Page 62 of Vicious Behaviors
I wake up with a start, the remnants of a dream slipping through my fingers like liquid. My neck aches from the awkward angle I passed out in, the couch beneath me too small and too fucking brand new to offer any real comfort. Still, I’d slept like the dead. The kind of sleep that only comes after you’ve left every ounce of blood and bone in the ring.
After leaving Izzie in that alley earlier tonight, I went straight back to the gym, yearning for something hard to hit. I jumped into that ring and threw down the gauntlet, daring anyone dumb enough to try their luck.
And so they came. They always come. A bunch of contenders, like dogs snapping at the same bone, eager to be the one who finally knocks Marcello Romano on his ass. To say they left bruised and bleeding would be generous. I’ve never fought for sport. I fight because it’s the only thing that ever quiets the noise in my head. It’s the only thing that offers me control.
By the time the last guy tapped out, the crowd had thinned, and the lights overhead buzzed with fatigue. My knuckles were raw again, their skin split open like overripe fruit. Someone handed me a towel and a bottle of water, and I ignored both. Just came home and collapsed onto this couch and let exhaustion take over.
Now that I’m fully awake, however, the ache of a fight well fought settles into my spine like an old friend. I roll my neck, stretch out the tension sitting on my shoulder blades, and glance over at the phone, establishing that it’s nearly one in the morning. I should be thinking about ice packs or more sleep, but instead, my mind goes straight to her. The one complication I can’t seem to fight off. The threat that isn’t buried in the past… but standing in my present.
I think about Izzie. About the way her breath hitched when I cornered her against the wall. The way she looked deep into my eyes, like she wanted to lose herself in them. How her body didn’t flinch from my proximity, but leaned into it instead.
She knows what I am. The crimes I’ve committed. The blood I’ve spilled. And yet she still let me touch her. Even waited on bated breath for me to kiss her. And knowing that a part of me wants to, should fucking terrify me.
Luckily, a few of my opponents managed to land some decent shots tonight. One cracked my ribs hard enough to steal my breath for a second. Another got a clean punch across my jaw. I welcomed the pain with open arms. It made it easier to ignore the chaos that’s been churning inside me since Izzie stormed into my life and flipped everything upside down.
I head into the kitchen, reluctant to think about the reason behind my erratic state. My muscles are stiff and sore, my joints popping like old wood under pressure. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and drain it in one go, not realizing how parched I was until it’s gone. Cold slides down my throat, but it doesn’t touch the heat still coiled in my chest. The empty bottle hangs in my hand as I scan the kitchen, confused for a second. It takes me a beat to remember where the recycling bin is since I’m still unfamiliar with the ins and outs of this new apartment.
When I decided to move out of Jude’s penthouse and buy my own place in the city, this wasn’t exactly the setup I had in mind. It’s too small. Too quaint. But then again, I didn’t buy it for the square footage. I bought it because it sits directly across from Izzie’s building. I have a clear, unobstructed view into every room of her apartment from my living room window.
Whereas my mother was quick to decorate my new space with expensive drapes, Persian rugs, and throw pillows I will never use, Izzie’s left her apartment almost bare. Her furniture consists of a sofa and coffee table in her living room, and a double bed and dresser in her bedroom, all courtesy of IKEA.
There are no curtains or blinds on any of her windows either. She probably figured her apartment was high enough to have her privacy. Bad judgment call on her part. And an open invitation for me.
Now, to the average law-abiding citizen, this might be construed as stalking. But to amade manlike me, this is what we call doing our due diligence.
What’s that saying? Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.
Well, Isobel Graham falls squarely into the latter category. She’s a danger to me, my family, and everything I hold dear.
‘So why haven’t we killed her already?’the voice hisses in my head, coiled and bitter like a serpent gone too long without sustenance, ready to wrap itself around its prey to squeeze the life out of it.
Instead of engaging with it, I pull up a chair and grab my binoculars to get a better view of the battle station that is her living room. At the heart of the room lies a board filled with familiar faces, names, and other little tidbits of information written in blue Post-it notes beneath them. At the same time, red strings weave across the board like a spider’s web, converging toward the center where two large photographs reside—one is of Father Liam McDonagh, and the other, right above him, is mine.
She’s drawing lines and connecting the dots. Or at least she’s trying to pin his sudden disappearance on me. She thinks that she’ll be able to take me down once she solves that puzzle. Arrest and cage me. Lock me up and throw away the key.
However, the one thing she doesn’t know is that federal prison will be the last place I’ll land if I ever get caught.
No. Into a padded cell is where they love to send the likes of me. Walls soft and white, stitched like the inside of a coffin, meant to keep me from bashing my own skull open when the voices in my head get too loud. Straightjacketed. Heavily medicated. Stripped of identity and sedated into silence. They’d pull out the full psych ward playbook for someone as fucked up as I am. If that were to happen, I’d rot there, howling with the other monsters in my wing.
I wouldn’t fucking last a day. And the reason I know that is because I’m not crazy. I’m fully aware of the future that awaits me if the Feds ever get their greedy hands on me.
Perhaps in the clinical sense, I’m not what you would call sane either. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’d be diagnosed with a dissociative identity disorder. I’ve read enough books on the matter to know that DID would be the label they would stick on me.
Unlike most prisoners who are taken to such facilities, I know the difference between reality and fiction. And I sure as fuck know the difference between right and wrong. The only difference between me and someone who’s mentally sound is that I don’t run from my monster. I don’t pretend he doesn’t live inside me. Everyone has a dark side. Mine just likes to whisper in my ear his insatiable hunger for blood and pain.
He’s the part of me that doesn’t flinch. The part that doesn’t question. The part that my childhood trauma molded and bled into existence. And now he’s just… always there. Sitting in the back of my mind like a shadow wearing my face.
‘We did good tonight,’I imagine him saying to me right now. ‘But we can’t get soft. That girl…that woman…she’ll be the end of us if we let her.’
I grit my teeth and shut my eyes, because it’s not his voice that cautions me against Izzie. It’s mine.
So yeah, I bought this apartment to keep a vigilant eye on her. I watch her as she plots against me. I watch her so that I’m always two steps ahead. I watch her because she’s the enemy. However, more often than not, I catch myself watching her because… she simply fascinates me.
Like me, Izzie is a creature of habit. The routine is the same every night from the moment she walks through the door. Shower first—always. Once she’s scrubbed the day off her skin, she grabs the nearest oversized T-shirt from her dresser, one that barely covers her thighs. Then she struts into the kitchen and either pulls out a takeout container with leftovers from the fridge, or a tub of ice cream from the freezer. She then waltzesback to the living room with her food in hand and plants herself in front of the board as if it held the answer to all her problems. She just doesn’t see it yet.
Tonight’s dinner must have been ice cream, judging by the empty tub melting on the coffee table. I didn’t expect her to still be awake so late, but there she is, sitting on the edge of her couch, just staring at the board.
I lean back in my chair and almost smile. Watching Izzie overthink herself into a corner is the most entertained I’ve been in months. She usually has this stern look on her face as she takes in every piece of information on the board, like it’s new to her. But not tonight. Tonight, her expression isn’t knotted with questions. It’s soft. Sure. Even as her chest rises and falls as if trying to calm something inside her. She chews on the corner of her lip, then stands, plucking my picture off the board and carrying it back to the couch.
