Save Me in the End Read online

  She held her hand out for Rosie. “With me, child.”

  The knots in Rosie’s heart began to twist for some unexplainable reason, making her want to cry. But she held back, painted on a tight-lipped smile and took the woman’s hand. On her bare feet, the five-foot-four heiress stood a handful of inches shorter than the statuesque woman. They sat on the settee together with Maggie maintaining her hold of Rosie’s hand even as she poured the younger woman a darker drink in a short stout glass.

  “I know your secret.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Or should I call it her secret?”

  Her cat-like eyes cut to Rosie’s side. The young heiress fell silent but before her gaze could fall to her lap, Maggie tapped her chin, prompting her to keep it raised.

  “You’ll never be as weak as she wants you to be, Rosie. That’s why she’ll never stop. To endure quietly is to provoke still.”

  Maggie put the drink in Rosie’s hand and wouldn’t go on until the girl had a sip, then smirked with pride as she took a second and third in succession. Rosie winced at the sour taste, but sighed with relief as the dark liquor’s heat coursed through her.

  “Pryce and those like her are slaves to their own egos,” Mags continued. “They’ll always seek to diminish anything that threatens it.”

  A few eager tears pelted Rosie’s cheek and she quickly swatted them away, sniffling and chewing her tongue as guard and façade began to lower. “But…but I liked her. Once, in the beginning. Or I thought I did. What threat could I be? Never said a mean word to her.”

  “Words are seldom the issue, darling. Though, they do get around.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “People know about her. Not about the marks she leaves under your slip—not yet—but there are whispers among the powerful of how she stinks of desperation; some followed by snickers at her expense, others followed up with phone calls and secret handshakes. I’ve also seen it for myself, these things they say. I’ve seen you both at the balls and charity events. The song and dance Pryce puts on for any big wig who will give her the time. How she dangles you for their undivided attention because you’re the only thing that’s left of your father – a man they respected, revered, envied. Pryce isn’t just hungry for that level of reverie, she’s downright insatiable. And she strikes me as the jealous type, a horrid combination of qualities.” She paused for a long sip of her own drink.

  “I’ve never been with anyone but her and she’s never seemed worried I might try.”

  “No, not jealous over you, dear. Jealous of you.”

  “Of me? Of what could she possibly? I have nothing she doesn’t have.”

  “Except your blood. Your name. Your life through a window she’s been peeking through and chipping at since before you were born. Your very existence is an insult to the jilted kid she once was and a reminder of the accomplished adult she wishes to be now yet fears she’ll never become. She resents you for things you have no control over. She hates you, Rosie. Not anything you’ve done. Not anything you’ve said. Just you.”

  It was a stark truth the Hayden girl knew well, but spoken so plainly and unprompted in the middle of the day made the burden of it heavier, shrinking her shoulders all the more.

  “I know,” she admitted under her breath.

  Maggie sighed as she played with the ends of the younger woman’s silky dark tresses. “Your father, Mr. Joseph Bessemer Hayden,” she said with a mockingly grandiose tone. “He was a great business man and shockingly, an even better friend. Your mother loved him with all of her heart, but even she knew he’d make a terrible father. Told me so herself plenty of times before and after you were born. And unfortunately, he’s done nothing but proved her right. Even in death, you were his blindspot.”

  She put their drinks back on the table, slipped a card from her black clutch and slid it in front of Rosie’s glass.

  “For you.”

  Rosie picked up the white card with a name and location on it stamped in ink.

  Sir Vengeance

  Angeles Park

  red bench

  “What is this?”

  “Freedom, my girl. The kind outside of the law’s reach. The kind only money can buy and that I hope you will someday purchase.”

  “I don’t understand. What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “For now? Just hold on to it. Keep it with you at all times, hidden from all eyes. And then, when you’re ready, you give me a call.”

  “Sir Vengeance…I can’t—I don’t want to do anything dangerous.”

  “You won’t, darling.” Maggie pointed with her eyes at the card and flashed a confident smirk.

  The chicly dressed employee returned to the back room to inform Rosie that a car has arrived, sent by her fiancé. It was time for her to return home. Maggie left her alone to change. Just when Rosie thought she would throw the card away, she stuck it in her purse instead.

  After walking her out to the car, Maggie returned to the table of drinks in the fitting room and pulled out her cell phone.

  “Hanson, darling. Tell your boi there’s new blood in the water. Be patient and do well. I’ll be in Scotland shortly.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Sir Vengeance

  On the top floor of a dark little building sandwiched between two larger condemned ones, there nestled a two-room loft; a clean and spacious cave of brick, wood, and smudged glass that smelled vaguely of ash.

  A woman in her mid-twenties – six-foot tall and broad-shouldered with an apollonian build and cool tan complexion – stepped out of a tiny industrial bathroom with a long towel hung over her damp shoulders and another tied around her waist. A black screenless phone buzzed in the center of her bed. She answered on the fifth buzz.

  “X.”

  “What the hell took you so long?”

  Drying off the thick crinkly ends of her dark brown jaw-length locks, she shrugged. “Shower.”

