Levi Carter?”

Aaaand here we go.

“He’s my brother,” I confessed, and while a part of me was afraid that he’d urge me to get the hell out of his truck and away from him—like most guys did—I couldn’t help but feel proud knowing that his name carried so much weight.

Maybe he’ll be relieved that my brother owes him a favor for saving my life now.

Surprisingly, the hard look on his face hardly shifted. Instead, he hummed lowly, “Interesting.” A humorless chuckle emitted from the back of his throat, and he clicked his tongue. “Mercy…” his voice trailed off as he murmured my name in a Spanish accent. “Cute. It suits you.”

As he took the final bite, I eyed him curiously, and that was the first time that I took a moment to really look at him. His perfect eyelashes emphasized the full shape of his eyes, his plump lips tainted with a natural pink, and his silky black hair had been combed neatly to the side. The white t-shirt that he wore under the black leather jacket was fitted, tight around his prominent muscular chest.

Is he Italian or Hispanic?

“What’s your name?” I asked as the sound of him crumbling the empty wrapper in his hand met my ears.

He paused, his eyes fixed on me. For a long moment, he didn’t mutter a sound, and I was almost convinced that he had no intention of answering. That was until he tossed the crinkled wrapper onto the cup holder positioned beneath the truck’s multimedia system.

“Marcel.”

Italian?

But I was wrong. He wasn’t just Italian, and unfortunately, by the time I learned the truth, it was too late.