The 7: Sloth Read online

  Table of Contents

  TITLE

  COPYRIGHT

  BLURB

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  ALSO BY MAX

  THE MUSIC

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The 7: Sloth

  © 2017 Max Henry

  Cover art by Jessica Hildreth Designs

  Formatting by Max Henry

  All rights reserved

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  One fateful night, one stolen kiss, and I’m determined to prove he does care about something … me.

  ONE

  With the way things started out tonight, there couldn’t have been any other outcome. Why did I think this was a good idea? My feet pound the pavement, my short breaths deafening in my ears as I run for … what? What exactly do I run to? There’s no safety to be found in the dark hours. No sweet, unassuming citizens who’ll take pity on the girl with wild hair who sprints for her life.

  Because that’s precisely what I’m doing: sprinting for my life.

  Blood runs into my eye yet again, and I swipe at it mid-stride with the back of my hand. My elevated heart rate will do nothing to stem the flow, only spur it on as the split on my skull continues to pound.

  He said he couldn’t do this anymore, that the jealousy was too much, too painful for him to bear. Well, what about me? What about the pain I have to endure?

  Is he that consumed by blind rage that he can’t see it? He’s not jealous of me, or them, or anyone. He’s embarrassed at the thought of me leaving, of how that’ll make him look to his peers, his so-called “friends”.

  “April!”

  My next breath comes as a short gasp at the sound of his voice. It reverberates off the industrial buildings around me, echoing, taunting. Six-foot wire-topped fences surround me, interspersed between vast slabs of concrete that fortify what lies beyond. These aren’t the streets where places to hide are plentiful. They’re the streets where people find their fate, disappearing into the night before the new day starts and the hustle of industry fills the roads once more.

  This is the place where I’ll die—I’m sure of it.

  “You can’t … run … forever,” he hollers between breaths.

  He’s right. I can’t. But be damned if I’m not going to have a good crack at it. The blood runs into my eye again, only this time I try in vain to blink it away. If I lift my arm, I’ll slow my pace and give him a chance to catch up before I regain my lost speed.

  Not tonight—I won’t let him touch me ever again.

  I push on toward the side street that intersects just in front of me even though my lungs burn, begging for rest. If I slow to check the way is clear, he’ll have me. But if I run on without hesitation I also risk being hit. Nobody drives these streets at this hour. Nobody, except us.

  I’ll be okay. I have to be okay.

  A truck trailer sits parked to my left as I crest the curb and blocks my view. Closing my eyes tight, I keep running and count my steps to gauge how close I am to the other side.

  One, two, three, four, fi—

  Blinding pain shoots through my left hip. I cry out as my body twists what feels to be horizontal to the unrelenting ground. The pain burns through my leg as I’m shunted several feet to my right, landing with a hell of a thud on the damp tarmac.

  Why did I not see lights? I didn’t see lights. Fuck, my leg hurts.

  The squeal of tires echoes in my mind after the sound has stopped. Pure terrifying silence fills the void. Silence, apart from the heavy thump of the old car’s engine as it sits idle in the intersection.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?” a deep, definitely male, voice booms.

  Two denim-clad legs come into view while I lie still, assessing whether I’ve broken anything in the impact and consequent fall. The heavy boots at the bottom of the dirty jeans are partially unlaced; everything about this snapshot screams trouble. I look away from the driver of the car, across the road, to find Terry standing shell-shocked on the curb.

  “Jesus, honey,” Terry coos. “You could have got yourself killed.”

  He feigns worry, yet stays where he is. The lack of physical concern seems to register with the driver of the car too. He turns and lays his full attention on Terry.

  “Best you get your ass over here then and check if your girl’s okay.” His tone is short and curt, which leads me to think this whole situation has frustrated him more than worried the guy at all.

  Terry makes his way across the road toward me, yet keeps his firm stare fixed on the guy to my right. My flight instinct kicks in, my head reeling as I’m thrust back into the whole reason for this mess.

  I scramble backward on all fours, my leg blazing an inferno as I force the muscles to work. “No.” Maybe the driver can’t see what’s in Terry’s hand, but I can—like fuck he’s getting near me.

  Not when I’ve spent this long getting away.

  “You’re in shock.” Terry lowers himself as he nears me, tucking the blade behind his thigh. “That’s all.”

  The driver turns in my periphery to watch our strange interaction. The dark shields his face, yet the distant glow of a security light cuts an intimidating silhouette around his black leather jacket.

  “Stay back,” I demand as Terry edges closer. The heels of my hands hit the curb behind me. “Stay the fuck away from me.”

  “April. Baby.” Terry’s hand swings out as though to wrap his arms around me, yet he only brings the one forward—the one with the knife.

  His awkward cues are all too much: for me, for him, and for the driver as I lift my arms to protect myself.

  A single gunshot rings out through the still night, the echo of the crack bouncing from building to building as Terry collapses on the spot to his knees, hand clutching his blown-out elbow.

  “Motherfucker!” He spins; his arm useless as he stumbles to his feet and goes for the driver.

