Page 83 of Made for Cyn

“Let me tell you a little story, Rain,” she says grimly. “Once, there was a girl. She was pretty and fun and nice, and then her piece of shit stepdad raped her, impregnated her, and the girl was too afraid to say anything. So, she fucked a fellow student and convinced him that it was his . . . and you know what he did? He sent her to a back-alley abortion doctor, and she got sicker and sicker until she ended up in the hospital. And you know what her mom said to her when she woke up from surgery? ‘I’m disappointed in you.’ Not, ‘I love you. I was worried.’ Nope, ‘disappointed’.”

There’s no passion behind her words, and the void behind her eyes brings tears to my eyes because I can’t reach her. I can’t feel her, and I’m afraid there’s no going back, and it’s John’s fucking fault.

“Okay,” I whisper, and she collapses against the couch, the void replaced with a vicious intensity that makes me shiver.

The next hour is mind-numbing as I sip my beer and watch Iris get shit-faced because apparently, she’s mastered the fine art of performing wasted while I don’t get the luxury. When Saul pushes her toward one of his friends, she goes without protest, sitting on his lap and writhing around as he grabs her boobs.

Next, Saul glances at me, and I freeze, staring into his eyes because I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I can, and the burn of shame passes through me as I look at Iris and consider backing out, betraying her in a way that may push her to the point of no return.

She’s sitting on some dude’s lap, her head tipped back, and her red hair brushing his legs. She looks beautiful but blank, and I realize I don’t want to be her. I don’t. I’d rather fucking kill John myself than give myself in exchange for his death. Then I’m just trading one hell for another.

Saul motions to me with his hand, and I stand, muttering about the bathroom before walking down a hall. I don’t want to be here. I need to leave, but I’m afraid I’m stuck until Iris decides she’s done.

Finally, I find a bathroom and lock myself inside, staring at my reflection in the mirror with a humorless grin because I no longer recognize myself either, and it’s that more than anything that solves it for me. No, just no.

Washing my face and hands, I contemplate hiding in here until it’s time to leave, but I have to make a stand and face Iris in her disappointment.

A crashing sound distracts me from my musing and, turning toward the door, I lean against the wood as shouts ring out, followed by more crashing noises.

Someone screams, and I assume it’s Iris. My stomach clenches and I peek out the door.

“Fuck!”

“Get dow—”

Gasping, I drop to my knees and inch back into the bathroom when gunshots ring out, and Iris screams again.

Shit. Iris. What do I do?

“Shut her up!”

“Fuck, Iris! Enough!” Saul swears, and Iris cuts off abruptly.

More shots ring out, and I cringe with each brutally loud sound that is followed by more cursing. Inching forward on my hands and knees, I slowly make my way down the hall. Once I reach the corner, I wipe my sweaty hands on my knees before covering my mouth to quiet the terrified scream and peek into the living space.

The windows that once looked over the back property are shattered. The guys are hiding behind the couches, with Iris curled into a ball and staring into nothing. She’s in shock, and her stare is intensely painful with her dilated eyes, but the animalistic whimpers barking from her mouth are what make me shudder.

I wave my hand at her desperately and cry when she doesn’t notice me, even though I’m hard to miss. Saul looks back with a frown before raising on his haunches and firing his gun out the window. With a gasp, I lean my back against the wall and sob into my hands. My heart is pounding so fucking painfully, I don’t know how I’m still breathing, and I don’t know what to do.

We’re going to die here, ironically, in the throes of planning John’s fucking death. We’re going to die.

After an interminable amount of time in which I lean against the wall and tremble, sweat pouring from me in buckets, the sound stops, and the guys speak back and forth in whispers. I strain to hear, but the pulse in my head drowns out the sound.

Helplessly, I watch as one of them crouch-walks around and into another room, and I hold my breath until he returns, announcing, “They’re gone.”

Saul nods and stands, and I rush to Iris, checking her over, as he grunts. “She’s fine. Go.”

“Go?” I ask dumbly.

“Yes, get the fuck out of here,” Saul barks.

I don’t need further instruction to get the fuck out, and grabbing Iris’ hand, I lead her out the door and toward her car cautiously.

She follows dumbly behind me before pulling away at the last minute, and dubiously I watch her get into the driver’s side, hoping she can actually drive without killing us.

She seems to be okay, though, and as we pull away silently, I stare out the windshield, relieved for my reprieve but appalled by the events of this evening. Saul and his people are dangerous, and I get it. We need someone willing to kill a man, but our deaths aren’t worth this, nor is losing our fucking humanity. But now is not the time to admit this to Iris. She needs time to come down and hopefully come back, because although she’s driving fairly competently, I can tell she’s not completely here in the present.

Unfortunately, we’re not headed home, and I know it’s the last place we should go, but I definitely don’t want to be where she brings us—to the Point.

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