I take a slow, deep breath and pull back on the trigger. My finger moves at a glacial pace until a metallic click reaches my ears. For the briefest of seconds I feel aching relief. Then gunfire blasts through the small room. The bang is deafening like lightening has struck the ground at my feet.
Blood explodes outward from the man’s chest, spraying my face. The gun still rests in my outstretched arm as the force of the bullet sends him backward in the chair.
My breathing stops, shock freezing me to the floor. The man lies unmoving, a river of red leeching from beneath his body.
Luke lied.
The gun was loaded.
I’ve just ended a man’s life.
Bile climbs my throat, its onset so swift there’s no time to swallow it back down. I bend over and throw up at my feet. My stomach heaves until there’s nothing left.
I straighten, hands shaking. This is a nightmare and I want to wake up. But I know I won’t.
My head turns to Leander. Blood smears the back of my hand as I wipe the side of my mouth. His face is white. But why? He gave me the gun. He knew this would happen. Didn’t he?
Then realisation burns me in the chest like a hot poker. I’m no longer a petty criminal. These assholes have rendered me a murderer. The death of this man is their insurance that I’ll never betray who they are or what they’ve done, because I’ve done it too.
There’s no escape.
It means Mackenzie Valentine will never be mine. Not now. Not after this. I’ve taken a life and my soul is irrevocably stained. How can I ever expect her to live with me knowing I can never live with myself?
With a hand that takes everything I have to keep steady, I hold the gun out toward Leander. He stares at it, his eyes like dinner plates. “Take the damn thing,” I growl.
Leander grabs it quickly.
With hard eyes, I hide the crushing ache deep down inside and stare each man in the room down until they look away. I’m in deep now, as deep as it gets, but I’m no one’s bitch. “If anyone ever pulls this shit on me again, I’ll find you in the dead of night and slice your neck from ear to ear while you sleep.”
With that I leave, shoving passed Leander.
“Jonah—”
It’s all I need to snap. With the force of a heavyweight boxer, I turn and punch Luke’s brother in the face. He stumbles backward and no one steps in to help. With aching knuckles, I shake out the pain and glare. “Go to hell, Lee.”
As I step out into the dark of night, I feel as dead as the man I’ve just shot in cold blood.
MAC
2 ½ years later…
I close my eyes and fall back on my bed in the early afternoon. Today is my birthday. Seventeen years old and I will never be the daughter my parents want me to be. Sweet. Well-spoken. Reticent.
My father has enrolled me at Fleur Dreyer Halvorsen and no amount of temper tantrums or fake tears will change his mind. FDH, or Fucking Dick Head school as I like to call it, is a finishing college and a “wonderful opportunity” for me. In two months, my decline into the life of a Stepford daughter will begin. My parents are eager for the transition. Whenever Fucking Dick Head school is mentioned, their eyes light up like Christmas. They want me to make friends with other people of the female persuasion. I don’t have any. Most aren’t willing to suffer my forthright attitude.
FDH is going to teach me how to find them. It will also teach me to smile bright in the face of adversity rather than resort to petty words and violence. Instead, I can seethe on the inside like a winner. Kind words will become my new mantra. I will use them in response to bigotry, bullying, and dishonesty rather than pulling hair or calling out Renae Sanders in science class as a mean, obnoxious twat for spreading the rumour that Fern Jeffries slept with the teacher to get her A in our Theory of Evolution assignment. I might have also super-glued her textbooks to the desk and used the Bunsen burner to singe an irreparable hole in the pink personalised drink bottle she carries everywhere, but that’s merely conjecture. There’s no proof.
But no more. According to Fucking Dick Head school, I will graduate with the knowledge on how to groom myself. I will learn how to artfully arrange my hair and wear makeup, walk straight, exercise, and use a knife and fork. They will bestow me with the tools necessary to radiate positivity and lasting loveliness until the end of time. My new demeanour will attract people (i.e. new friends) and my warm, gentle nature will be remarked upon, as if being a Stepford daughter is something to be admired.
Fuck that.
