J. Redmerski - Behind The Hands That Kill

“If I don’t go, Sarai…I’ll die anyway. I have to find him. If it’s the last thing I ever do, I have to find him.”

We embrace each other tightly.

Naeva Brun. The long-lost kid sister of none other than the man I love. Standing in my living room on the eve of the most important mission of my life. It’s one of those moments when you look back on your plans, your hopes and dreams, and realize that nothing ever happens the way you envision it; something odd or extraordinary, the one thing you never could’ve imagined, is thrown into the wheel in the most unexpected of moments. And it either helps to turn it, or it stops it in its tracks. Naeva, I believe, is very much turning that wheel—I feel it. I know it.

And even still, when I look at her, I can’t for the life of me see her as Victor’s sister. She’s Huevito, the girl who Izel nearly beat to death eleven years ago, a girl who I was not so unlike once upon a time, and I still feel as though I’m peering into a mirror when I look at her.

“What was that?” Naeva asks suddenly, pulling out of our hug.

I pretend not to have heard anything.

But then the voice gets louder, carrying through the vent in the floor.

“Did you hear that?” she asks; she squints her eyes in concentration, and gazes off in the direction of the muffled voice.

Then she looks at me, seeking answers.

I wasn’t going to tell her—or anyone for that matter—but since I trust her enough to take her to Mexico with me, I may as well let her in on this dark project, too.

I sigh and say with the wave of my hand, “Come with me and I’ll show you,” and she follows down the hallway.

Pushing up on my toes, I reach above for the key hidden over the basement door. “I left the front door unlocked about twelve hours ago,” I say, sliding the key into the knob, “and someone almost wanted me bad enough.”

“Oh?” Naeva cocks an eyebrow, watching me with intense curiosity.

I open the door and reach out to flip the light switch on the wall; light floods the carpeted steps leading down into the basement. The voice becomes louder. “I need to take a piss, you fucking bitch!”

Naeva stops on the second step and just looks at me, her face all twisted up with confusion and concern.

I jerk my head back casually. “It’s all right,” I tell her, insisting she continue to follow. “He may’ve worked the gag out of his mouth, but there’s no way he’s getting out of the ropes.”

“Who is it?” Naeva whispers, still immobile on the second step.

I take her by the hand and lead her down the last ten steps, and we make our way into the basement.

Naeva’s eyes widen, and she gasps quietly. “My God,” she says, her hand loosely covering her mouth, “it’s Apollo Stone.”

Apollo is bound to an old wheelchair; ropes are tied around his arms and wrists and the chair’s frame; his legs and ankles to the folding leg rests. His feet are bare and the only clothing he wears are his form-fitting boxer briefs. He has muscle-defined runner’s legs, and a physique like the God Apollo himself. But this Apollo, being tied to a dusty wheelchair in nothing but his underwear and colorful language, isn’t doing his divine namesake any justice.

“Come on, girl,” Apollo insists, with the backward tilt of his head, “I gotta piss. Get me a soda bottle or somethin’. Don’t even have to untie my hands—you can hold it for me.” His mouth turns up on one side.

Naeva can barely take her eyes off him.

“Why—how is he here?” she asks, without looking at me.

Apollo snorts.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he says, looking Naeva over with comical disappointment. And relief. “ This is who you brought to keep an eye on me while you’re in wetback country?” He throws his head back and laughs.

I ignore him.

“Victor was right,” I tell Naeva. “When Apollo and Artemis found out I was still alive, they wasted no time coming after me.”

Naeva glances around the dimly-lit room, probably looking for another wheelchair with Artemis tied to it. But all she’ll see are a few water damaged boxes piled in one corner, a rusty crotch-rocket motorcycle frame leaning against a wall, two miss-matched end-tables pressed against an old water heater. But no Artemis Stone.

“Or, Apollo came for me, at least,” I correct myself, and then I look at Apollo. “No sign of Artemis yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Right, Apollo?” I smirk at him. “Or did your sister abandon you? Leave you here to rot like you deserve?”

Apollo smirks right back at me.

“She’s doing what she has to do,” he says. “She’ll come for me soon. And when she does, she’ll finish the job she started—how’s that scar feelin’, anyway? It’s not lookin’ any better.” He smiles. “It never will.”

I grin. Then I reach up and touch the still-healing scar across my throat with my fingertips.

“Actually, I kinda like it,” I say. “It’s proof that I’m not easy to kill.”

“Well don’t forget,” Apollo says with a gleam in his eye, “that Artemis has one just like it.” Then his smile spreads, and he adds, “Seems you have a lot in common with my sister. Near-death experiences. Matching scars. Victor Faust.” If he was trying to get under my skin—of course he was—then it worked. He’s used that against me a couple times since I dragged him down here. But I always openly ignore it.

I move closer to him. “I look forward to the day I can face her fairly,” I say. “Just me and Artemis. No rules or ropes or bars between us. We’ll see how similar we are then.”

Apollo bites down gently on his bottom lip, and his dark eyes sweep over me like a man mentally savoring his sexual prey before he eats it. He smiles with intrigue, and moves his tongue slowly in-between his lips. “Y’know, Izabel,” he says, “I’m all for my sister getting what she wants, but I’d never really want to kill you myself. It’d be such a waste. I can think of a hundred things I’d rather do to you.”

“Is that so?” I say, continuing to move closer; every step I take dripping with sexuality and purpose. I stop right in front of him, and I lean over, grabbing the arms of the wheelchair in my hands; I purposely let my breasts fall before him, barely covered by the thin white tank-top I’m wearing. “Tell me what you’d do to me, Apollo Stone.” I lean over farther, to tempt him further.

And he takes the bait.

His eyes stray, and he looks into my shirt—I look down at his lap, clearly able to see the hard bulge growing behind the spandex-like material of his boxer-briefs. He looks into my eyes, wanting me closer, and so I give him what he wants and I lean in so close I can feel the warmth of his breath on my mouth. “I want to switch places with you,” he whispers, “and throw your thighs over the arms of this chair, and then spread you open with my tongue—slowly—before I fuck you with my fingers.”

“And then what?” I whisper.

“And then I’ll shove my fat cock down your throat, and fuck your mouth until you puke.” It was meant to offend me, I know, but I can’t be offended by someone I don’t give a shit about.

Grinning, I lean away from him just slightly, and then look across the short distance at Naeva, whose eyes are wide with shock, and repulsion. “ This is what I’ve had to listen to the past twelve hours,” I tell her, shaking my head.

Then I pull back my fist and send it crashing into his face; blood trickles from both nostrils—his nose is already broken, courtesy of me during the first hour after he woke up in the wheelchair.