In one hand, the man held a pill bottle. In the other, he held a gun, pointed at her.
"Your choice."
"That's insane," Fen said, her breathless voice catching on the cold night air, words barely carrying.
He'd stepped out of the alley's darkness, scaring her even before she spotted the gun, but what kind of mugger told you to choose how you wanted to die?
Hand hidden behind her back, she fumbled for the doorknob of the bookstore. She'd pulled the door closed and it should have locked automatically, but maybe this once…
She found the knob. It didn't turn.
Fuck.
"Your choice," the asshole repeated. As if he were being helpful, he stepped closer into the glow cast by the light over the door, and offered her the bottle.
What the hell?
She'd imagined being murdered on her way home from work before, but she'd pictured a desperate junkie, strung-out on meth, a knife in his shaking hand, or maybe a skinny teenager with empty eyes undergoing a gang initiation rite.
This guy wore a frickin' suit. A nice suit! His hair was neatly cut, his teeth white and straight. Perfect nose, perfect mouth, perfect cheekbones. He even had nice eyelashes, dark and lush around his green eyes.
And he looked familiar. Not as if she knew him, but like she'd seen him before.
"Do I know you?" she asked, mouth dry.
She'd dropped her keys when he'd surprised her. Could she scoop them off the ground before he attacked? Her legs felt weak, her knees made of water, her chest heavy with a smothering fear.
His lips tightened, but he ignored the question. "I have no interest in hurting you. You can take the pills or I can shoot you. It's more efficient for me if you take the pills, but choose, or I'll choose for you." The barrel of the gun lifted.
"Efficient? You want to murder me efficiently?" A trickle of anger broke through Fen's frozen state.
"This is just a job, miss," he said.
Suddenly Fen was furious. Her voice was much stronger as she snapped, "You're making a mistake. I don't have anything worth stealing."
She stuffed her shaking hands into her jacket pockets, wishing desperately that she had a gun of her own, something, anything that would damage the asshole's face, make him a little less pretty before he murdered her.
"I don't intend to steal from you. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Her hand closed around the lucky crystal she carried. Too bad it didn't have jagged edges. Throwing the smooth, rounded stone at him would barely leave a bruise.
Oh, help, Fen thought, her mind racing. "Are you talking about the other night at Zach's place?" She asked, hating the tremor in her voice.
The thug didn't answer.
"He would never agree to this," she said, her hand tightening into a fist. She and Zach were friends.
Okay, maybe not exactly friends, more like flirtatious. Zach had classic bad-boy appeal—dark eyes, shaggy hair, excellent ass. He was a bike messenger, living life a little too close to the bone, taking a few too many risks.
Maybe for him she had good-girl appeal—the neat and proper bookstore clerk, working nine-to-five, studying six-to-twelve. Or maybe he'd seen the hint of the bad girl she'd once been under the surface. Maybe he'd caught a glimpse of her tattoos. The one on her shoulder blade sometimes peeked out of her shirt collars and in summer the ivy pattern twining up the back of her leg was easy to spot.
"What he doesn't know won't hurt him," the perfect asshole said. He turned the pill bottle in his hand, as if about to put it away. "Last chance."
"Wait!" Fen said, despair near the surface. "I won't tell anyone. I didn't see anything. And I don't care. So he's dealing drugs, so what? It's none of my business. It's not like I'd go to the police."
The thug blinked at her. Did he look surprised? She couldn't tell. But he frowned, and his voice was dry as he said, "I'm doing a job. I don't negotiate with the target. Pills or pain, your decision."
Fen swallowed hard.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.
That was just a really sucky choice.
Help me, please help me, she thought, closing her eyes. She didn't know who she was begging, but she wasn't going to beg her assailant.
Hating him with a passion that felt colder than the Chicago wind, she stepped forward and extended her hand. "Pills."
"Good choice." He tossed the bottle to her, gently, in an underhanded throw that landed precisely in the center of her palm. Her fingers closed around it.
"What are these?"
"Take 'em all," he said. "I'll wait."
She wanted to point out that that wasn't an answer to her question, but she drew herself up, back straight, chin held high and said, as regally as she could, "Water?"
A hint of a grin crossed his face and he dipped his head as he said, "Sorry, miss. They're not large."
Fucking asshole.
Slimeball. Cretin. Moronic, idiotic, bastard, pretty boy. Total creeper psychopath.
Her mental diatribe wasn't helping her feel any better as she forced the lid of the bottle down and swiveled to open it. She dropped the cap on the ground and let the first few pills spill out into her hand. The bottle was nearly full, with at least thirty or forty pills in it.
Was she really going to take each and every one of them, knowing that each one would bring her closer to death?
She wasn't ready to die.
Five years ago, she might not have cared. She might have been grateful. This asshole could have done the deed she hadn't quite managed to do herself. But today—today she was getting her life together.
Okay, so she was way behind the curve, still studying for her GED when kids her age were graduating college. But she was getting there, even if it was an inch at a time.
And twenty-one was too damn young to die.
"How fast will it be?" she asked, keeping her voice steady with an effort.
"Pretty quick if you'll get on with it." He lowered his gun.
"Can I—are you going to make it look like a suicide?"
"Accident, I was thinking."
"Oh, come off it," she snapped. "Nobody takes this many pills by mistake."
He inclined his head to her in reluctant acknowledgement. "True." He raised his gun again. . "But I don't need any melodrama about this, all right? Believe it or not, I'm being nice."
"A suicide note would make it more convincing," Fen said stiffly.
She put the first pill in her mouth and grimaced as she swallowed. It was bitter, unpleasantly so. Shouldn't it be coated with something? But maybe he'd gotten some kind of deliberately fast-acting poison, rather than easy painkillers.
"Yeah." He sounded wary.
