Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance 1(92)

Time stopped and I stared at that wrist.

Scarred, just like me.

This man, I remembered. He's just like me. Abused. Knocked around. The world had failed him, too. But I would never kill anyone for any amount of money. Why would he?

And then, gently, the question turned on its head.

Why wouldn't I?

I didn't have to be good. He didn't have to be bad. And yet here we were. Was that part of what Malcolm saw in me, the alternate path Don could have taken? Where the wounds turned rage inward instead of outward? Where the disappointment and the fear and the sadness came out in stunted art and a bitter tongue rather than ruthlessness and cruelty?

And then I had no more time to think about it, because his hand was almost on the sculpture, and I thought to myself: What the fuck does it matter?

It didn't.

So I brained him with the Rodin.

I heaved. I was not weak like he thought I was, and the plaster lifted from the floor with just enough effort to give it a deadly heft. He tried to back away, but his greed for the evidence had unbalanced him. He was leaning forward, couldn't correct his course in time. The bust swung up and out at the end of my arms, flew gracefully through the air in a beautiful, aesthetically pleasing arc, and slammed into Don's head with a crunch that sounded like the singing of avenging angels.

I'm not a poet, I'm a painter. But it was art.

Then the statue cracked in two, and the gun went off.

White hot pain speared through my side. I couldn't breathe. The lights shone in my eyes, searing hot. The ceiling, I realized.

I was on the ground, on my back. In slow motion I lifted my head. Don lay across my crumpled lower body, groaning. A dent in his skull was filling with blood. The stench of copper hung around us.

I've been shot, I thought.

Then: Get up.

A heavy weight lay on my chest and shoulder. A piece of the Rodin. For some reason I felt its loss far more than the bullet in my side. With a limp hand I shoved it off me, onto the ground, and I heard it chip. Teeth clenched, pain ripping through me like wildfire, I rolled over, dragging my legs from beneath Don's body. Something shone in front of me, and I squinted, trying to see clearly.

The gun.

I lunged for it, but something was off. My balance. My brain. I couldn't think straight, couldn't see straight. At my feet I heard Don gasp, realizing what I was doing, and without thinking I kicked out, sharp and hard. Another crunch and he howled with pain and collapsed to the ground. One last lunge and the gun was in my hand.#p#分页标题#e#

It felt good. A heavy, solid weight. Safety. Vengeance. I could kill Don right now, if I wanted to.

I heaved myself to my feet instead.

Agony engulfed me. I couldn't feel myself think. I pressed my left hand to my side, trying to staunch the flow of blood with the thick fabric of my hoodie, but there was a lot of it. Sticky, hot, but rapidly cooling. The skin of my face was clammy, cold, wet. I stumbled forward, the gun in my right hand, and crashed through the discarded debris of Malcolm's life.

I walked like the dead. Shambling. Unable to think. I hurt. I don't know how I made it to the front of the warehouse, but I did. I somehow found it in the maze, and when I fell against the door the metal slats clattered so loudly I thought I would fall apart.

I had to bend down to reach the handle. I had to let go of my side.

Dizziness overwhelmed me as I removed my left hand and wrapped it around the handle. I watched from inside my head, trying to figure out what was wrong when I couldn't get a grip.

Red, I thought. Blood, I thought. My hand fell from the door, limp against my jeans, and with supreme effort I wiped it clean and tried again.

Metal screamed, and so did I.

It was almost impossible. It hadn't been heavy before, I had just been pretending, but now it weighed a million pounds. But I had to get out. I had to. I had to get to Malcolm, prove his innocence, or all of this was for nothing.

Red blood gushed from my side. Ruined muscles screamed in pain, unable to do what I asked of them. I panted. My mouth was dry. I wanted water.

Focus. Focus. Squat. Lift with the legs, not the torso. Oh god.

Three feet. That's as far as I was able to lift it. It was enough. I fell to my hands and knees and crawled under the door, into the blinding gray light of the windy March day.

The sound of a car door opening. Wind whipped over my clammy face. I was going to be sick, but I forced myself to look up. The black car we'd taken here loomed like a hulking black beast in the street. On the far side, the driver was getting out, his mouth hard and set, his eyes glowering at me as though I were a naughty puppy. He was huge, enormous, a giant unfolding toward me.

If he gets me, I thought, it'll be all over.

I lifted the gun and fired.

A look of surprise flashed across his face, as though I'd just grown a clown nose. Then, silently, he folded up and slumped over.