Trevor's POV
"Mr. Garcia, I'm going to need some of my men."
"Mr. Vatore, you just got out of jail," he scoffs, and my jaw ticks, "the reason you even went to prison was to get you out of the mafia, capo."
"Mr. Garcia, what I do is not to be questioned by you. I am not a child.
"Now I have things to do and places to be, you're wasting both of our time so get me Robert, Trent, and Leo, before the day ends, or else I'll show you why I went to prison."
I hang up, slapping a hundred dollar bill onto the bar table before leaving.
Ocean.
This woman consumed my mind night and day as I laid on the prison beds. I wish I'd met her sooner, she would've made life in the hellhole much better. She was so beautiful . . . with her wild red hair, her smile, so wide and genuine, but her eyes. It lacked a glow that I know could be there. Then she came the next day with bruises from the outside world and it . . . clicked.
Whoever the man thought he was, he was going to lose all of his limbs. He was going to lose his tongue, and I'll watch him, whimper in pain as he begs for his life. He was going to remember every time he laid his hands on Ocean, and pray to God that he dies before he can feel the blows I was about to give him.
"The tattoo parlor is coming up well sir, by next week we'll be able to open," Sebastian stood next to me, staring up at the men who painted the outside of my building.
"Very well," I nod at the good news.
"We're soon to hire people," he says, "who do you think I should be looking for?"
"Target youth with art to show. Don't let the age be too high, a lot of young people need jobs."
Sebastian nods, disappearing into the building. I shove my hand in my pockets and glance at my surroundings. Multiple women stared at me from the sidewalks, and normally, their looks wouldn't bother me, but it seemed like everyone's eyes were on me.
Sighing in exasperation I turn and look at them completely.
"Can I help you?" I grit out and they all turn like they weren't looking.
The only eyes I'd like on me was the dark brown ones that seemed to be innocent.
My little flower.
#
Ocean's POV
· Trigger Warning: Rape
"Hi, I'm Ocean, and I'll be your therapist for today," I sit across from my new client, already missing Trevor's gentle face, peering at me with his little, sheepish smile.
"What's your name?"
"Denver," he replies, and I nod. Denver was big. Like really big. He was burly, with a large beard that had little grey stripes.
"Alright Denver, what did you –,"
"I raped about four women," Denver nonchalantly shrugs, his hands resting on the table before him. I stare at him in shock, unsure of how to react to what he just said.
"Okay – uh -,"
"Was it four," he looked up to the prison ceiling as if trying to remember, "you know, it could have been ten."
Bile rises in my throat, and I place a hand under the table, over my stomach.
"Give me a sec-,"
"And the craziest thing is . . ." he chuckled, " I don't think it was rape, I think . . . I think those bitches liked it."
"And why . . . why would you – why would you say that?" I swallow hard, feeling Dain's hands all over my body. Feeling them on my neck . . . my waist . . . my arm, tugging at my hair, forcing me into the floor, the wall, the bed.
"Uh . . why did you . . . assault them?"
"Because I wanted to, and they liked it because they did," he says blankly as if it was as simple as that.
"And it's just that . . . simple," I ask him, and he shrugs, "do you ever think about what that did to them? About what you did -,"
"I try not to dwell on the past," he mutters, seemingly bored.
This was my job. My job was to deal with people like him, deal with prisoners, and not judge them. My job was to evaluate, and maybe change, maybe find some sort of logic in their minds, to help them solve on their own what goes on in their head.
But this was different, Denver continued speaking, and all I could see . . . all I could hear . . . was Dain. I felt his repulsive lips on my throat, and his angry fingers as he dug his nails into my thigh, I could spell his cologne –
"Okay, I can't do this," I stand quickly, gathering my stuff. My breath was jagged, my hands trembling as I threw my stationery into my bag.
"Where you going sweet pea?" Denver idly rubbing his beard, his eyes hanging low as he grinned at me.
"You are a piece of scum under everyone's feet," I rage, swallowing hard as I face him, "and don't you ever forget that."
I stand, bending until I met his ears, "you are nothing, and you'll always be nothing."
The guard gave me a questioning look as I left, but I was too busy scrambling away from the terrorist in the cell., I sat on the familiar public bench, a vanilla ice cream cone in my hand, hoping that I could just melt away like the delicacy.
I stayed for a few more moments, before climbing onto the bus to head home.
My door was already opened when I got in, and that's never a good sign. I brushed it off as Dain, figuring that he probably just found my spare key and in that case, I let off a loud, exasperated sigh.
"Dain?"
I shut the door behind me, only to find that the figure I saw, wasn't Dain's at all. I scream, and so does he, throwing the box of cereal all over and onto the ground.
"What is it?" Trevor turned around, and I could see him in all of his shirtless glory. My eyes were the size of saucers, what the fuck was he doing here?
"What're you doing in my apartment?!" I shriek and he blinks, looking around blankly.
"I – uh - live here now?" He furrows his eyebrows as if I had no right to be confused.
"You've got to be kidding me," I narrow my eyes, placing a hand on my hip, "so this . . . this is a coincidence?"
"It has to be, how was I to know that you lived here?"
I stared at him, utterly confused. But I was also very exhausted.
"I - I just wasn't aware," I tell him, rubbing my forehead and he nods.
"I knew I had a roommate, the landlady said so. I just didn't know that it would be you."
When I don't say anything else, he hums, "I'll replace your cereal."
"It's fine, I'm just. . I'm just going to go to my room." I walk towards it and he stops me.
"Is this a problem? I mean I could find somewhere else." He asks, concern written all over his face.
"No, it's okay, I promise I'm just tired." I force a smile, offering him a slight nod, before disappearing into my room, not forgetting to lock the door.
Well, I live in the same house as a murderer.
What could go wrong?