"I'd like to say good-bye to Theresa." She gestured behind her. "She gave me a chance when not too many people would have. I owe her… something."
His lips twisted. "What did you have in mind?"
Fen shifted so the messenger bag strapped across her body was more obvious. "I've got paper in here. A pen. Can I write her a note?"
The pause while he considered her question felt like it lasted forever. Fen took another pill. She didn't feel the effects yet, but it couldn't be long. "You'll be able to read it. It's not like I can make up some great coded message incriminating you in my death."
He didn't say anything.
Fen sighed. It had been worth a try. Carefully, she picked another pill out from the few in her hand and swallowed it. She blinked back the tears. Not many people would notice or care that she was gone, but Theresa… Theresa would mind. It would matter to her.
Fen hoped her boss didn't spend too long mourning. She hoped Theresa would find another lost sheep and shelter her. God, it would suck if her death did to Theresa what Fen's mom's death had done to her. For a moment she felt doubtful. Maybe she should fight instead? Get shot? Would that be better?
"Toss me the bag," he said, breaking her reverie. Maybe he'd read her mind. Could murderers do that?
Fen popped the last pill in her hand into her mouth and slung the bag off her shoulder, swinging it in his direction. She giggled when it landed on the ground. "Oops."
Okay, so the pills were affecting her.
But whatever.
If you were going to die, surely it was better to die happy?
She inhaled and said, lips feeling numb. "Better hurry. Not sure I'm gonna be in shape to write much longer."
The gorgeous thug snorted, crouching over her bag. "Lightweight."
Fen looked down at herself and then back up at him. "Um, yeah?" Talk about stating the obvious. She'd always wanted to be taller and definitely curvier. Breasts would have been nice. Instead she had the build of a 4th grade girl, short, skinny, flat-chested.
He looked up. His lips tightened, but he didn't comment. He pulled a notepad and a pen out of her bag and shoved them toward her feet.
Fen looked down. What did she want those for? Oh, right… she was going to write a note. Swaying slightly, she leaned down to pick them up, dropping the pill bottle. Pills spilled out onto the asphalt.
"Oh, shit," she muttered.
She crouched, righting the bottle and setting it on the notepad.
"What happens here?"
The voice was male, but young. Was that a boy?
Blearily, Fen turned her head in the direction of the voice, past the dumpsters, and toward the main street. She should tell him to run. Guy with gun, don't come in here. Yep, that's what she should say. But first she needed to do something.
What was it?
Her fingers felt thick. Oh, God, it was so hard to think through the fuzziness in her head.
She put a knee down on the ground to steady herself and looked up. A boy, barely dressed, his hair wet, was confronting the thug in the suit. His hands were up, not as if he feared the weapon, but as if he were ordering the thug to back off.
The thug yelped and dropped the gun to the ground, backing away, out of the alley.
Huh. That was strange.
Fen let her hand drop to the ground. The asphalt was cold under her fingers. What was she doing again?
Pills.
Right, pills. Pick them up. Take them. That was what she was doing.
And why was that exactly?
"Are you well?" It was the boy's voice. Fen looked up at him. Maybe he wasn't a boy. He looked bigger than he sounded. Who was he? "May I help you?" he asked her.
Crack.
Fen swayed upright, onto one knee, as she covered her ears. Shit, that noise hurt.
The boy's mouth fell open.
His hand lifted like he would say the pledge of allegiance. Very patriotic, Fen thought. Maybe not the best time.
But something oozed through his fingers. He crumpled, falling to his knees beside her, and pausing there, face twisted in agony.
It was a good face. Boyish, but nice. Not like that other guy's. And where had he gone?
"Call for help," the boy gasped.
Fen pinched herself hard, taking a bit of skin on the top of her wrist and twisting it brutally. Something was happening. She needed to focus. The pain gave her a moment of clarity.
Man, going to kill her.
Boy, appearing out of nowhere.
Loud noise.
The gun.
"911," she said, her entire mouth feeling stiff and numb. "Got it." She looked around her. Her phone was in her bag. And her bag must be here somewhere.
"No," the boy moaned. Green ichor was seeping through the fingers clasped across his chest.
Huh.
Green.
Great, she was hallucinating. Weird hallucination, though.
Bleeding green.
God, these were good drugs. She'd only taken, what, four, five, of the pills?
"You need an ambulance," she tried to say. The words didn't sound right to her own ears and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to make sense of the sounds. Fuck.
She stuffed her hands in her pockets. Her crystal felt cool under her fingers. Help, she thought. The logical part of her brain wanted the thought to be frantic, but it wasn't. She felt quite peaceful. Placid, even.
The boy tilted sideways, landing on the ground. His lips were white, she noticed.
Help with what? The thought sounded surprised.
The boy? She thought back. The one who's bleeding green? At my feet? The one who's shot? The one who's…
The thought stopped there. Dying. Was she dying? Was he dying? She didn't know.
Carefully, she let her knee down and then her hands until she was on all fours next to the boy. She could feel the asphalt under her hands, the hard road under her knees. She could see grey pavement, brick walls, the metal dumpster, the boy's flesh, the green blood leaking through his fingers.
He opened his eyes. "Who are you?" he whispered. His lips, they were so pale. White almost.
Fen stared at them in fascination. White lips, green blood.
God, these were good drugs. Seriously good drugs. Except for the part about them killing her.
"I can't," she whispered.
"Can't what?" he gasped.
"911. I'm sorry." She folded down, down, down, until all she could feel was the cold pavement. She needed to find her phone. She needed to call for help. She needed…
…to go to sleep.
A/N: Pulled to publish, sorry! But if you were reading this story and didn't get a chance to finish, send me an email to sarah at sarahwynde-dot-com and I will send the final version in either epub or mobi format. (Let me know which you prefer in the email.) Thanks for reading!