After all, everything’s a weapon if you look at it the right way, and I’m the MacGyver of murder. I could kill a man with a shoe like this. Wouldn’t even faze me to have to do it, either.
“Do I even want to know why you’ve got those?” Leo asks.
I glance at him. “Long story.”
“Does it end with your feet shoved into a pair of red pumps? Because if so, I’d really like to hear it.”
“I’m afraid it’s not nearly that interesting,” I say. “Met a woman who was wearing these. She got away, left her shoes behind.”
“How very Cinderella.” He shakes his head. “And what, you’re going to try them on every woman in the kingdom until you find her again?”
“If I have to,” I say, setting the shoe back down beside the other one. Before I can elaborate, there’s a noise upstairs, a loud thump above my head. My gaze drifts toward the ceiling as my back stiffens.
“It’s fine,” Leo says. “Just Mel.”
“Who?”
“Mel,” he says again. “You know… my girlfriend?”
“Ah, Firecracker.”
He lets out a dramatic sigh. “We’ve been dating for over a year… you’d think my own brother would remember her name by now.”
“Please,” I say. “I barely remember your name, Pretty Boy. Names mean nothing to me. They’re irrelevant. They don’t define a person. They just label them. And well, if I’m going to label people, I’m going to label them in a way that defines them to me. Like… Firecracker.”
“And how exactly does Firecracker define her?”
“She’s loud,” I say as feet stomp across the floor above my head, heading for the stairs. “She’s kind of bangin’.”
He lets out a sharp bark of laughter as he moves away from the window, stepping toward me. “Are you hitting on my girlfriend?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. “She’s not my type.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Leo says. “Thought your type was breathing.”
“Ha-ha. I’ll have you know I’ve got standards.”
“Like?”
“Like a woman that doesn’t expect me to have a conversation.”
He laughs again, like he finds that genuinely funny. “Oh, the horror of having to talk to a female like she’s actually a person and not just a warm body.”
“Are you mocking me, Pretty Boy?”
“What do you think?”
“I think I’ve shot people for less attitude.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” he says. “Sounds like something someone allergic to feelings would do.”
“I’m not allergic to feelings. I’ve got them.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah, and right now I’m feeling pretty fucking annoyed by this conversation, so I’d rather we didn’t have it.”
“Oh, so it’s not females you avoid talking to... it’s really feelings you don’t want to talk about. Got it.”
He’s pushing my buttons.
Leo might be the only person around who isn’t afraid to do that. He looks me in the face without hesitation, never balking at what he sees, and he calls me on my shit, like a parent lecturing a child… which is kind of funny, you know, since I raised that little son of a bitch.
I’m supposed to be the mature one, the role model, but instead I think he might be the only thing stopping me from blowing up the whole goddamn world and everyone in it.
You see, I learned long ago that the most valuable thing you have is your reputation. It gets you things money can’t buy, opening up doors that are usually sealed tight. Don’t listen to that ‘fuck what people think’ Sesame Street bullshit they spoon-fed you as a kid. You should care what people say about you.
Rumor and gossip... it matters. Because while you might be proud of your character, while you might be the kind of person who doesn’t yield, it doesn’t mean a damn thing if the jackass coming up behind you believes you’re getting out of his way, because he’s just going to run you over.
If my stepfather taught me anything, it was that the key to survival is mimicry. You be what you need to be for somebody. Wear the skin of a rattlesnake even if there’s not a single drop of venom inside of you, because if you make them believe, they won’t come close enough to get bit. They won’t get close enough to see that maybe it’s a disguise; maybe you’re not as dangerous as they think. And if they do get that close, well, then you’ve got a choice: you either surrender or you become the thing they fear most.
I don’t surrender.
But not everyone needs the same thing, and that’s the trick. You can’t just be all one thing. If you’ve gotta be a monster, you be a fucking shapeshifter.
And my brother? He’s not a predator, so I don’t have to be one with him. What Leo needs is someone to depend on, someone to believe in, someone who will protect him, so that’s what I am. I’m his family. I’m his friend. I’m a harmless gopher snake without a rattle in my tail.
Who am I really? I like to think I’m somewhere in between. Maybe deep down I don’t want to hurt you, but goddamn it, I will, and I’ll destroy myself doing it if I have to. I’ll get you even if it kills me. I’m like a honeybee.
I’m also apparently someone who likes animal metaphors when I need some damn sleep.
So blah blah blah, whatever whatever, the point here is fuck feelings, they get you nowhere.
“I’m going to bed. If you want someone to talk to, Pretty Boy, your girlfriend will be interrupting in about three seconds. Talk to her.”
“About what?”
The bubbly voice chimes in right at the three-second mark as Leo’s girlfriend waltzes in. Melody Carmichael. Leo calls her Mel. Of course I know her name. I made a point to learn it when I realized he was serious about her. Young, blonde, and good-looking, sure, but the girl has a mouth on her. Sometimes she talks so much I wonder how she’s breathing, how she’s not suffocating on all the words she insists on speaking.
And she cries. Jesus fuck, the girl cries. She sat right here on my couch and sobbed two nights ago while watching some movie about a man dying. Leo consoled her, holding her, while I stood in the doorway, wishing it were me that was dead. Me, just so I wouldn’t have to listen to her blubbering for one more second.
“About Lorenzo’s lack of feeling for females,” Leo tells her.
Melody laughs. “I don’t know... based on the noises coming out of his bedroom at around midnight last night, I’d say he was feeling something with a woman.”
“He was making her feel something. Big difference.” Leo turns back to me, cocking an eyebrow. “What was this one’s name?”
“Barbie,” I say.
“And is Barbie her real name?” Leo asks. “Or is that just what you’re calling her, since she was platinum blonde and plastic?”
Okay, he’s got me there...
“That’s what I thought,” he continues when I don’t answer. No point wasting my breath. He knows. “Bet you probably don’t even remember her real name.”
“It was Tina.”
“Really?”
“No, I don’t know,” I say, standing up. “I didn’t pay attention to a word she said.”
His laughter follows me as I snatch up the pair of heels and stroll toward the doorway. Melody eyes me cautiously as I pass her. She doesn’t flinch away… anymore… but I wouldn’t exactly say she lets her guard down around me, either. Her gaze shifts to the shoes, her brow furrowing. “Are those Loubitons?”
“That’s what they say.”
“Why do you have them?”
“Why do you ask so many questions?”
She has no comeback for that, which is for the best, considering Leo probably will hold it against me if I sucker punch his girlfriend for meddling in my business. I hear Leo chime in, explaining to her about Cinderella, but I just walk away. Prince Charming, I am not, nor will I ever be. No, you see, people call me Scar for a reason, and it doesn’t entirely have to do with the fact that my face got fucked up. I’m the villain; I’m the lion that swooped on in, destroying their pride lands. I killed the king and sent Simba packing. But unlike the fictional Scar from the cartoon, I don’t intend to lose at the end of my story. Everything the light touches in this city belongs to me. I’m the fucking Lion King.