Arrogant Monster - A Mafia Romance

KINSLEY

I’m learning something new today: running from your wedding is hard.

The movies always make it look easy. Carefree, slow motion, big dramatic music swelling in the background. But in reality, it’s none of that. It’s messy. It’s ugly. It’s hard.

It’s hard to sprint down the steps of the place you were supposed to exchange vows with your partner for life.

It’s hard to climb into the honeymoon car you were supposed to share with him as you drove off to start your new lives together.

It’s hard—because of your heels and your skirts—to reach the gas pedal to put as much distance between you and him as possible, and it’s hard to see the road through your veil of tears, and it’s hard to find the tissues in the glove box to wipe off the blood and sweat and running makeup from your face so you don’t stain the white lace that once held so much hope for you and now holds nothing but nightmares.

But this runaway bride didn’t have a choice.

So I ran down the steps.

I got in the car.

And I drove.

Now, I’m chewing up highway. One hundred, one ten, one hundred twenty miles per hour. The lines on the asphalt blur behind fresh tears.

When I glance in the mirror, I cringe. The woman looking back at me is horrifying.

Black eyeliner and red rouge streak my cheeks like war paint, mixed in with the crumbling grit of my foundation. My hair is falling from its intricate braids and frizzing around my head in some twisted kind of halo.

It’s tough not to hate myself for ending up here. If I’d been a little more self-aware, just a little bit sooner, I wouldn’t be hurtling down this lonely stretch of road, looking back over my shoulder every few seconds. All this could have been avoided. If only I’d—

Another long honk and the blinding flash of oncoming headlights force my attention back in front of me. My hands are shaking on the wheel. This is the third time in as many minutes that someone’s had to remind me that I’m driving and I need to be paying attention. Eyes forward, not back.

But I can’t stop checking my rearview mirror. If I slow down, there’s a possibility he can catch up.

And if he catches up…

Once this last car passes, the highway goes back to looking deserted. Dusk is coming soon. There’s nothing but pine trees and tall elms on either side. Road ahead and road behind. Nothing living and breathing except for the last gasps of the roadkill piled up on the shoulder, every bit as black and red and bruised as I am.

There’s probably a very poignant metaphor in there somewhere, but I’m too trauma-struck to get it.

BRRRING. My phone starts screeching, and I jump in my seat. I glance at the screen on instinct, but I already know who it is. Even the thought of answering his call is making my stomach turn.

When I turn my eyes back up to the windshield, I realize I’m once again drifting onto the opposite side of the road. There’s no oncoming traffic, but there is a bridge ahead. I’m currently on course to smash right into the steel I-beams supporting it.

I gasp, slam the brakes, and swerve hard to the right.

Too hard.

As I’m whipping hand over hand to correct course, my bracelet gets caught in the folds of my skirts. The wheel spins out of control. Tires scream. Engines scream. I scream.

I see the side of the bridge looming like a monster in a dream. The screech of the brakes feels like it’s coming from inside me, and the stench of burning rubber smells like something out of hell itself.

This is it, I think. This is how this whole stupid day ends. It’s almost fitting.

There’s a crunch of metal and the tortured scream of the smoking wheels. But by some miracle, the car stops.

I’m okay.

After all that noise, it’s eerie how fast it gets silent. The forest on either side swallows up every drop of sound.

“Sh*t,” I whisper into all that silence. “Sh*t. Sh*t. Sh*t.”

I close my eyes and rest my forehead on the steering wheel, though even that little contact stings and aches. Just breathe, Kinsley, I coach myself. Everything is going to be fine if you can just—

BRRRING! BRRRING!

I grab my phone as it starts going off again and slam it hard against the dashboard. It bounces off and lands right back where it was in the passenger’s seat, a little latticework of cracks spreading across the front.

But at least it stops screaming at me. Thank God for small mercies.

I lean back in my seat and sob until I can’t inhale. I’ve moved from Just breathe to Just cry and I’m about to step up to Just curl into a little ball and die when I decide that one more second spent in this car is a second too long.

