After an hour of trying to distract myself with TV and cleaning, I decided that the sooner I told him the better. Vincent was too distracting in his office, dressed in his business attire, but maybe we’d both be more focused if we had the conversation at my place.
I called Vincent at his office and asked him to come over, telling him that I absolutely had to see him to talk to him about something. He sounded concerned and told me he would swing by in a couple hours. That done, I talked to Riley about having the apartment to myself for the evening. Good friend that she was, she called her friend Jen and was out for the night.
As I waited for Vincent to come by, I was determined that there would definitely not be a replay of what happened earlier that day in his office.
Chapter Six
On my way now. Be there in 10 mins.
After reading Vincent’s text, I took a deep breath and set my phone down on the glass coffee table.
I started heating up water on the stove to make tea. It would help calm my nerves along with Vincent’s during the delicate conversation. I sat on the couch rehearsing the lines I’d prepared to say to him as I smoothed out my t-shirt and jeans.
A few minutes later, a knock at the door startled me. Three raps followed by the faint sound of a man clearing his throat.
I got up from my seat and walked to the door. Looking through the peephole, I saw Vincent standing on my doormat. He was wearing a forest-green polo with sleeves that stretched against his arms and khaki shorts which showcased the taut muscles in his legs. He must’ve changed after work. He was shifting his feet, which betrayed his apprehension. Did he suspect what I was about to tell him?
I opened the door. “Hey,” I said, pasting on the smile I’d prepared beforehand. It was easier once I saw his breathtaking face.
His expression brightened. “Hey,” he said, smiling back at me.
“Come on in.” I stepped back, pulling the door wider and gesturing him inside.
“Should I take off my shoes?”
He was wearing a clean pair of sneakers that matched his polo. I half-suspected he was probing me with the question. Telling him to leave his shoes on could be interpreted as a sign that I was breaking up with him. This was going to be a long conversation and he deserved to be comfortable.
“You can take them off.”
He removed his shoes and set them carefully next to the pile of flats and heels in the corner near the coat rack.
“Would you like something to drink? I’m in the middle of making some tea.” I studied his body language. He was slightly tense, his movements lacking the usual primal confidence.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
The formality of his response made the situation even more awkward. “Okay.” Once he was clear of the entrance, I leaned forward to close the door. The closing of the door would mark the beginning of a very difficult conversation.
Here goes.
The door made an unexpected thud as I tried to jam it shut. I glanced down and saw a dark brown boot wedged into the door frame.
Huh?
A dull, metallic chrome object slid through the narrow opening in the door. The shape was small and ended in a point—aimed at Vincent’s back.
“Stay away from her!” the voice behind the door screamed.
A force pushed me. I staggered backward, my shoulder blades crashing against the half-wall separating the living room from the kitchen. The door flew open and a tall man with white bandages across his nose and cheeks entered my apartment. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt with black athletic pants and looked very pissed off.
Vincent spun around, startled. “How the hell—”
“I said stay away from her,” the man shouted, hands shaking the end of the pistol. Sharp, blue eyes blazed behind thick spectacles with a crack on the right lens. Strands of dark brown hair parted down the middle hung haphazardly around his forehead.
“Marty!” I cried. “Oh my god!” My eyes widened when I realized he had a gun in his hand.
Vincent raised his hands in the air and began slowly backstepping further into the living room toward the window. “Calm down. Don’t do anything rash.”
“Step away from her now.” Bandages stretched against his grimace. “I’m not going to let you hurt me or Kristen.”
“What are you talking about?” Vincent said, eyes narrowed, his hands still in the air. “You’re the one with the gun.”
Marty hurried over to me. He wrapped his fingers around my wrist and tugged me to him, while keeping the gun trained on Vincent.
“Where are your goons? Are they in the building?”
Vincent paused. He looked at Marty’s hand around me then back at Marty. “They’re right across the hall. You fire that gun, they’ll hear it and come out armed.”
Marty closed the door behind him with his foot. “I know you’re lying—like always—but just in case.” He released my hand, turning the deadbolt and hooking the chain, locking us in with him. He reached into his back pocket and threw a silver chain at Vincent’s feet. “Cuff yourself to the radiator.”
