Still, as we speed away, I look to the uncertain future and I wonder just what waits for us at the end. Is there love waiting for us? Against all the odds, against all the differences between us—in who we are and what we believe—can Jackson and I find the love we so desperately ache for, despite all our many differences and the painful consequences of our love?

  Or is it misery that’s waiting for us?

  I know which outcome the odds favor, and thinking about it makes me shiver.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Bullet

  Wrapped up in a black dress made of silk, with a seductive slit up to her thigh and sensual amount of cleavage, Maddy is a vision. She glows, beaming a bright smile and with green eyes that shine with excitement. As I park the motorcycle in front of the concert hall, I can't help grinning when she slips off the bike and checks herself out in another car's side-view mirror, proud.

  "My hair is a total mess, my makeup is non-existent, this dress seriously needs to be tailored, I feel like some vagrant just sneaking in and I wouldn't be shocked if they kick me out for looking so atrocious..."

  "And yet, you're going to be the most gorgeous woman there."

  She stops what she's doing and aims a frown at me that would be intimidating if it didn't make her look even more gorgeous. Something about the way she firms her lips and her eyes flash with undisguised pleasure while she's trying to look mad.

  "Stop that."

  "Stop what?"

  "You're making me want to skip the symphony and spend all the time kissing you instead."

  "Don't threaten me with a good time.”

  She blushes. "It is tempting. But I did not come all the way out here, riding a motorcycle while wearing a dress and having it billow all over the damn place like I'm Marilyn Monroe just dying to flash my crotch at everyone, just to spend the whole evening making out with you in the parking lot."

  "It doesn't have to be in the parking lot. We could get a hotel room.”

  "Bullet, you're impossible. We're going in there, and you are not stopping it."

  "Wouldn't dream of it," I say, extending my hand.

  I take her hand and lead her inside the concert hall.

  The place is enormous, with a vaulted ceiling and a stage that's already set up for the performance. As we make our way to our seats, I can feel the envious glances of other men and women as they look at Maddy. To the last man, or woman, they stare. Because she's stunning, and it's not just because of the dress, which fits her perfectly despite her protests. There's something about her that draws people in, that makes them want to be near her. A radiance, a blinding, blushing smile, and eyes that sparkle with wit and mischief.

  How did I get so lucky? Not just once, all those years ago, but again, lucky enough to steal her away from Alexander and to know that the spark of love that I've carried in my chest all these years has a twin burning in her heart.

  We settle into our seats, and I wrap an arm around her.

  She leans into me, resting her head on my shoulder, and the warm feeling in my chest spreads throughout my body. Alexander is out there somewhere, trying to find us, and being here is a gigantic risk, but right now, I don't care. All I care about is being here with her, listening to the music that I don't even understand, and feeling her body against mine. It makes her happy, and that's enough for me.

  No, that's more than enough. There's no limit to what I'd give to make her smile.

  As the symphony plays, I watch Maddy's face; she's completely absorbed in the music, her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted. It's like she's in a trance, and I can't help but think that this as happy as I've seen her, as happy as she was during our first carefree days together those years ago, when love was first wrapping its seductive noose around our hearts. This is her world—this concert hall filled with nicely dressed people listening to music that sounds like it belongs in the elevator of an office building.

  This is her world, and I’ll never understand it.

  We're so damn different. So different it doesn't even make sense. Like two incompatible, wrongly sized gears somehow miraculously fitting together and working perfectly.

  But for how long? How long, really?

  I don't belong in a place like this, and she craves it. The suits, the sophistication, the soft music, the softer people—it's where she's happiest.

  And me? I mix with this place like oil and water.

  Yet somehow, we're together, and we've stolen this moment.

  It's perfect, even if I know that it's temporary.

  I lean in and kiss the top of Madison's head, and she opens her eyes, looking up at me, smiling with those emerald greens that take my breath away every time I see them. For a second, we just stare at each other, and then she leans up and kisses me. It's a soft kiss, but it's enough to make my heart race.

  As the symphony plays on, that one kiss turns into another, then another, and several more. My head spins, my hands roam, my cock stiffens, and she moans into my mouth.

  Maybe these concerts aren't so bad.

  "Behave yourselves, you disgusting perverts," says an older man behind me, his hissing whisper making Maddy's eyes go wide in embarrassment.

  I turn. Look him in the eye. "Go fuck yourself."

  "Excuse me, young man? You're going to curse at me just because I don't want to watch you stick your tongue in that slut's mouth?"

  "Jackson, we're at the symphony," Maddy hisses, her cheeks coloring. "Just let it go."

  I hear her, but I focus my eyes and attention on the older man behind us. Him and his thinning comb-over, judgmental, graying goatee-adorned face, and beady brown eyes that look at Maddy and me like we're worthless. I'm used to that look, as the son of a mechanic and someone who spent their entire life living on the wrong side of the tracks, most everyone in Costa Oscura looks at me like that, but for someone—for anyone—to look at Maddy that way sets my blood on fire. It’s unacceptable. It’s reason enough for violence.

