“Maybe if you ever get sober.”
He grabbed me by both arms, slamming me against the wall hard enough for the cheap plaster to crack. A similar crack reverberated in my head, and my ears started to ring. The room spun, and I struggled to focus on Oliver’s angry face. Something was wrong.Very wrong.
Oliver’s face was an inch away from mine, reeking of alcohol. “You think you’re so smart, Blaire? You think you’regood? You’re in for a rude awakening, because half those cops at the goddamn precinct are under Conrad’s thumb.”
I focused on his eyes, a hurricane brewing in them. There was no avoiding this storm. It had been on the horizon for a long time. The anger, the violence, all of it had been a long time coming, growing under his skin before I realized it was too late. “Fuck you, Oliver. You can think whatever you want, but you will never be able to convince me that what you’re doing is right, or for the right reasons.”
The last glimpse of the old Oliver faded from his eyes, and he dropped me to the floor. I needed to get away, but I didn’t know how. Something dripped down the back of my neck, and when I wiped it away, I realized my head was bleeding. That explained the fuzziness.
Oliver kicked my side, and I curled up into myself, and he kicked me again and again, cursing me out.
He wasn’t going to let me leave here alive. I knew that now. The precinct would chalk it up to being killed in action, and Oliver would get away with his bullshit, and Conrad’s influence would take over more and more of the city. I couldn’t let that happen.
We kept a gun taped under the coffee table. I just needed to get to it. Those two feet seemed like two miles.
Oliver must have burnt himself out from all the kicking, and he bent over with his hands on his knees. I used the brief respite to my advantage, shimmying up until I could almost reach the gun. I was inches away, stretching as far as I could, just barely brushing it.Shit. Another inch, that was all.
Blood dripped into my face, and the fuzziness was threatening to take me over. Giving in would mean death. I reached harder, finally grabbing the handle of the gun.
Oliver finally realized what I was doing, and stumbled over to me, absolute rage overcoming him. It was him or me.
Whipping my hand out from under the coffee table, I pulled the trigger.
There was a moment where we both stared at each other, wide-eyed, trying to figure out what actually just happened. A red rose bloomed on Oliver’s chest, where there wasn’t one before. He put his hand to his chest, shock overwhelming anything else he might have been feeling, and he fell to the floor with a solid thud.
It took me a minute to roll to my knees, fighting against the pain that was slowly fading into numbness, which was even more terrifying.
Oliver didn’t move from where he fell. The blood spread across his chest, abstract art I didn’t want to look at.
There was a space between me and the gun. I shot Oliver, but if I hadn’t, he would’ve killed me.
I shot Oliver, but if I hadn’t, he would’ve gotten away with it all.
Did that mean he deserved to die?
I crawled over to him, unstable on my hands and knees. He didn’t seem so far when I shot him, and now he was miles away. His chest wasn’t moving, or if it was, it was minimal. The wound still gushed blood, and as I watched it spew, it hit me what I’d done.
I’d shot him.
I shot him.
Panic constricted my throat, prickly and hot. I pressed my hand to the bloody wound, leaving a smeared print there, a weak bandage to cover up my wrongdoings.
“Help!” I screamed, voice wild. “Someone help!”
No one was going to come. In this neighborhood, people screamed all the time. And who was I going to call? The very cops he had threatened me with?
I had to try, all the same, if only to ease the ache of guilt spreading over me. The guilt replaced the pain.
“Help! Anyone! Help!” My voice grew hoarse with the screaming, but the blood didn’t stop. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew he’d given me a concussion, and I would black out if I didn’t get my head looked at.
Oliver grabbed me by my wrist, dragging me down to his face, and my instinct was to pull away.
He shook his head, pulling me down again. This time, I obliged. I already knew what he was going to say, because I’d heard it before, a dozen times.
Sorry.
I understood now. I understood why he was saying he was sorry.