I’d rather stab my eyeballs out with a rusty fork.
I want to live. I want to make a difference in the world the way my brothers plan to do. Mitch is already in the academy, and Travis and Jared are gone—living on campus at Charles Sturt University and following the family path of law enforcement. My brothers are badass. That should be me too. Instead, I’m stuck here: the youngest Valentine and last to leave the nest.
I will die in my pretty pink room, festering away from boredom. Rats will come and chew at my dull, insipid carcass until nothing remains but my artfully arranged blonde hair.
“Mac?”
Mum’s voice echoes up the staircase and into my room.
“Come down for tea and cake!”
I roll over and give my pillow a solid punch, using the power in my shoulder like Jake had taught me so long ago.
“Mac!”
My pillow suffers through a few more jabs.
“MAC!”
“Arrghh!”
When my brothers’ turned seventeen, they snuck out for late night beers at the local pub in Manly. And when I say snuck out, I mean “snuck out” because my parents knew and turned a blind eye. Boys will be boys, apparently. Meanwhile, I get crusty oolong with a side of Angel Food cake because Mum is on a gluten-free crusade.
With a huff that goes unnoticed, I heave my body off the bed and start downstairs. If I don’t, Mum will only make her way up and drag me down. At least this way I can survive their birthday song with dignity.
Last year all three brothers were here for it, forcing me to suffer through their horrendous singing. Though for a bunch of wankers, they’re surprisingly astute when it comes to choosing gifts. Not that I want to give them too much credit. I am easy to buy for; clothes, shoes, and bags are my Kryptonite. My closet is bursting at the seams with all three, but right now they feel meaningless. Does that make me selfish? Having all these things and not caring about any of it?
They don’t fill the emptiness that gurgles in my belly as I eyeball the gluten-free creation in front of me. My parents begin the birthday song as the requisite seventeen candles blaze bright enough to burn down the house. Red Velvet is my favourite cake but it was banned ever since I made it at home and Mum saw the amount of red food colouring required, which even I admit was a bit gross.
When Dad’s booming voice stops and Mum’s feeble warble fades, I lean over and blow the candles out.
“Make a wish, make a wish!” Mum cries, clapping her hands as though what I wish for might actually come true. I close my eyes and with tears that burn the backs of my lids, I blow out the seventeen birthday candles wishing for Jake. I wish so hard that my throat aches and my jaw clenches tight enough to crack in two.
But wishes are complete bullshit because he never comes.
“You’re going to love it, Mackenzie.” Tomorrow marks the beginning of the end of my life. Dad confirms it as he sits on the side of my bed and looks down at me. He’s taken to calling me by my full name over the past two months. No one uses a nickname at Fucking Dick Head school. It’s not proper. “You just need to give it a chance.”
“Chance schmance,” I mutter.
“All the girls there will be just like you. You’ll make so many new friends you won’t know what to do with them all.”
I glare. I remove my hands from beneath the covers, rest them on top, and I glare hard. “What do you mean just like me?”
Dad’s eyes cut to the side and he shifts slightly on t
he bed. He looks utterly uncomfortable, as if answering my question is akin to getting a tooth pulled.
My lips pinch. “Dad?”
He offers me a shrug. “Just that they’re ready to be transformed into little ladies, like you are.”
His comment makes me so bitter it burns the lining of my stomach clean away. I’m not the daughter they wanted. But what about what I want? I don’t want to be a lady. I want to be myself. Strong. Independent. Smart. Someone nobody will dare to mess with. And not because she has three beefy, overprotective brothers to do her dirty work but because she’s lethal in her own right. Powerful and formidable. The game changer. The Queen on a chessboard.
“Dad?”
He sighs, his expression resigned. He’s clearly expecting another argument. “Yes, love?”
My eyes fall to the suitcases standing by my bedroom door. Bright white with pink trim, Mum chose them just yesterday. I’d wanted the Samsonite hardcase range. They were like the outer skin of a toffee apple. Shiny. Red. Delicious. Mum had called them harlot bags and after a battle of wills, I ended up with something deemed more appropriate. We left the store on edge with Mum grinding her teeth and me sulking.
