Coffee and Cockpits (42 page)

A flash of blue and red lights.

Sirens.

Fuck!
I pirouetted and charged down another alley, passing a gay club blasting Kylie Minogue.
Ugh
.

“You! Stop!”

Yeah, no chance of that, fat douche.
I flipped him the bird and kept running. He jumped back in his cruiser and gave chase.
Lazy bastard
. Too many kebabs and doughnuts for that slob. He wouldn't catch me. No one ever caught me.

My ruby lips curved. I loved the chase. I loved the kill. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I didn’t enjoy murdering someone, but I did enjoy the knowledge that he’d never hurt another. My cut throat actions saved other would-be victims. Plus, that john deserved it.

Memories overtook my vision.
Heavy breath on my cheek, rancid smell as he slobbered on my neck. Then warm, oozing blood as my weapon of convenience—a long skinny oyster knife—buried deep in the man's groin. Ridding him of a vital piece of his anatomy and draining his body of crimson. One moment alive, the next—not. Then rushed practicality: Dispose of my surgical gloves. Wipe the corpse with antiseptic wipes. Remove the man's DNA, fingerprints, and blood from my body.

Adrenaline spiked, dousing my already overloaded system. My heart thudded as fast as the bass at a techno club. The pavement flickered and I stumbled.

No, not now!
My vision danced like a mirage. I no longer had control of my body.

Sirens were closer, screeching in my ears.
Keep moving, Ocean! For freakin' sake, move!

No amount of yelling could stop the migraine from consuming me. I screamed and clutched my temples, slamming to the concrete. The sidewalk danced under my phantasm goggles, no longer acting like rock and tar, but candy floss and gossamer.
I'm going. I'm going. . .

Cold claws grasped my bare shoulders. “You're coming with us.

No!
The unrelenting crush of pain ricocheted in my skull. I wanted to die. Cuffs shackled my wrists, and I was dragged, then stuffed into the back of a police car.

The agony danced with nausea, tangoing in a way that tested my stomach’s willingness to evacuate its measly contents.

Precious minutes passed while I grappled with the migraine. When only a gentle pounding remained, I opened my eyes. I didn't know where I was.

The tense shoulders of policemen kick-started my breathing. I narrowed my eyes. It was quite a predicament to be shackled in the back seat of a police vehicle.

I glared at the fat, uniformed man who'd cuffed me. “You have no reason to arrest me.” Please tell me they didn't find the john. There was no way they could’ve found him already. And I knew there wasn't a drop of blood on me. There never was. I was clean. Efficient.
Ruthless.

While I waited to be graced with an answer, the lull of the car tires slowed my heart, and the rest of my headache seeped back like a tide.

“You're a working girl. We have every reason to arrest you.”

I sighed, slouching into the cracked vinyl seat. Relief flooded me. If this was just a routine grab-and-administer-friendly-sex-education mission, that was fine by me. I might even get a free dinner out of it. My stomach rumbled in agreement. Food would be good. Food was hard to get when you had no cash.
Too long this time, Ocean. You need to suck up your pride and go back.

The cop mistook my relief for annoyance. He turned in his seat, pointing a finger in my face. “You listen here, girl, we're only looking out for you. Don't pull that attitude.”

I slipped into slutty prossie, an act I'd perfected, but never played in real life. It was all an act—my entire existence. I didn't know the real me anymore. Batting my eyelashes, I pouted. “Attitude? I don't have an attitude. But if you let me go, I'll make it worth your while.” I licked my lips suggestively. Ugh, this was gross. As if I would stoop to sleeping with strangers.

His face turned beetroot red and he spluttered. Seriously, had he never been propositioned by a working girl? Highly unlikely, he was a cop working in prostitute alley, after all.

The officer driving muttered, “You keep that trap shut, missy, if you know what's good for you.”

I took his advice. We travelled the short distance to the cop station in uneasy silence. When we arrived, my door opened, and my elbow was grabbed in an awkward tug to help
me out. It didn't help, just hurt; my elbow screamed in protest, and my shoulder almost popped out of alignment. “Hands off. I know how to exit a freakin’ car.”

The officer huffed, but let go. Unobstructed, I followed my captors into the building and waited to be processed.

