Page 59 of Hero & Villain
After I collapsed the lean-to over the bodies in a cloud of dust, I climbed back in the truck and drove north. I reached the motel around three in the afternoon. I parked the truck and trailer as close as I could to where they’d been originally, but backing up with a trailer was not my forte. Hopefully, Jezebel wouldn’t notice the broken rear blinker.
I’d been so sure that Jezebel was a criminal. Was she really a vigilante, taking on big crime in her sequined push-up bra? It was ludicrous. There had to be a big payoff in that truck- weapons, drugs, something worth risking herself and the rest of us.
I drove Prudence too fast until I realized that not having a trailer behind me made the ride smooth as butter and ninety-five feel like twenty. I did not need to get pulled over after I’d moved dead bodies, even if I didn’t have blood under my nails.
Chapter Eighteen
VILLAIN
It was after dark when I reached the city, and the bright lights made the rest of the world disappear. Flash and flame was the only thing that mattered in this world, but there was so much more underneath, the dark underbelly, but also other factors that you’d never expect, like Jezebel, queen of sequins putting her life on the line to rescue some strangers she’d never met.
I shook my head. No, she must have boosted something else that made the risk worthwhile. I drove up to her dark house and got out, heading for the front door. It opened easily, but I wasn’t finished opening doors. The safe room held Jezebel’s secrets, and it was time I knew all of them.
Most kitchens had what you needed to get into a locked room. Did I care if she knew I’d been there? She wouldn’t appreciate needing a new door, so it took me fifteen minutes to break in. It was a good lock, so I’d had to raid the garage for the right equipment. Once I got the door open, I flipped on the light and went to the computer, where I found files on the men.
One was a serial rapist whose war crimes would make my grandfather squirm, an international fugitive that couldn’t becaught. The other one was less prestigious, but still vile, still wanted and impossible to catch and bring to justice.
I bit my bottom lip until I tasted blood. That didn’t prove what was in the trailers. I found the footage of the trucks stopping and letting a few women out to urinate and drink water. One tried to make a run for it and got shot. I flinched away from the sight and turned off the computer.
I took shallow breaths and then left the room, closing the door firmly behind me before I went to take a shower. After a quick scrub, while I tried not to think about blood and blank empty eyes, I got dressed in pajamas and went to Othello. I tried to play, but everything kept running in a loop in my head, from knowing I was going to die, and deserving it for being so stupid, to Minx saving me, and losing some of her soul in the act. Sweet, helpless Minx, who hadn’t hesitated before blowing their brains out. So sweet that I’d bought the act, because it wasn’t an act, but she was still capable of cold-blooded killing.
I leaned over my cello and dry-sobbed while my chest ached with memories I’d stuffed into the box I never opened. A sharp ache went through me as the first Thursday’s memory swallowed me whole, when I sold my virginity and my self-respect to Clint because my grandfather wanted a good deal. I was going to vomit if I kept sobbing like that, but I couldn’t stop, like I couldn’t pull the trigger, like I couldn’t touch Dirk with the intention to seduce.
I clung to Othello and drowned in feelings that I couldn’t afford to have, feelings of desperation as I clung to the roof. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t escape, could only drown in memories that hurt so much. I took the bow in a shaking hand and drew it over the strings, but the sound was wrong, off, the worst sound I’d ever made on a cello. It was the ultimate betrayal.
I couldn’t play. I’d never been unable to play before.
I couldn’t be like this, not in the middle of a job that would make or break me, but I couldn’t do anything else. I couldn’t go home to my grandfather empty-handed, or he’d break my hands and kill Toni, but what could I do when my whole body was revolting against me? I was drowning and couldn’t save myself. I needed help. I needed therapy.
I squeezed my eyes tight while burning tears poured down my face. It was the middle of the night on a Friday. If I called, the mysterious therapist wouldn’t answer his phone. I’d leave a short message and call it good. I had to do something because I was drowning in this mess, and I literally couldn’t help myself.
I pulled out the card before I could change my mind. I didn’t have a phone, but I knew where a pay phone was, like any normal person who didn’t have a cell phone in this day and age. Supervillains didn’t have cell phones, except that Jezebel did. She was too terrifying to have started out law-abiding, but she’d chosen to do this, save people instead of hurt them, to defend the defenseless instead of letting the evil in others infect her. Had she ever been like this? Weak, and hurting so much that she couldn’t breathe?
I should get a cell phone. I wanted to call Toni. I wanted to call Dirk. I could make fun of him for going to Harvard, or liking Scooby Doo. I needed him to wink at me, or wrap his arms around me and make everything okay, but instead I had to break him. Why had he made that business deal with Clint? What kind of sick fate would force me to destroy the only man in the world who made me feel safe?
It took a long time, but eventually the sobs faded and I was able to get back into Prudence and drive to the gas station. I ignored the looks my flannel pajamas got. I’d looked worse earlier. I was still dangerously close to bursting into tears.
I pulled out the therapist’s black card, fed coins into the payphone and waited for the answering machine.
It rang twice and then he answered. “Do you need someone to pick you up? Are you bleeding?”
I glanced down at my arm. I was barely grazed, although it seems like there was more blood now. “No, I’m fine,” I said, shaking my head to clear it. “Is this the therapist?”
He sighed. “There’s only one person who got this number recently. You must be Princess Pinkie.”
“Not a princess. Call me Dani. I thought I’d get an answering machine. Who answers the phone at this time of night?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, you should be out partying like the girls. Trixie is drinking margaritas and eating tacos with Jezebel. At least that’s what they say, but who knows? They’re all insane.”
“It hasn’t been long since her last bender. She probably won’t drink much. Where did you say they’d be?”
“Why do you want to know?” I asked, frowning. The only recommendation I had of this therapist was Dirk, and he felt fine breaking into Jezebel’s house to make sure I wasn’t murdering her.
He sighed. “I’m Horse. We’ve met, and I’m sure that you noticed that I’m Trixie’s mortal enemy. It’s convenient to know where she’ll be so that I can avoid her.”
This was the ridiculously attractive team leader that owned Trix’s hotel? “Why are you mortal enemies?”