  It wasn’t a total lie, though the dragging of her feet had been more purposeful than she’d ever admit aloud.

  “What is it?”

  “Got another job. Contact says the hook could take a while to land, so be at the bench every day starting tomorrow just in case.”

  “Got it.”

  X, short for Xara, stood still with the phone pressed to her ear seconds after the call ended. She already knew what her next few weeks would look like, a vision that filled her with indifference where passion once blazed. Her only human interactions would be with yet another person who couldn’t bear to look her in the eyes, having to consume their misery and grief and turn it into just enough righteous fury to fuel her through the job of avenging their honor.

  This part of her, her engine of compassion and responsibility to all of humanity, depleted in capacity by the year. She still believed in the cause that brought her into The Order. Just at a distance. It was difficult to actively care about the larger world, to be completely fulfilled by her role as someone who puts broken parts whole again, when she was stuck in the smaller world of her day to day life with checkered pain of her own and no one left by her side to put her whole again.

  Consistency was the young assassin’s only comfort these days; the predictability of people who have been wronged, the assurance that when justice failed, revenge always paid, and so long as that remained true, she would always have a reason to keep moving.

  03.

  The stench of bleach stung Rosie’s eyes and nose, souring the back of her throat as she breathed in short sharp breaths with her face pressed against the recently mopped bathroom floor.

  Trembling from the ache in her ribs and the chill of her bare skin against the linoleum, she swallowed the bitter taste of blood on her tongue and began to crawl. Reaching her destination, she sat up, rested her back against the clawfoot tub and pulled her bathrobe back together.

  Perry reappeared at the doorframe while fastening the cuffs of her white-collar shirt. She checked her appearance in the mirror, fussing over a loose
hair.

  “I’m a simple woman, Rose. When I’m given a job, I do it. And just remember, you chose me for the position.”

  Those were her last words before she left and shut the door behind her. Though it was an obtuse interpretation of the events which led them here, she wasn’t technically wrong.

  Rosie had been a sickly and sheltered child. Hard pressed not to lose the only thing left of his beloved wife, Joseph Hayden had continued to treat his daughter as if she would shatter with the next hard wind, even well after she recovered from her affliction. By the time she had realized his overprotection wouldn't last forever—months after his end stage diagnosis—and began to foster a desire for some semblance of independence, it was too late. She found herself already passed off to the next keeper of her diamond cage.

  That keeper was Mr. Hayden’s most trusted underling, Perry Pryce, who young Rosie had made the mistake of telling her father she fancied because the older woman knew how to make a naïve girl blush. Seeing an opening for a permanent rise in her station, Perry had asked Mr. Hayden’s blessing to marry Rosie before the old man’s cancer claimed his life. Not one to be upstaged, her father did more than that to show his appreciation for Perry’s willingness to take care of his little girl. He placed her as Rosie’s conservator, which allowed her to act as a guardian and manager over his daughter and the assets she would inherit after his passing.

  Though there was still much about the world Rosie was ignorant of, she quickly came to understand what it looked like to be used and how it felt to be highly coveted yet deeply unloved at the same time. Submerged in the now lukewarm bathwater, Rosie sat with her feet drawn up to her chest. She shed the usual tears while anger simmered deep within. Anger at herself for not wanting more sooner.

  “Stupid. You stupid girl,” she muttered to herself through clenched teeth. She couldn’t escape the feeling that she made this bed and that it was her destiny to lie in it alone until Perry decided to smother her in it. Until the day the wretch finally took her life and claimed everything that was hers.

  …But then again, why should she? Why should she have everything in the end? Rosie thought as Mr. Vengeance gradually came to mind. After her bath, she went to her room, locked the door, and fished the card out of her purse. A steady rise of indignant fervor added fire to the ache in her chest where her pain had tangled like a ball of barbed wire. With a shaky nod, she picked up her phone and eagerly dialed Maggie Dothler, who picked up on the second ring.

  “Rosie, darling,” she greeted.

  “What do I have to do? With this card? What happens now, specifically?”

  “Listen carefully, my girl.”

  Rosie did just that, grabbing a kitten notepad and pen from her nightstand as she nodded and jotted along to Maggie’s instructions.

  04.

  Sir Vengeance sat on a red bench, wiping apple pie crumbs from her dark blue suit jacket and white-collar shirt. Between bites of the pie in one hand, she used the other to fiddle with the wireless-bud hooked to her ear, shook around the fake gold watch on her wrist, and spared a couple glances at the empty briefcase by her feet.

  She hated the monkey suit act, but it was a necessity for day time meetings. Nobody looked twice at the tight pony-tail wearing corporate drone on a lunch break, whereas a towering stranger dressed in all black and stood around like she had nowhere else to be might draw some eyes.

  For the past six days, she'd occupied the red bench alone from morning to late afternoon. Just when she was beginning to doubt the new hook would show once again, a small woman in a cream petticoat walked right up to her. A big red scarf hid half her face, exposing only round eyes behind thick lashes and dark groomed brows.

  "Can I help you?" Vengeance asked.

  The girl squeaked, blinked, then stammered. "N-no, sorry. I thought you were—sorry."

