*** NEW AND IMPROVED ***
With her father missing, Shay will do anything to get him back, even if that means teaming up with a cruel gang leader and his band of psychotic men.
CHARACTER VIEWS DO NOT REPRESENT MY OWN.
***WARNING*** OFFENSIVE CON...
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SO COLD
DEATH APPEARED, GRIPPED OSCAR BY HIS TENDER THROAT WITH BONY FINGERS AND THE PAIR VANISHED IN A BLINK OF AN EYE. All that remained was a soft breeze from death's black-as-sin cloak. It was all so sudden, as fast as a click of fingers. Or the flutter of a butterfly's wings. It was violent and cruel. Murder always was.
The white walls were splattered with splotches of black-red blood stains and brain matter was flung across a potted plant. The dead man had no time to react or to reach for his gun. The bullet aimed for the right side of his skull and tore parts of his head away. Flappy skin peeled back, revealing the black hole. It was death's perfect signature.
His expression was frozen forever, at the wrong time, shark-like grin and gleaming green eyes that stared straight ahead. It was perverse, and sinful. A wicked man with an evil grin and a depraved glint in his sightless eyes. His death wasn't a victory – it didn't feel like one. It seemed as if he won. And a putrid scent leaked into the room – he soiled his pants and his gloating ghost jeered at me, hovering above his body and promising to never leave.
"Forever," was the promise, neither death nor life would be able to restrain a man's passion. His obsession would live on in lingering hands and sweaty and breathless nightmares. Oscar would live on.
It wasn't a victory.
**
"Jesus fucking Christ!" I exclaimed. Bug eyed. Horrified. The handcuff that shackled me to the bedframe clattered loudly in the short-lived silence that followed after the gun-shot. My heart hammered manically in my chest. Shocked. "I – just – what the fuck?!"
Cebrián was confused, screwing his expression up, a brow lowered. He demanded tempestuously. "¿Qué diablos te pasa?"
In disbelief, I gestured to Oscar with wild hand gestures. "Are you fucking crazy? You just shot him!" It was anarchy. Cebrián lived with no rules; he was a lawless crazed fool with an imagined crown on his head. The name King was a scribble on a birth certificate, nothing more.
Flashbacks to Oscar's descend played on a loop in my mind's eye, like I was forced to sit in front of a big screen with flashy lights and deafening volume. He collapsed, crashed backwards, there was no gentle tumble, no graceful fall from life's slippery grip.
"I fail to understand what your problem is."
"Oh, great," I couldn't allow relief to smother me, there was too much at risk to feel safe. I lashed out. "My problem is whoever walks through that fucking door and wonders what the hell is going–"
Lady Luck was a bitch. She jumped into a taxi and left me when I needed her the most. The door flung open, and in came the view of a shotgun and a semiautomatic in the hands of Irvin and Cole. Their arms didn't drop when they took in the scene. A flurry of emotions scurried past their faces: grim, serious looks, befuddlement, dismay and grief and then fixed cold stares and twisted, hateful expressions. Cole was first to speak, detonating. "WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED!?"
