How to Kill Your Boss (17 page)

Franklin cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. He seemed to be preoccupied with a water spot on his glass.

“I never saw his face, just the dark figure, following me, hovering in the shadows. He was always there, without fail. I pretended not to notice and I certainly never pointed it out to the boy I was with.” Second dates had been as elusive as a curly-horned talking unicorn. I certainly hadn’t wanted to cripple my chances.

Franklin smiled and nodded as if in agreement with Dad’s actions.

“What?” I asked.

“Tate, baby. A real man does whatever it takes to protect the women in his life.” He raised his drink again. “To Antonio Wood. The man who kept my Killer safe.”

I tapped my empty mug to his. “To Dad.”

Funny, I couldn’t remember telling Franklin my dad’s name.

Two drinks later, my bladder cried for mercy. I could no longer ignore the call of nature. “I’ll be right back.”

I started to scoot from my seat but Franklin slapped a tight grip around my arm. “Oh, no you don’t.”

I looked at his hand first, then his face, hardened with possessive stubbornness. “I need to use the ladies room. So, um, yes I do.”

“I’ll go with you.”

I pulled his hand off me one finger at a time.

“Look.” I gestured to the loo. “You can see the door from here. It’s about”—I air-walked my fingers from his nose toward the door—“fifteen steps. If anyone sneaks up on me, you can do this.” I whistled
The Twilight Zone
tune. “That will be our signal for danger. If I hear it, I’ll duck and cover until you come—”

Franklin clamped a hand over my mouth. His eyes sizzled, but not with amusement. “Shut up. Just go to the damn bathroom, funny girl.” He let me go and smacked a wet kiss on my cheek.

“Well, jeez. Thanks.” I rolled my eyes and sauntered off, counting my steps along the way. When I hit the door I turned and shouted. “Fourteen steps, see?”

He didn’t smile.

I shot him a wink, then went inside to take care of business. I took my time and primped in the spotty mirror.

Instead of heading his direction, I followed the sound of Lizzie’s angry voice. She stood halfway down the dimly lit hall with her back to the wall, pinned between two beefy arms, holding her own against a drunk horn-dog trying to cop a feel.

I played coy. “Hey Lizzie. Who’s your boyfriend?”

Neither of them looked at me. Lizzie pushed at his chest. “This is the last time I’m going to ask. Back the fuck up.”

The man smiled wider. “How about a kiss first, sweetheart.”

“Hey asshole. Get off,” I shouted, pushing at his shoulder.

With barely a grunt, he swung his arm and pushed me into the wall behind us.

Franklin came out of nowhere. In a blur, the man, who stood at least two inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier, ended up face to the ground. Blood spurted from his nose, his right arm lay twisted the wrong way at his side. Franklin held the shithead’s left wrist behind his back. That it happened so fast wasn’t what scared me. The gun that appeared out of thin air, pointed at the man’s head? Terrifying. Holy shit.

I shot a glance at Lizzie. She’d assumed the same position I had with head, hands, and butt smashed against the wall.

Franklin pressed one knee into the guy’s back. “This is what’s going to happen.” He tucked the gun under his shirt. “I’m going to help you up. We’ll walk out the back door, nice and quiet. I know you’re in pain. It’s gonna get worse. If you make a peep before we’re outside, I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”

The guy mumbled something and Franklin chuckled. Chuckled! What was happening?

He turned to me. “Hey, Killer. Go sit. I’ll be right back. Take Lizzie with you.” He shot me a reassuring wink, like he’d done nothing more than order a coffee and muffin.

I couldn’t trigger the right brainwaves to make my legs move.

Franklin’s tone darkened. “Tatum. Now.”

Lizzie grabbed me by the elbow and lugged me to our table. Neither one of us spoke a word. We sat. Lizzie finished my drink. I stared at the beer bottle chandelier hanging above the bar. I didn’t know if I was turned on or repulsed by what had transpired.

I jumped when my phone buzzed in my back pocket. Franklin’s eerily tranquil voice came through the earpiece. “Hey, love. I’m gonna run upstairs and change my clothes. You okay?”

I nodded, sucking my bottom lip between my teeth.

“Baby?” he prodded, his voice smooth as chocolate silk.

God, how could he be so calm after that mind-boggling display? My insides trembled. He moved so fast. Too fast. Took a man down. Broke a nose, an arm. Pulled out a gun. He performed his morbid ballet in a matter of seconds. Nobody moved like that.

