Jessica Sorensen: Sins & Secrets

I shudder on the inside, go cold, as I see images… of what was done to me… things I’ll never forget, but can’t allow myself to remember.

So I leave and focus on my plan, which has just had a slight change to it. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Nyjah since Lola told me about the lovely little tattoo we share. Although, it’s more like a brand than anything. A brand of what we are.

After the last woman walks out of the place, I decide it’s time to enter. There’s only one light on in the entire place, coming from the lower office where I know Nyjah is drinking a glass of scotch, something I learned while scoping out Lola. He does it every night, then smokes a cigarette, staring off into empty space. I’d wonder what he was thinking about and now I think I know.

“We’re closed,” he says when my boots make the floor creak. He glances over at me, squinting to see me in the shadows. He’s wearing a plain black T-shirt, torn jeans, boots. His hair is short, eyes crystal blue, and I can see on his neck the tattoo we share. “Whoever the fuck you are, leave. I’m done dealing with people for the day.”

I smile to myself. Whenever he talked to Lola, he was nice, caring. This is the side he covers up, the side connected to his past, which I’m really fucking curious to find out how he escaped. “Nyjah Peirton. Although, I’m guessing that’s not your real name. In fact, if I had to guess, I’m betting that you don’t even know your real last name, nor is Reagan your real father.”

His expression suddenly shifts from worry to coldness as he rises from his chair. He opens his desk drawer and takes out his pistol. “I won’t go down without a fight. You should know that.”

Smiling to myself, I unzip my leather jacket, revealing my neck, then step from the shadows, keeping my weapons in place. “And you should know that if I wanted you dead, you’d already be dead.” I dismiss his gun as I wander around his office, studying it, but there’s not much to it, just a bar, some filing cabinets, and a door that goes to a dressing room. I turn to him. “Relax. I’m not here to kill you.”

His gaze darts to the tattoo on my neck immediately then he starts to wind around his desk toward me, the pistol still in his hand, but not aimed at me yet. “Who sent you?”

“No one.”

“Then how did you find me?”

I plop down in one of chairs and cross my legs. “A simple accident, but you should consider yourself lucky I did.”

He presses his lips together, undecided whether he should just kill me or not. After a moment, I guess he decides to at least wait because he sets the gun on the desk then sits on the edge of it himself. “And why would it be lucky that another one of the Sangue Assassins has graced their presents in the life I created to escape that life.”

“Because you know as well as I do that you never really escaped,” I say, thrumming my fingers on top of my knee. “That you’ll always be looking over your shoulder. In fact, I’m betting that the only way you haven’t been discovered yet is because that Reagan guy who you pretend is your father has you doing his dirty work for his business.”

He frowns, his muscles stiffening. “It’s better than the alternative. At least this way, I don’t have to kill all the time.”

“True. But I’m giving you another alternative. One where you will never have to kill again after we’re done. That is if you don’t want to.” I lean back in the chair. “I never know which, Sangue’s need to kill and which one’s just do it because they have to.” I scan him over. “Although, you look like the kind who just do it because you have to.”

He eyes darken. “And which one are you?”

I smile to hide what I really am inside. “Now why would I tell you that? We barely know each other.”

He continues to gaze at me, attempting to see through my shield. But it’s made of metal and locked with a thousand invisible locks. No one has been able to get through that shield and that’s the way I built it. Tough as nails. Empty inside. Blank. Detached. Untouchable. It’s how I survived all those years of torture and training and I will never ever let anyone get through that shield. Can’t.

Nyjah takes a sip of his scotch and then sets it down o the desk. “What are you proposing?”

I lean forward in the chair, resting my arms on my knees. “I’m proposing we take the warehouse down.”

His eyes widen as he lets out a sharp laugh. “Are you fucking crazy? That’s impossible.” He shakes his head repeatedly then gets to his feet. “Do you know what kind of power that would take?” He looks around the room. “And I’m guessing by your solo visit, you have no one.”

“I have some,” I say, but it’s a lie. The only other person who knows what I want to do is Benton, Layton’s brother, but that’s because I let it slip. A first for me, but Benton has this way of making me talk about things when I don’t want to. Honestly, Nyjah is the first Sangue that I’ve crossed path’s with that hasn’t been on some sort of assassin mission. Most of them are cold, unable to live in the real world, unable to communicate on a normal level.

Nyjah takes another sip of his drink, this time finishing it off. “You’re crazy.”

“I never claimed to be sane,” I say, getting to my feet. It’s time to go. Staying in the same place for too long is never good and I’m getting the vibe that Nyjah isn’t going to be on board. “But it’s clear that you are.” I start for the door. “I have a nice life, Nyjah.”

I make it to the doorway before he calls out, “Wait.”

I pause then turn around. He stands up from the desk and walks over to me. “If I agree to help you, I’m going to need to hear a plan. None of this going in blind shit that the Sangue’s are known for.”

“Oh, I have a plan,” I tell him. “But it’s going to take some time.”

“And what’s that?”

“Eliminating the people who control it.”

He considers what I said. “This is crazy,” he says to himself. “I came here to get out of this shit… to let everything go.”

“But have you?”

He shakes his head, his expression flashing with anger for the briefest second, probably as he remembers things he’s been fighting to forget. “No and I never will.”

“But you can help others never have to go through it,” I say, burying my own memories, the cries, the screams, the pain. “Are you with me or not?”

He wavers then nods. “Okay, I’m in. But just so you know, I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for someone else.” The pain in his eyes lets me know it was someone close to him, someone who probably died during the training or took their own life, something that happened often.

“And that’s alright with me.” Because in the end all that really matters is that that damn warehouse burns to the ground and no one else has to suffer.