  She sat on the opposite end of the bench, wringing her hands in her lap and scanning the crowd.

  With her gaze covered by thick black sunglasses, Vengeance safely flitted between the strange woman and the people moving throughout the park. No one else was making their way toward her nor were they wearing the signature red scarf.

  Female clientele so far had been limited to elderly blue bloods and middle-aged corporate femme fatale types. But once she saw her card pressed against the nervous young woman’s palm, she realized this was indeed the hook she had been waiting for all week.

  For the first time in she didn’t know how long, the woman behind the name found herself genuinely intrigued.

  “That’s my card you’re holding.”

  The girl jumped, looked from the woman to the card and back again. Vengeance turned sideways in her seat, her expression and body language telling the story of a friend trying to catch up with someone she hasn’t seen in a while.

  “Try not to look so scared. Pretend it’s not our first time seeing each other.”

  “Oh, okay.” Following her lead, though not as smoothly, the girl turned to face her and pulled off the scarf, setting her hair free to flow down the front of her coat.

  Xara paused, her façade cracking just so as her heart suddenly jolted to life at the full sight before her. Inky waves framed a delicate oval face, bringing a glow to a light bronze complexion, which only highlighted the adorable dusting of slightly darker freckles across the bridge of the girl’s nose. When she smiled, her cheeks dimpled above the corners of her pink pouty lips, a cute factor that sent a surprising surge of heat snaking through the assassin, though not to be outdone by thick natural lashes batting over molten green eyes. Xara’s mind was suddenly consumed with the belief that a living breathing doll sat before her, carved by some Victorian master craftsman and kept as pristine as the day she was made. Reality snapped her back into focus when the doll frowned, her brows creasing, and pressed her lips together.

  “Um, pardon me, should…should we start speaking now?” she prompted, leaning in to do so quietly.

  Xara’s brows furrowed as she swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat and repaired her façade. She proceeded with a big smile that wasn’t as fake as it was supposed to be, stroking her jaw and neck to distract from the heat threatening to turn her red.

  “Do you have your I.D.?”

  The girl nodded, returning the assassin’s casual smile with a tight grin, and went digging into her purse.

  “Put the I.D. and my card against the back of your phone and then hand it all to me.”

  After the exchange, Xara used a quick slide of hand to tuck the cards under her sleeve and pretended to put her number in the phone.

  “Um, pardon me? Are we doing things this way because we’re being watched?”

  “Not me.” She slightly nodded with her head at the town car driver, who stood outside of the car a good distance across the park. The man’s head moved a bit like a meerkat as he peered as much as he could through the moving swaths of people.

  “I was informed ahead of time that my next charge would likely come with a chaperone. I figured a more mundane meet would make things easier for both us.” And less dangerous for the chaperone, who wouldn’t need to be knocked out and held somewhere dark until the job was done.

  “Ah. Ooh, I know. I’ll tell him you’re an old friend from high school. I only went for half a year before I was homeschooled again, but Julian knows how much it meant to me. I don’t think it would surprise him if I remembered a face or two.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “Thanks.” She huffed in relief.

  With her sunglasses tilted down, Xara caught the girl smiling from genuine flattery, though her gaze still pointed at the wringing hands in her lap, and the corner of her own lips twitched into a smirk.

  She handed her back the phone and told her not to look for her at the park again. She would find her when the time came to do so. For now, the hook was to go on with her life like normal. She understood, but accepted it with somewhat of a dejected nod.

  Before leaving, she faced Xara once m
ore. Armed with a touch more confidence this time, she locked eyes with her and stuck her hand out for a proper shake. “I’m Rosie, by the way.”

  Sir Vengeance hesitated before standing. Her eyes locked on her and she shook her hand, surprised by its steadiness.

  “I’ll see you soon, Rosie.”

  The strange girl nodded again, then made her way back across the park.

  That was a first. Usually, the hooks—what the ordinary would call ‘clients’—would be so caught up in the storm of emotions that orchestrating a death typically stirred in people that they wouldn’t go out of their way to address the hired gun so directly. Just tersely talk prices and arrangements under their breath before tensely scurrying back to their cars. But there was nothing usual about this one. Though nervous on the surface, she was also strangely calm about the whole scenario, making her anxiousness come off like nothing more than first date jitters.

  To her surprise, this latest hook held her attention, which wasn’t easy for a woman who felt she had already seen all there is to see from people. And she found herself looking forward to the ways the girl might prove her wrong again.

  05.

  “Report’s in, boyo. And this one should be nice quick and easy.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  Xara walked back to the open kitchen space to check on her hundredth attempt at making her own coffee. She grimaced at the burnt stench rising from the mug and didn’t bother pouring one for her handler, knowing he’d just complain.

  Hanson the Handler was a short and portly Scotsman fifteen years Xara’s senior in age and in membership of The Order. He wore the same thing every time anyone saw him; a black skull cap hiding a shaved head, gray cargo pants, and a black jacket over a gray sweater. He preferred to travel in the middle of the night to make this camouflage-esque get up most effective, hence the coffee two hours past midnight.