“Tatum,” he barked through the speaker. “You there?”

“Yeah. I’m here.” I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to be with him, getting answers. “Can I come up with you?” I asked, unable to hide the quaver in my voice.

“No. I’ll be right down. Tell Lizzie to stay with you until I get back.” He hung up.

A sharp pain speared the big ugly muscle perched behind my left breast. The room spun like a carnival ride and the beer that’d slid down my throat like greased lightning earlier now threatened to hit reverse and make a swift exit. “Oh Lizzie, what have I gotten myself into?”

She gripped my forearm and squeezed hard. “I know, right. That was so fuckin’ hot.”

Bless her heart. Silly fool.

“I mean, shit. That was unbelievable. Where did he learn to do that?” she asked with an unusual squeak to her voice.

“Lizzie.” I turned and cupped her cheeks. “Are you insane? That was scary, dangerous shit.” Okay, maybe it was hot. If I’d been watching it on a big screen and munching on popcorn with extra butter I would’ve cheered the guy on.

“Are you kidding me?” She laughed. “Your boyfriend just leveled a bulldozer, Jet Li style, because he manhandled you.”

“He pulled out a gun,” I whispered. “Why the hell is he carrying a gun?”

I sensed his presence like an oncoming thunderstorm. Apprehension tickled my scalp.

“Tate. Time to go.” He pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and slapped a Benjamin on the table. “That dick won’t bother you again, Lizzie.”

Franklin laced his fingers through mine and prodded me to follow.

I think Lizzie said thank you, but I couldn’t be sure through the tempest of anger, confusion, and frustration brewing in my head. We didn’t use the front door. He led me to the back exit and scanned the dark parking lot before venturing forward.

We reached his SUV and instead of opening the door, Franklin crushed me to the cold vehicle with his hips and chest. He kissed me so hard our teeth clashed. One hand smashed my breast, the other gripped the back of my head, holding me firm so I couldn’t pull away. It was brutal, the kiss. Painful, dominating, and damn him, turning me the hell on.

A loud whizz passed my ear and glass shattered behind my head.

Rocks bit my cheek, my palms, my thighs. I’d gone from being ravished against a car to crushed on the ground by hard, pissed off male. The full weight of his body spread across mine, stifling my ability to breathe. Ping, ping, ping. Three more shots embedded themselves in the car just above my head.

Franklin rolled off, cocked his arms, and shot four rounds. He tossed his keys at me. “Run upstairs. Lock yourself in and don’t fucking open that door for anyone. Got it? Nobody but me.”

Another ping. I wrapped my arms around my head, smashing my face harder into the gravel.

“Fuck.” He fired again. “Move your ass, baby. Go. Go!”

I shot a glance at the stairs and cringed. It seemed an impossible distance to travel. I turned my nose away from the scent of dirt and oil.

Franklin pulled a second pistol from under his shirt. “Go. Now!” he ordered.

Oh shit. I pushed to my feet, then scrambled forward. Franklin ran alongside, shielding me until I reached the first step. My legs became lead weights and my trek to the top passed in excruciating slow motion. More gunshots ripped through the early evening air. The blood whooshing through my ears came in painful waves, drowning out the street noise. My fingers trembled. I dropped the keys, picked them up. Oh God, oh God, oh God. I was dead. I just knew it. Any second, a bullet would turn my brains into splatter art on Franklin’s door.

Somehow I managed to insert the key, turn the knob, and drag my trembling ass inside. I slammed it behind me, turned the lock, then snapped the deadbolt. My knees hit the hardwood with a thud.

While Franklin dodged bullets, I cowered inside—the helpless victim. Sirens wailed in the distance. An engine roared. Tires squealed. I stayed on the floor. Unable to move. More gunshots popped and a scream rose from deep in my belly.

I needed to move. First, I needed to breathe. Inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth. Inhale, exhale, in, out, in, out. I regained control of my lungs and crawled like a baby toward the bathroom. Only when I reached the hall did I find the strength to stand. Franklin’s bedroom door hung ajar. A blue glow illuminated the dark space and I walked in, searching for a place to hide. I found the light switch and immediately wished I hadn’t.