  There’s blood on me—I know it. I can’t see the red, but by fucking God I can feel it. Everywhere.

  I scramble to the safety of the sidewalk, adrenalin pushing me through the pain barrier as my leg screams out in protest. The demons of my nightmares come to life before my very eyes as I tuck myself into the shadows. The monsters twist and morph into un-Godly shapes in the dark as the two men wrestle. What have I done? I’ve gone and got an innocent person caught up in my struggles, my mistakes. If he’s hurt because of me … Grunts fall thick and fast from the pair, the crack of flesh-on-flesh punctuated by the metallic ting of the blade as it hits the road.

  Terry steps back, the two men facing each other in a Mexican standoff. Who will make the first move? My breath catches as I watch on, helpless.

  Another crack of the gun rings out, and I slam my hands over my ears. If I don’t hear it, it can’t be true. But it is. It’s all true as I watch my so-called boyfriend hesitate and then crumple to the ground.

  This time Terry doesn’t get up.

  My heartbeat thunders inside my skull, my panted breaths doing nothing to satisfy
my dire need for pacifying air. I press myself hard against the block fence, my injured leg protesting as I force it straight so I can melt into the shadow.

  “Where did you go, little girl?” the driver asks, standing in the middle of the road. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” His voice takes on an almost mocking tone.

  I press harder against the fence; the man’s outline forms an indestructible ‘X,’ the shape of the gun clear as it extends from one hand.

  “It’s safe to come out now.”

  Like fuck it is. This guy shot Terry, and now he wants me to walk out there as though he won’t shoot me too? I know how these things work. I’m collateral damage.

  I knew I was going to die tonight. Fucking knew it. Just didn’t pick it being at a stranger’s hand.

  “I know which way you went,” he announces, tucking the gun away. “Won’t take me long to find you.”

  My breaths are too noisy for my liking, the drum of my heartbeat so loud in my ears that I’m sure he can hear it too. I watch, regulating my inhale and exhale through my nose to try and keep as quiet as possible, while he calmly walks to the trunk of his car and opens it up. He slowly removes his jacket, folding the leather carefully before he places it in the car. His muscular shoulders flex as he laces his hands behind his back and stretches, his body broad and nothing short of intimidating.

  “Way I see it,” the man continues, talking to me as though I’m right there beside him, “we have a bit of a problem to sort out.” He retrieves what appears to be a sheet of plastic, or maybe the kind of canvas you use to cover a load, and carries it to Terry’s prone form. “The longer he lies here, the more blood there is on the road.” He drops the sheet next to Terry and places his hands on his hips. “And the more blood there is, the less likely it is motorists will mistake it for an oil spill.”

  The guy is insane. One hundred percent cuckoo.

  “So are you going to come out and help me, or what?” He turns his head and, to my absolute horror, stares right at me.

  My blood runs cold, my heart skipping a beat. What choice do I have now? I limp forward, hands knotted in the hem of my baggy T-shirt, and stand at the edge of the sidewalk.

  “There you are,” he says with the lilt of a sadistic lullaby.

  “Are you going to kill me too?”

  His head slowly tilts to one side. The security light over his shoulder still shields most of his features from view, but with the way his chin tucks and then raises I know he checks me out.

  “Maybe.”

  I freeze in place as he turns away and bends to unfold the sheet of what sounds to be plastic. He lays the large rectangle out beside where Terry still lies unmoving and very much dead and then twists his head to look over his shoulder at me. “Come on. I don’t have all night.”

  I find the will to move my feet and step toward the scene. The closer I get, the clearer the carnage becomes. My stomach roils at the mess the gunshot made of Terry’s face; the pool of dark liquid beneath makes my palms sweat.

  I’ve wished for this so many times, wished I had the guts to do it myself. But no matter how much I hated the man, seeing Terry like this is … confronting.

  The stranger takes hold of Terry’s shirt in his fist and heaves his body over to one side, trying in vain to tug the sheet of plastic underneath with the other hand. I move around Terry’s feet and help, pulling the sheet under, and then rolling Terry the opposite way to get him on top of the plastic.

  The two of us look up at the same time, our work complete. Holy shit. The guy is gorgeous, in a rugged James Dean kind of way. Dark lashes frame even darker eyes. His hair is choppy, messy, yet trimmed short on the sides. And his jaw … so hard, so firm, but also covered in what I can only describe as battle wounds. A scar pulls the flesh under his ear, puckering it where the old injury runs down to his neck.

  The man’s been in the wars. Having seen what I did tonight, I don’t want to know what kind.

  I snap from my daze when he clears his throat. “Did I do that?” he gestures to the cut on my head.

  Fuck—he thinks I hurt my head in the impact with his car. “No. It’s okay. You didn’t do it.”

  “He did?” He straightens up, nudging Terry’s plastic-wrapped lump with his boot.

  I nod.

  The nut-job pulls his leg back and lays a sickening boot into what was once my boyfriend. I jar at the sound, proud of myself for not running away … or in the very least, throwing up. Damn. This guy means business.