At least I know what I want and I’m determined to work for it, or in this case … argue for it. But clearly it doesn’t count for anything. Raising a wilful daughter is hard work. They’re tired of it. Of me.
It leaves me hollow, a state of being which I thought wouldn’t feel much like anything, yet it hurts more than when I came off my skateboard and broke my arm. It’s a throbbing ache of hopelessness. The emotion is foreign and unpleasant. My usual demeanour is titanium, like the song. I’m bullet proof. Shoot me down, but I won’t fall.
But in this case I’m already down. The only way to get back up is to do something bold. Something wonderfully drastic. Something that makes my heart pound incredibly hard with both fear and excitement.
I have to remove myself from the equation.
I have to leave.
Once the realisation swims to the surface, the stifling thick blanket of control is gone and fresh air fills my lungs.
“What is it, Mackenzie?” my father asks again as I draw a deep breath.
I shake my head, my eyes moving from the suitcases and back to him. “I love you, Dad.”
He leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead, visibly relieved. “I love you too.” Then he pets my head like I’m a good little puppy. “See you in the morning.”
His feet are silent on the thick carpet as he crosses the room. Turning, he offers a brief smile before flicking off my bedroom light. The door is pulled closed and darkness fills my room.
It will be the last time I see my father as the person I am now. When I eventually return, I will never be the same.
MAC
I’m headed in the wrong direction. Somewhere along the city outskirts of Melbourne, I’ve lost my way. It’s taken me a whole hour to realise. Asshead. If I had enough money, I would have a phone. Instead I’m cursed with a paper map and I’m ready to gouge holes through it with the bobby pin in my hair.
After kicking a few rocks, I turn back the way I came. The heat is blistering my skin and the side of the road is gravelly and dusty, but I’m along the coastline and a cool breeze lifts from the ocean and flutters my hair, swirling my short dress around my thighs. It offers only a moment of respite.
Before I can stop myself, I stick out my thumb. Hitchhiking is stupid. I know that, but my legs are ready to fold like a bad hand at poker and the closest bus stop is a half hour away.
How did I get here? I can summarise it best with numbers: nine hundred and sixty-seven dollars of savings; one mobile phone, left by the side of my bed so I can’t be traced and hauled back home; one overnight bag; two long bus rides to Melbourne, paid in cash; seven hours spent sleeping at the backpacker’s hostel in the city suburb of St. Kilda; three pubic hairs found on the shared, unisex toilet seat—which made me question my adventure and my whole entire existence; four subsequent nights spent at the Travelodge Hotel next to Southern Cross Station; and seven hundred and twelve dollars expended on accommodation. It’s money well spent in my opinion, to have a bathroom void of strangers’ pubes, but my rapidly depleting funds will send me back to the hostel tonight.
The majority of my time here, besides sleeping, eating, and window-shopping along Melbourne’s famous Chapel Street, has been spent looking for Jake. Finding my way around occupies the rest of my time. Public transport in this city is like navigating the Bermuda Triangle, but I’m determined. Jake Romero once said he belonged to me. Well he still does. And I’m here to remind him.
There will be no Fucking Dick Head school. I don’t need to be a lady. I just need to be myself, and being here with Jake is where I’m going to do it.
The trouble with my plan is the lack of information on his whereabouts. The night before I left, I waited until my parents had gone to bed and the house was settled before creeping down the stairs and into the study. I made three attempts on the password, knowing it wouldn’t be easy. Mum approached internet security as if the FBI were intent on cracking her entire system. On the fourth try, I typed in AzaeleaBush3 at random for the simple fact she had planted three of them in the front yard just two days earlier. I know this because I offered to help. She turned me down, not wanting to risk my fresh manicure in the countdown to FDH. The password worked and her screen came to life.
That was only the first hurdle. The second was finding out Jake’s file also had a password. No amount of guesswork could get it open. My frustration reached critical levels by the eighth attempt when I heard a loud clank from the kitchen, followed by the soft bang of a cupboard door, then the whoosh of water gushing from the tap.