The station was tired: faded paint, chipped flooring, florescent lighting that punched you in the eye, and a bunch of deadbeats asleep in orange plastic chairs. Yep. Same as last time.

A grey haired, pinch-lipped lady glared at me over her spectacles. Could this get any more cliché? First, the fat doughnut-loving cop, now, the bird-like receptionist and her half-moon glasses. I rolled my eyes. The sooner this was over, the sooner I could forget.

“Name?”

Male hands fumbled on my lower back and wrists, unlocking my handcuffs. When they popped free, I rubbed my skin, glaring pointedly at Mr. Fat Policeman.

“Ocean Breeze.”

The woman cocked her head. “No jokes, young lady. Name.”

“I'm not joking. Ocean Breeze.” I hated this. This happened every single freakin’ time. No one believed that my mother would name me after toilet air-freshener.

“Hold please.” The lady tap-tapped on her keyboard. A tense moment later, she nodded at the officer behind me. “We have her records. Take her into interrogation room four, Officer Wade.”

I sighed. I could kiss five hours of my life goodbye once I stepped into that room. This never went easy. Unless I left, of course. Hmm, there was an idea. Did I have enough calories to leave? Could I be bothered to sit through the pathetic glances, the snide remarks, the pity looks?

As I trudged after Wade, I tensed my stomach muscles. Almost instantly, a headache formed. Yep, I was strong enough to leave, but how far I’d get I didn't know. I needed food. I’d see how much I could take, and if they hadn't booked me by the time the sun rose, I was outta here. Hopefully.

The metal door clanged shut behind me and I plonked onto a very uncomfortable plastic chair. The viewing window showed my tacky, heavily mascaraed fake eyelashes; my ebony eyes were pits of darkness. I missed the blue. My eyes started morphing from sapphire to black when the scorch marks began in my twenty-first year.

And of course I had to think about that now. I hissed between my teeth as a lacerating burn erupted on the upper part of my spine. I should've expected it. I killed. A toll must be paid, but this mark was later than the rest, I was normally taxed the moment I took a life, not half an hour later.

I sat frozen as the branding heat spread through me, delving deeper into my soul. I gasped as ice and gravel replaced my warmth and will to do right. Another piece taken. Another fragment of soul sucked into oblivion. What was I becoming?

I jumped as Officer Wade appeared, spreading my file open on the table. His jowls and belly were suitable for a sofa, not a police station.

And just like that, all my nightmares reared their ugly heads. My heart refused to beat; my skin turned corpse cold. No matter how hard I became, or how much I lied to myself that I was a ruthless murderess, I could never escape the terror.

The scorn and annoyance lining Officer Wade's face evaporated, leaving only pity as he studied the photograph of a blood-soaked eight-year-old girl.

Go on. Tell me how I was statistically meant to be a screw up. How no one could survive something like that and be normal.
I sure wasn't normal.

Officer Wade refused to meet my eyes, instead he stood and opened the door. “Um, Callan? I mean, Officer Bliss? Can you come in here a tick?”

Now what? Calling for reinforcements to deal with the screwed-up girl? Of course. I was just
so
scary.

Another man entered; this one wasn't bad looking. His sandy blond hair was streaked by the sun—a dead giveaway that he was a surfer. Sun-kissed hair was a signature trademark in Aussie: Women with fake boobs had trophy children; men with sun-bleached hair surfed. 

His muscular chest stretched the material of his blue police shirt. The snaps hung on for dear life, holding the fabric in place. Either he shrunk his shirt in the wash, or it was the wrong size. Not that I minded. I appreciated a good physique as much as the next girl.

Was he as perfect beneath the shirt and trousers as he appeared? Not that I cared. 

A dimple appeared on one cheek as he smiled. “I'm Officer Bliss. I'll be sitting in on tonight's talk.” He moved like the sea he obviously lived in—he reeked of salt and freedom.

“Talk? Yeah, okay, let's pretend this is a talk,” I snorted, keeping a careful eye on Mr. Surfer Dude. He cracked a laugh, and took a seat next to Wade.

He dragged the file toward him and I had the pleasure of watching the healthy tan drain from his face. His sea-green eyes darted to Wade's brown ones. A silent conversation took place. Not that it was really silent. I could guess what they were thinking.