“Marty, put down the gun! This is crazy,” I cried. My pulse was racing against my chest. Blood roared in my ears, drowning out the thoughts screaming in my mind to escape. I wanted to run but had nowhere to go. No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. I was just supposed to talk to Vincent about my pregnancy.
He turned to me, expression softening. “I’m sorry Kristen, I didn’t want to have to do this. But he gave me no choice. Please don’t be afraid, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to protect you.”
“Protect me?” I blurted in disbelief, my breaths coming fast and shallow.
Marty tightened his grip on the gun aimed at Vincent’s chest then cocked it. The audible click sent a deathly shiver through me. “I’m not going to ask again. Cuff yourself to the radiator, asshole. Do it.”
Vincent twisted his head, spotting the cast iron array of pipes behind him situated below the window. “Okay. Okay.” He managed to keep his voice even but his movements lacked their usual ease. He slowly bent down keeping both palms open and in front of him. “I’m doing what you asked. Don’t shoot.” He brought one hand down and picked up the handcuffs, keeping his eyes trained on Marty—and more importantly, the gun in his hand.
I stared. Stunned. Terrified. I was too scared to move as I watched the events unfolding before my eyes.
There was a click. Vincent had cuffed one of his hands to the radiator.
“This is crazy!” I cried.
“Please, Kristen,” Marty said calmly. “Give me a chance to explain. I promise we’ll get through this.”
Chapter Seven
Marty directed me to take a seat on the couch. Tears beginning to blur my vision and my legs unsteady, I nearly stumbled into the coffee table as I silently complied.
“Stay there.” His words were calm but they felt like a threat.
Seated, I watched Vincent carefully as Marty approached him, gun in hand. Vincent remained standing on firm legs. He wasn’t shaking like I was but his dark eyes were wide and focused. A visibly beating vein along his forehead hinted at the adrenaline pumping through his system. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, I was just supposed to have a conversation with Vincent.
Vincent’s free hand twitched. Marty took a step forward, aiming the weapon at Vincent’s chest. Marty was close enough for Vincent to sock him across the face or reach for the gun in Marty’s outstretched hand. Images of heroic scenarios raced through my mind like scenes from an action movie. My fingers clenched against the cushion of the couch. I was gripped by dread that Vincent would actually try something risky—and fail.
Both men stood facing one another, exchanging fierce stares, neither of them blinking. The moment wouldn’t last forever. Someone was going to make a move.
Vincent’s body tensed. He swallowed hard. His hand curled into a fist by his side. He glanced at me.
No, don’t Vincent! I pleaded with my eyes, unable to find my voice.
Vincent returned his gaze to Marty.
Marty raised the gun and pressed the nozzle into Vincent’s forehead. “Get on your knees.”
“Don’t hurt him! Please!” I pleaded desperately, cupping my hands against my face. I was going to watch Marty shoot Vincent in the head and I was powerless to do anything. My eyes pricked. Tears streamed down my cheeks.
“Please, keep quiet Kristen,” Marty said, his tone barely concealing his anger. He kept his eyes trained on Vincent.
Marty reached behind his back and produced another set of handcuffs. He snapped one end around Vincent’s free hand and the other end around a different pipe on the radiator, ensuring Vincent wouldn’t be able to reach for something to throw or a cell phone to call.
“If you try to get out or if your team comes barging in, I’m going to put a bullet through your head. Understand?”
Vincent eyed him sternly.
Marty grabbed his hair and yanked his head back hard. “I asked you a question, you piece of shit. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Vincent groaned through clenched teeth.
“Good.” Marty jerked Vincent’s head down, making him wince in pain, then released his hair.
Marty returned to the couch, taking a seat beside me. I shifted away, pressing myself against the armrest and curling my legs into my chest.
“Don’t hurt her,” Vincent said, lifting his head back up. “This is between you and me. I’m the one who punched you, not her.”
“Shut the fuck up. Sit still and be quiet. This is all about me and Kristen. There’s no way I’d hurt her. If you want to keep talking, I’m not against hurting you though. God knows you deserve it.”
Marty turned to me. “Kristen, I’m so sorry it’s come to this.” He placed his hand on my shoulder.
The sensation made me hug myself tighter. “Please put the gun down,” I said, tears wetting the denim covering my knees. “You’re scaring me.”