Home > Break For Him(7)

Break For Him(7)
Author: B. B. Hamel

“Just sell your shirts, my little diamond. I’ll be back later to pick you up.”

She said nothing as I turned and left her store.

I couldn’t wait to get started. But she was right, I had to put her through one more test.

This was her chance to try something stupid. She’ll spend all day thinking about it, weighing her options, making up plans. She might even follow through with something. Before I actually began selling out of here, I had to be sure she wouldn’t make this difficult.

So I dangled freedom in front of her and let her figure out what path she wanted to take.

I was an optimist. I believed she’d do the right thing and keep her mouth shut. But I’ve been wrong in the past, and I might be wrong again.

That was the fun of it. She might let me down, or she might not.

Only one way to find out.

I left the store, walked to my SUV, and drove off.

 

 

4

 

 

Leigh

 

 

The first ten minutes alone in my store were surreal.

It almost felt normal, like it was any other day.

Except of course it was anything but normal, since I started the morning as a captive, and likely would end it that way, too.

Owain played games. I could see it already. He liked it when I attacked him because it proved something to him. He wanted me to lash out and he wanted me to fight.

He thought it was fun.

I had to use that against him.

I didn’t know how though. He still held all the cards. He knew I’d do anting for my mother, and all he had to do was keep threatening her life to keep me in line. So I spent the afternoon trying to come up with ways to get out of this.

Customers came and went. A woman tried to bring her dog inside and I had to kick her out. Some kids bought shirts with Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangster on the front in white lettering. I wondered if their parents would even care.

Time slipped past, morning turned to afternoon. I took cash from the register and bought lunch at the deli a couple doors down. The guy behind the counter was overweight and balding, and he smiled at me. “Sell a lot of shirts?” he asked, and I laughed, although he said that to me every time I stopped in.

After lunch I packed shirts in the back. Late afternoon was always slow. As I finished getting the online orders ready to go out, I realized that I’d stopped thinking about Owain and let myself settle into my normal daily routine.

It felt easy to do. I’d been coming to work and going through these same motions for months now. It was comfortable, and right now I craved comfort and something normal more than anything else. I could so easy see how I could fall into his trap.

Selling his pills wouldn’t be hard. I could fit it into my typical day. Not much would change in my life and I could drift along on an eddy of routine and easy comfort until he got what he wanted and didn’t need me anymore.

He said he’d let me go. But I knew better.

There was no way out. If I ran, my mom died. If I tried to bring her with me, we’d both get caught, and we’d both die. If I stayed, I was dead sooner or later.

By the time four o’clock rolled around and I had three hours until closing, the realization hit me like a punch to the gut.

I had to kill him.

There was no other option.

If I killed Owain, there’d be nobody to hunt me. Maybe his men might take it up, but I had a feeling they’d be too busy fighting with each other to try and avenge their leader. I could be wrong about that, but I didn’t see any other options.

I had to kill him. And I had to do it today, this evening, right at seven, right at closing. Otherwise I’d never do it.

I sat down in the back on the computer chair and stared at the shelving racks and the shirts in neat piles. My heart beat so fast I felt like I might hyperventilate and pass out. Sweat beaded along my back.

I never killed anyone before. I’d never been in a fight. Killing a man, even a man like Owain, felt horrible. It felt like the end of the world, like the end of myself.

But I had to do it. I had to do it if I wanted to survive and if I wanted to save my mother.

I needed a weapon. My eyes scanned the room. Owain was way bigger and stronger. Attacking him like I did that morning wouldn’t work. I needed an edge.

The racks. They were made of long metal tubes. I remembered how heavy they were from when I built them with Jason all those long months ago.

I walked to the nearest one, cleared off the shirts, and began to take it apart. I only needed to remove the top most shelf since I only needed a single support strut. I unscrewed it and got it off in about ten minutes then stood there weighing the long metal rod in my hand.

It was solid and heavy. I swung it and made a satisfying whistle through the air.

I pictured slamming it into Owain’s head over and over and over until he stopped moving.

My stomach twisted into bits, but I made myself close my eyes and picture it again.

Hitting him, in the head, over and over, until his skull broke and he died.

I gagged. I was so cared I thought I might cry.

I was going to do it.

Time slipped past. I sold some more shirts up front. A few online orders trickled in. I filled them, even though I didn’t think I’d ever get to the post office again after today.

I was going to murder someone.

Five came, then six. I kept the metal rod leaning against the counter. I looked down at it every few minutes and tried to see myself hitting Owain in the face until he died.

Six-thirty rolled around. A young guy with a buzzed head and his hippie girlfriend laughed at some of the really lame shirt slogans and ended up buying some of my geometric designs. The girl complimented the shop but I just smiled at her and barely heard it.

When they left, I locked up and went into the back.

Owain would come soon. I sat in the computer chair and tried to stay calm. I held the rod in my lap and ran my fingers along its smooth tube. I was going to use it to kill him. I was going to bash him in the face until he was dead.

I shut my eyes then opened hem again.

It was time.

I got up and hid right where the door would open. I was going to use the same trick on him again, since I figured he wouldn’t expect it twice. I stayed still and quiet with the lights off.

Soon I heard something up front. The door opened then closed. Of course he had the spare key. He’d infected my entire world and had taken it over like a virus. My palms were sweating and I had to wipe them on my jeans. I gripped the metal rod tight in both hands.

I heard his footsteps in the hallway. He walked slow and deliberately. I knew it was him from his gait, it just had to be him.

The door opened. I wanted to scream. I was so scared that I might not go through with it, scared that I might chicken out at the last minute.

He stepped inside. I saw him from behind: tall, muscular, broad, light colored hair. Handsome as all hell.

I had to murder him.

He turned in my direction. I stepped forward and swung the rod as hard as I could at his face.

And connected.

His head snapped back and he grunted in pain. His hands came up to his nose. A satisfying spurt of blood smacked onto the ground.

“Fuck,” he said. “The fu—”

I came at him again. I hit him hard in the shoulder then aimed for the head. He stumbled back, nose bend and bleeding, eyes wild with rage. The rod hit him in face again, but it was just a glancing blow. It ripped a hole on his left cheek to match the claw marks on the other side.

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