Page 4 of Vipers & Roses

As I drag my eyes away from the viewing box, someone’s gaze captures my attention. Intense, narrowed eyes run over my legs and buttocks, and I quickly wrap the towel around my body to shield my bare skin from his consuming stare.

It’s the swimmer who crashed into me and scolded me like a child. Maybe I acted like a child, but those eyes aren’t looking at me like he hates me right now.

I turn my back and head toward the locker room, glancing back one more time to see if the swimmer is still watching me, and he is. Breathing a sigh of relief as I enter the locker room away from the roaming eyes of curious men, I find a bench to sit on to check my class schedule for the day.

I’m meeting a man about a gun today, and I have to miss class to get there. Rockford Park is a twenty-minute drive from campus, and Zara told me to avoid being late as he’d grow suspicious. I also need to withdraw $200 cash from my long, shrinking bank account to give him.

“Bullets,” I say aloud, then realize there are other women nearby, and I hope they didn’t hear what I just blurted. I need bullets, too. I wonder if he…Blake will supply them as well. I only need one bullet to do the job unless I miss.

I slip my phone away in my bag and remove my lapis-blue bathing suit underneath my towel. Dry my body down and slip on a plain pair of white panties, a black sports bra, white shorts, and a dark blue Death to the Pixies T-shirt. Like Zara, I love my vintage tees, except hers are often deliberately offensive to raise eyebrows.

Slinging my sports bag over my shoulder, I head out into the pool arena again, quickly scan the area still searching for The Lion, and then slip down the corridor to the exit. The Olympic stadium is built on the edge of campus grounds, and college students from all over the country come here to train because we have some of the most highly acclaimed coaches in the land. The Nationals were featured here twice because the facilities are so good. But that’s not why I’m here. Yes, I still love to swim, but I’m here to hunt down my target, who also happens to be one of those highly respected coaches.

As I walk out to my car in the parking lot, a yellow Toyota hatchback, I soak in the warm early summer sun and gaze up at the perfect blue sky to search for a cloud, a blemish on the horizon. It’s clear. Not a single cloud in the sky. And as a lone seagull waddles about the parking lot searching for grubs, I think, what perfect day to murder someone.

Then, I pull my thoughts together and let my rational mind take over. One must plan these things to the last meticulous detail because leaving a trail leading back to me will devastate me and my family. Plot and scheme. Plot and scheme.

Today is not the day to kill him, but tomorrow might be.

3

Mom: Are you coming home for your father’s bday this weekend?

Rory: I hope you’re coming home this weekend. I can show you my new bike.

Dad: It’ll be great to see you this weekend. I hope you can make it.

Max: U better be there this weekend for the old man’s bday.

I do believe I’m being ambushed. This is Mom’s work, collaborating with everyone to encourage me to go. Of course, I hadn’t forgotten Dad’s birthday, but I was not keen to drive back home for the weekend. My car couldn’t handle the four-hour drive, which was my excuse many times, but I know I can’t miss an event as important as my father’s birthday.

I have grown distant from my parents since that day when The Four ripped me to shreds. They know that it happened, but they don’t know the worst of it, and I guess I’m shielding them from pain. If I tell them the truth, it’ll destroy them.

But they’re struggling to grasp why I call less, why I rarely visit, and why I moved to the other side of the country for two years to live with my aunt while pursuing my studies online. It didn’t make sense to them, and it never will, but I needed time to heal, yet the time away only made me bitter, festering in rage, eager to seek revenge.

My little brother, Rory, is only eight years old and doesn’t know me any other way. But Max, my older brother by two years, witnessed the dying of a once vibrant soul with many friends and always with a smile on my face to becoming someone who lost interest in everything. I stopped swim training and going out and socializing with friends, preferring to stay inside and watch movies and eat crap. I developed a strange skin condition that no one could see and was diagnosed as psychosomatic, but I thought it was real. My skin would itch so badly, particularly after I bathed, that I would scratch it raw until I bled. Frequent bathing was another issue because it didn’t matter how often I washed my body or how much soap I used; I failed to clean the fifth away. So, bathe some more and scrub hard with the body brush to no avail.

My time spent with my aunt on her ranch healed my skin condition, and I stopped bathing five times a day, but my mind was still haunted by that day. I guess my physical body and emotions adjusted to the trauma by turning numb and building resistance, thereby becoming better at dealing with it. Time does heal wounds to a certain degree until you pick the scab off to make it bleed again. At least I’m back on track now, or I pretend to be.

I lean against the corridor wall, waiting for our Sports Science tutor to arrive to open the door, and I feel someone watching me. My major is plant biology, but I’m taking a couple of science papers because I am interested in human anatomy in relation to physical performance.

I do a doubletake of the man in a white T-shirt and black sweatpants and realize he’s the swimmer who scolded me earlier at the pool. Next to him is another guy with a physique like his and two women, probably swimmers.

The tutor arrives full of apologies and unlocks the door, and I frown when I notice the swim team also filing into the auditorium. This is a popular class because our tutor, Ed Willard, is a famous ex-Olympian sprinter, and it’s as if everyone wants a piece of the magic that made him so great.

So, it’s no surprise that I hadn’t noticed the swimmer before now, even though I’ve attended this class several times. Keeping most people at arm’s length has become my safety net.

Once seated alone, I messaged my family.

Me to Mom: Yes ♥

Me to Dad: Yes ?

Me to Rory: I can’t wait ?

Me to Max: Wrong number.

When I glance up, his eyes are on me. He’s seated a couple of rows in front, and as soon as our eyes meet, he lingers for a moment before turning around. The girl beside him notices his curious stare and examines me like a jealous girlfriend. Don’t worry, and I have no interest in your man. I didn’t return to Torres Island for romance, although I doubt that’s why the swimmer is looking at me. He’s likely concluded that the girl sinking to the bottom of the pool is purely mad, but hey, all the best people are.

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