Although the room contained a bed, it wasn’t a bedroom—not by a long shot. The closet doors were open, revealing a floor-to-ceiling safe sporting a keypad as well as a large dial. The opposite wall boasted a long metal desk decorated with computers. Above that hung multiple computer screens, all powered on, three of which appeared to have live feeds of every square inch of my home. That alone should have thrown me into a nuclear tizzy. Not me. Nope. What freaked me out? The wall, illuminated in warm lighting, covered floor-to-ceiling with photographs of me. From my grade school years on, as far as I could tell. Hundreds of images, black-and-whites, colored. It was impossible to distinguish, because in that moment, I saw nothing but red.

The small bed, situated in the center of the room, faced the collage. I plopped my ass down and got a whiff of Franklin. Bile rose in my throat. I pushed to my feet and narrowly made it to the toilet before purging the contents of my stomach.

God, I needed my dad. He’d know what to do. I rinsed my mouth in the sink. When I looked in the mirror at my dirty reflection and frazzled hair, my heart dropped to my toes. My father would be so disappointed in me. And Franklin? He’d be dead. Not a doubt in my mind, Daddy would kill him.

I washed my mouth one more time, retrieved my phone from my pocket, and dialed the special number I’d decided to memorize days ago. Sirens blared outside. I slunk to the living room and peeked out the window. Police cars packed the lot and surrounding streets. The phone rang and rang. No answer. My stomach twisted in volatile spasms. My flesh ached. My soul screamed. Why did this hurt so damn bad? I couldn’t be in his space anymore, whoever
he
was—the enigma who’d ruined me for any other man. I unlocked the door, bolted down the stairs, and ran to the nearest person in uniform.

Franklin called my name from behind. “Tate!” He seemed a million miles away. “Baby. You okay?” I turned on instinct, drawn to his voice like a moth to a flame. Franklin stopped dead in his tracks when our eyes met.

Tears fell faster than I could wipe them away. I twisted toward the officer. “I need Detective Waters. I need him right now.”

“Baby, don’t.” Franklin warned, his voice gruff and commanding.

I fisted the officer’s sleeves and pulled at him. “Please. Now. I need Detective Waters. Tell him it’s Tatum Reed. It’s urgent.”

I looked over my shoulder. Franklin stormed toward me.

Pushing the officer away, I turned to confront the enemy. “No!” I shouted. “No. Don’t come near me. Don’t call me baby. I saw it. I saw that room! Who the hell are you? Why me? Why? You son of a bitch.”

I ran to the man who’d gutted me and started throwing punches. “How could you?” I slapped his face, scratched, spit, kicked his shins.

Franklin remained stone still, absorbing every strike of my bat-shit crazy assault, he stood his ground, a soulless statue. His lack of emotion only fueled my fire. I drew blood with my nails. He didn’t flinch. I punched, aiming for his nose. He didn’t block, grunt, or curse, only blinked, never tearing his gaze from me. “You liar,” I screamed. “You sick bastard.”

Two men grabbed my arms and tore me away, kicking and screaming. They stuffed me into the back of a patrol car and shut me in. Franklin didn’t budge, only stood, stretching his fingers then clenching them tight, stretching, clenching, over and over. The raw, tormented expression he wore almost had me fooled. Then he blinked and it was gone, replaced with stone cold fury.

I hated him so, so much.

* * * *

The backseat of the patrol car, although cramped and reeking of oil and musty carpet, became my new safe haven. Leland sat next to me and held my hand until the trembling dulled to a faint shake.

Around the same time the moon disappeared behind daunting clouds, Franklin stopped staring at me and followed a man in a dark suit up to his apartment. Most of the responding officers had left. In the stinky vehicle, I spilled my guts to Detective Waters. Told him everything I hadn’t before about Franklin. He listened. Jotted notes on his yellow pad. Asked far too few questions, in my opinion.

“Do you think he was behind any of the murders?” I asked. Leland’s chuckle ignited a rage in my gut. Why did he find it humorous? It seemed a logical question. Franklin had been stalking me. Maybe he was jealous of my relationship with Jacob. What about hoodie guy? How did he fit into the twisted puzzle?

The detective shook his head and huffed. “I’m not going to answer that. I will be having a conversation with Mr. Reed shortly.” He released my hand and rested his palm on my knee. “Is this your way of staying out of trouble?” He faked a smile that only angered me more. “Is there someone you can stay with tonight?”

I looked toward the bar. Lizzie had poked her head out the back door at least a hundred times. The first few peeks, she’d looked worried. After that, irate. At one point, she had confronted a poor young cop. By the time she’d finished with him and had stormed back inside, he’d appeared completely exasperated. “I can ask my friend.” I pointed her out.