  “Fucker is lucky he’s already dead,” he snarls. “What the fuck did he hit you with?” He steps over Terry’s body, reaching for my head.

  I duck out of the way and back up a step. “The handle of that knife.” I point to the offending weapon where it lays partially under the front of his car.

  “Let me look.” He reaches out again; the sleeves of his T-shirt pull tight with the movement.

  “No.” I back up another step.

  He matches it with his. “You’re bleeding still. Let me see how bad it is.”

  “I’m fine. Honestly.”

  The guy catches me off guard and shunts me hard in the shoulder. I stumble backward, fighting to regain my balance. My head swims at the sudden movement, and the only thing that saves me from going down like a sack of shit is the stranger’s firm hold on my bicep.

  “See? You’re not fine. You’re dizzy.” He hauls me toward him, toward a body seemingly made for the sole purpose of inflicting pain.

  I place my arm between us as I crash against his solid chest. “Let me go.”

  “Stop arguing and let me see your head, woman.” He keeps me pinned against him with a crushing arm around my waist while he gently pushes my hair free of the wound with his other hand.

  The contrast between his two hands leaves me dumbstruck, staring up at this unlikely knight in leather armor as he frowns at my wound. I stare into his eyes, watching the concentration on his face as he carefully inspects the cut. This man belongs on a billboard somewhere, straddling a street bike while he holds a half-smoked cigarette to his lips. He’s the quintessential Hollywood bad boy through and through; I didn’t think such men existed. If I had met him in the bright light of day, if I had passed him on the street, I would never have thought he’d be the kind to kill another in cold blood—ever.

  Evil men shouldn’t be this attractive. The two things should be mutually exclusive concepts; otherwise, it’s not fair.

  “It’s starting to clot. Head wounds always bleed like a stuck pig,” he nonchalantly comments as he loosens the arm around my waist.

  I stay pinned to his front, stuck in his trap as he silently stares down at me. The thump of his car engine is all that keeps me from believing I knocked myself out in the impact; that this is all a dream. His eyes soften a little as he raises his hand and cups my chin. The pad of his thumb is rough as he places it against my lips, dragging it down to coax my mouth open. A strange rumble sounds from deep in his throat before he breaks away, pushing me in the process.

  “Let’s get this shit done, huh?” He continues to wrap Terry while I stand in the street, shocked.

  What has my life become? An hour ago I was breaking free of the abusive asshole on the ground, convinced that if I didn’t put in one last stand, I might as well have taken the knife and slit my throat. And now … now here I stand, wondering why the first thought that came to mind when this stranger grabbed me so possessively was if he found me attractive enough to want to kiss me.

  I’m broken. The only plausible reason why I’d react like that. The man shot your boyfriend, April. Could it be possible that I willed this immoral man to life? Could I have conjured up such a twisted dream?

  I step back, watching as this beautiful nightmare grabs Terry’s makeshift body bag by the feet and drags the plastic burrito toward the trunk of his car. The sickening thud as Terry’s corpse is unceremoniously dumped into the car repeats in my mind, still crystal clear when the stranger slams the lid and turns to look a
t me. His chest heaves with the exertion; his clothes slightly messed up from the friction.

  “What now?” I ask, not stupid enough to try and outrun a man who would probably gun me down in his next breath.

  “We drive.” He walks toward me, or should I say the driver’s door. “Get in.” He jerks his head toward the far side of the car. “We’ll need to go get gas first.”

  With a dead body in the trunk? Is he crazy? You know the answer to that, April.

  He stills beside the open car door, one leg poised in the vehicle. “Problem?”

  “I guess you could say that.” Where does he want me to start? “How are we supposed to stop for gas with … with Terry in the trunk?” Let alone the fact he’s an out-and-out murderer asking me to get in the car with him.

  “Terry.” He lifts both eyebrows. “Asshole name for an asshole guy.”

  “I won’t say anything if you let me go, honestly.” I become that pathetic pleading girl that I always swear at in the scary movies. “You did me a favor.”

  “Exactly.” He pulls his foot from inside the car and leans over the door, so our faces are mere inches apart. “You owe your life to me, so now”—he smirks—“I own you. Get in.”

  TWO

  We get gas. We not only get gas, but the guy also spends ten minutes in the store selecting snacks for our trip to fuck only knows where. Ten minutes that I spend watching every car that drives past. Ten minutes that I spend cleaning what blood I can off my face with the napkins I found in the glove compartment. Ten minutes I spend sweating bullets while I wait on some random cop to pull up in his patrol car and demand to search the vehicle.

  “Here.” My unlikely hero hands me a bag of jerky, chocolate, and sports drinks. “Help yourself if you’re hungry.”

  If I’m hungry? Seriously? I can’t get my hands to stop shaking; the adrenaline seems reluctant to wear off.

  “Where are we going?” I ask as he starts the car.

  “For me to know, and you to find out.” The guy checks both ways and pulls us onto the road, refusing to look at me even once.