I was ten seconds away from getting found out. I utilised five of them to write down the name of Jake’s file—Jake Romero, De Luca, Melbourne—and tucked it inside the pocket of my pyjama pants. I used the other five to shut down the computer. There would be time later to find out what the name of his file meant.
Mum’s soft voice called out as I was leaving the study. “Mackenzie?”
She was standing at the kitchen entrance, glass of water in hand as she watched me approach. Her neat bob of hair was mussed and green eyes sleepy. My heart sank. I would miss my parents. They only wanted what they thought was best, but they were wrong and unwilling to listen.
Leaving was the only way.
“Hey, Mum.”
“It’s midnight,” she told me, pointing out the obvious. “What are you doing up?”
“I thought I heard a noise. You?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” Mum set the glass down and opened up her arms. I stepped inside them, and she wrapped me up. The scent of Chanel No. 5 was subtle and enveloped me as warmly as her arms. “I’m going to miss you.”
“Then don’t send me,” I muttered into the soft wool of her dressing gown, stubborn to the core.
She sighed. It was the exact same sigh Dad had made earlier that night and a reminder that they were tired of me and trying to change who I was. “Please, let’s not argue about this anymore.”
So I didn’t.
I simply untangled myself from my mother’s embrace, went upstairs, packed a small overnight bag and hid my bigger suitcases in the back of my closet. By the early hours of the morning I was gone.
I left them a note, telling them I had decided to leave for FDH early and caught a cab to the school. My explanation was that I didn’t want any weepy goodbyes. Of course, they’ll find out soon enough when the school calls to question them on my AWOL status, but I’m hoping by that time I’ll be with Jake and have some kind of plan.
“Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!”
The loud horn blasts me sideways, jolting me from the memory. The receding car gets my middle finger as dust swirls up, coating my face and dress and filling my lungs. “Asshole!” I wheeze.
The rumbling engine of another car sounds in the distance behind me. I stick my thumb out as I rummage throug
h my bag for a bottle of water, or gum, or whatever I can find to remove the dust from my mouth.
After some investigative Googling upon my arrival in Melbourne, I found out that De Luca isn’t a suburb of Melbourne. It’s a surname. A further search found only a few in the area. The small number was in my favour but after hunting down most with no luck, I’m left with one more shot. I don’t have a plan beyond this. It’s my last shot and it has to work.
My handbag search produces an old, furry eucalyptus lozenge. I’m almost tempted, but I toss it away as the rumbling car gets closer. It doesn’t sound as if it’s slowing down. I jab my thumb out a little higher.
It doesn’t stop. The engine growls as it flies past. I spit a curse and choke on another cloud of dust. The car is a rusty vintage Holden, the body painted pale blue and the rooftop white. It’s a death trap anyway. I lower my thumb. I don’t need this. I need a payphone where I can call a decent cab and find my way back to Pube Hostel.
Ten metres ahead the Holden veers off to the side and screeches to a stop, skidding more dust and gravel in its wake. I halt on the spot, my gut giving me a fight or flight response. The male driver swivels in his seat. I feel his stare for several moments. I use the time debating whether to run in the opposite direction or walk toward the car. Just as I make the decision to turn and pretend I wasn’t hitchhiking at all, a tattooed arm comes out of the driver’s side window and opens the car door from the outside. A guy steps out. Dark aviators cover his eyes and silky brown hair falls in his face. He’s wearing low-slung boardshorts, flip-flops, and a loose muscle tee shirt that shows off thick biceps and tanned skin.
He starts toward me. That’s when I realise my mother’s warnings about hitchhiking weren’t helicopter parenting like I always complained but smart advice.
My hand tightens on my bag. I step back when he rips his sunglasses off and speaks as he walks closer. “What in the goddamn everloving fuck?”
A lightning bolt of shock zings through me as I look into a pair of beautiful dark brown eyes. My mouth falls open and my heart pounds a thunderous beat as he nears me. “Jake?”