Is this real?

The poor girl!

How could anyone survive this?

Some people cannot be saved.

Well, I had news for them: I didn't need saving. I was in control of my life, thank you very much. I liked being me. I
liked
doing what I did best—killing.

I tensed, pulling energy from my molecules, wincing as my head roared with gushing pain. Time for me to leave.
Please let me have enough energy
.

“I'm sorry, Ms. Breeze. You obviously didn't have the upbringing I did. And for that I want to tear apart the bastards who raped you,” Officer Bliss muttered. A vein appeared on his temple, his hands curled.

The passion. That voice—like churning waves in a storm. The shock stopped my deportation power, and I stayed put. This might get interesting. He broke the rules. Cop protocol normally included me being ignored while they chatted as if I wasn’t in the room.

“Go on. . .” I invited, while watching every nuance of his body language. Over the years, I’d mastered the art of reading people. I was now a walking lie detector. If his anger was fake, so help him, I wouldn't just disappear—I'd take something of his, too. Namely his gun.

“How old were you?”

“It says it there in the file.” I crossed my arms, wincing a little at my sore elbow. Stupid Wade and his rough hands. I shot him a scowl.

“You don't want to talk about it?” Officer Bliss watched me with a predator stare. His gaze was as intense as if he touched me from across the table.

I barked a laugh. Was this guy for real?

Leaning as far back as the torturous chair would let me, I purred, “Do you
honestly
think I want to talk about it?”
Don’t make me!
  

Those sea eyes never flinched, but stress lines appeared around his mouth. “Alright. I'll talk about it.” Clearing his throat, he recited, “On the 26
of May, 1996, your parents and older brother were killed by two madmen. You were forced to watch as the murderers sliced limbs off your parents with a chainsaw, and made you stand in pools of blood.”

Saliva pooled as nausea rolled through me. He was going to make me relive it. Bastard.

His eyes flickered to mine before returning to my file, but not before I glimpsed the harsh pity residing in his gaze. It etched his face, tainting the air between us. “Once your family was slaughtered, the men then killed your sheep dog, and used the blood to paint devil signs on your naked eight-year-old body.”

I was no longer in the room. I was
back
there.
Back in horror-filled hell. My eyes only saw blood and death. My heart ceased to beat. 

Officer Bliss took a shuddering breath. “You weren't found for two days. By then, you were catatonic. You hadn't moved from the spot where the murderers told you to stay. For two days you stood, naked and covered in blood, watching your dismembered family be consumed by flies. The rape kit came back positive and you didn't speak a word for three years.”

Terror, akin to what coursed through me when I was eight, made me shudder. The corpses of my loved ones were all I could see. Why did he dredge up the past? What did it accomplish? Other than hurt me beyond anything I’d admit to. Shouldn’t he be berating me for the so-called prostitution charge?

The interrogation room swam with ghosts of the past. Memories swarmed me, thick and fast. Bile lined my throat while my stomach squeezed itself to death. I tried to fight it, to keep my anger, but I was small again. Defenseless again. My quavering body was frozen with fear. Blood. Warm. Oozing. My nose full of the copper tang as my parents' life-force turned the lounge carpet into a swamp of death. Strong, hard fingers prying at my body. Grunts and thrusts as the two murderers ravaged my small frame.

No! Stop. It's over. No more.
No one would hurt me like that ever again. “Shut up! Stop it!”

Officer Bliss jumped and slammed the file closed. “I'm—I'm sorry.”

My eyes were wild. It was over. So why was I suddenly that eight-year-old again? I prided myself on being an ice queen. My heart had long ago succumbed to the cold embrace of frost, but even as I clawed my way back from the memory, the air in the tiny room was sucked into a black hole of misery and evil.
It’s in the past, Ocean. You survived
.

Fat Officer Wade cleared his throat and spoke, awkwardness in every word. “Tell me about tonight. I flashed my lights at you. Why did you run? Prostitution isn’t illegal, but you’re required to stop if requested to do so.”

I latched onto the topic. The memory of taking that bastard's life sent satisfying, fiery strength through me. The cold claws of anxiety let go, and I resettled into my actress self. This was safe. I was safe.
I ran because I killed a man
. Like I'd ever admit that.