I push open the door and step out onto the cracked tarmac of the bridge, pulling my train of fabric along with me.

Outside, I s*ck in huge gusts of air, but it doesn’t really help. Nothing helps, nothing reduces the weight of this concrete slab of shame on my chest, and nothing seems to erase those last few moments from my mind. The moments that made me run from my own happily-ever-after.

The shattering glass.

The wild fury in his eyes.

I hear something from beyond the bridge, somewhere out in the thicket of trees, and I get the feeling that whatever made that noise is staring back at me. Paranoia, I tell myself. Just my mind conjuring up irrational fears.

There’s no one else here. Just sky and bridge and the river coursing twelve feet below.

I look over the edge. The water looks calm from where I’m standing. But the rush of the current tips me off to the forces surging beneath its surface.

The echoes in my head are still reverberating. You dumb b*tch! he’d screamed. Why the f*ck can’t you smile on your f*ck*ng wedding day?

I tried. I really did. But I was never very good at playing pretend. That was more of my parents’ game, not mine.

I dig my fingers into the front folds of the bodice, but it doesn’t alleviate the pressure there. It’s too d*mn tight. There’s too much fabric. I feel like the dress is trying to swallow me whole.

Dizziness ripples through my vision for a moment, and the water seems to twist into a whirlpool.

Step back, Kinsley. You’re too close to the edge.

I do step back. At least, I think I do. But somewhere along the way, I mess that up, too—Can’t you do anything right, you stupid wh*r*?!—and I guess I trip or stumble or something, I’m not sure, it all happens so fast, but then I feel the scream of wind in my face, and I know I’m falling, falling, falling.

A second later, I feel the cold embrace of the river.

When I open my mouth to scream, water rushes in. The currents I suspected from above are here now and they’re real and they’re strong. They grab hold of my dress and drag me down.

This can’t be how it ends, I think miserably to myself. I was supposed to have a better life than she did.

I kick my legs out beneath me, but they just get entangled in the thick, unforgiving fabric of my skirt. The dress is weighing me down. It’s pulling me under. How morbidly fitting—killed by my own wedding dress. What a way to go.

I see my mother taking shape in the murky underworld of the water, or maybe it’s just my oxygen-starved brain playing tricks on me. It doesn’t really matter whether it’s real or a hallucination, though, because my reaction would be the same either way.

No. Hell no.

I kick up as hard as I can, and I’ll be damned, I break through the surface. I s*ck in one huge, gasping breath. It’s the sweetest air I’ve ever tasted.

Then the frigid fingers of the river lock around my ankle and reel me back down.

My dress is too heavy now that it’s soaked with water, and the river is too deep and too rapid. It’s getting harder to kick, to move, to fight.

Most of all, it’s getting harder to care.

I see another mirage take shape in front of me. Now, I’m sure I’m hallucinating, because it’s a man who’s way too gorgeous to be real. Dark hair flows around the sharp lines of his face. He reaches for me and my eyes close. The sharp pain is still there, but I’m not worried anymore. He’s got me.

And then we’re kicking up together, and there’s air again, and I’m throwing up water and my eyes sting with tears.

KINSLEY

Dying, as far as I can tell, really sucks. Not that I’d expected to fade gracefully away on a bed of roses or anything quite that fairy-tale-esque. But shouldn’t there be at least a little bit more dignity involved? Puking your guts out with dirt caked beneath your fingernails hardly seems like the way to go.

“Get it all out.”

I can feel something at my back. A strong hand holding me upright while more murky river water spews out of me. When I stop hacking up fluid, I glance to the side.

The man is crouched next to me, eyes furrowed in a permanent brood. There’s something about his gaze that keeps me still, and it’s not just the intense cobalt blue of his irises, glowing like they’re lit from within.

It’s an unblinking confidence, bordering on arrogance. It’s a look that says, Stay there. I obey without thinking.

“Are you alright?” he asks in a voice that’s deep, gravelly, harsh. It’s as if he hasn’t spoken in weeks and he dislikes the sou