Beautiful Surrender(27)

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.