  "Outside," I say to him.

  "Are you saying what I think you're saying, you degenerate scumbag?" He says.

  "I'm saying you need to be taught a lesson, old man. No one talks to my lady like that."

  "You are unbelievable," he sputters. More eyes turn toward us, and I can feel the weight of their condescending glares all over me. The old man can feel it, too, and it's not sitting nearly as well with him as it is with me. It's a sensation that's goading him into a situation that he knows is trouble.

  "You're stalling," I say. "What's the matter, old man? You can talk a big game, but when it comes time to perform, you can't get it up?"

  "This is unacceptable. I'm getting the usher and I'm going to make them deal with you," he says, standing. Then he looks throughout the row, and not seeing anyone, starts toward the lobby. Probably to corral some unlucky ticket taker to do his dirty work.

  I let him get halfway to the door before I get up and follow. I'm not done with him.

  Once he passes through the doorway, I pick up speed and catch up with him ten steps into the empty lobby of the concert hall. Everyone's inside watching the show. It's just him, me, and some teenager standing in some booth by the door.

  The old man starts toward the ticket taker, his eyes locked on the unfortunate teenager like a lion stalking a gazelle. The fingers of his right hand wiggle in excited anticipation. This probably isn't the first time this old bastard has thrown a fit at this concert hall.

  As I glance at the ticket taker, a flash of recognition goes through the teen's eyes and his complexion pales. No, it’s definitely not the first time.

  I follow.

  "Time to sort this out, you old bastard," I say and I grab him by the ear, stopping him halfway through the lobby. I twist, pull, and lead him to the doors to the parking lot.

  "Young man, release me this instant," he mewls. "This is unacceptable."

  My eyes meet the ticket taker's and a moment of understanding passes between us: take it outside and there will be no problem.

  "No, I don't think I will," I say as I shove open the door and wrangle the struggling, red-faced man out onto the asphalt. "Because then you won't learn your lesson."

  Once we're outside, I release his ear and he spins off-balance and takes a swing at me.

  It misses wide, and I retaliate with a light punch to his considerable gut. Fat jiggles beneath my fist like a bathtub full of Jell-O in an earthquake.

  "You ungrateful shit! You don't know who you're messing with," he gasps. "I'm going to call the police. I'm going to sue you. You're going to be sorry you ever laid your hands on me."

  I laugh.

  The man looks at me, his eyes filled with rage, and he charges.

  I sidestep him and track his movement, keeping him in front of me.

  He turns and lunges at me and I duck under his arms, then hit him with several quick punches that leave a satisfying amount of blood on my knuckles. The man gasps, and then, before he can recover, I slip behind him and loop my arm around his neck, cinch it tight into a choke, and pull him to my chest.

  He's trapped.

  "You're fucking pathetic," I say into his ear. "Talking to a woman like that. Insulting her. You think you can just get away with it? That no one will show you up for being the limp-dicked old fool that you are?"

  "Let me go," he gasps. Even helpless like this, he's still arrogant, still sounding like he's superior, like I should grovel at his feet and beg forgiveness. I hear in his voice the same tone I heard in Alexander's when he confronted me that summer night four years ago. The same tone that told me I'm worthless, I'm nothing, that I don't deserve to breathe the same air as someone like him, as someone like Madison. The same superior tone he used as he told me my choices were to leave town immediately or watch him burn my life to the ground.

  Rage overcomes me—rage at him, rage at Alexander—and I squeeze his throat tight. He struggles, sputters, his face coloring first pink, then red, then purple.

  "Let you go? I should choke the life from you. You're never going to learn, you're never going to change, you're always going to be a fucking arrogant bastard. So what's the point of letting you live?"

  My grip tightens; he begins to go limp.

  I'm going to kill him.

  Murder him, right here in front of this concert hall, where Madison is sitting inside, waiting for me, probably worrying about me, that I'll do this very thing that I'm about to do. I can only imagine the disappointment and fear in her heart. Can I do that to her? Can I hurt her again, no matter how good it might feel in the moment?

  All the rage keeps my grip tight. It screams at me to hold on just a little longer, until this asshole's pulse stops thumping beneath my fingertips. This man is just enough like Alexander that this dark impulse inside me screams to punish him the same way I want to punish Maddy’s fiance.

  But I can't do it.

  I can't hurt her like that.

  With a scream, I let go.

  He slumps, hits the pavement. He lands ass-first, then he sprawls forward into a puddle, face down.

  With my foot, I move him onto his side so he doesn't drown.

  For a moment, I look down at him and wonder if I've done enough. Even though I've decided not to kill him, I don't know if he's really learned a lesson. It’s not good enough that I’ve strangled him, if he wakes up and stays the same condescending asshole as he was before.

  Some time passes while I contemplate the unconscious man. How long, I don't know, but enough time that the teenager in uniform comes to the door and stands just outside the confines of the concert hall, watching in curiosity.

  Maybe he knows what I'm thinking.

  Maybe he's urging me to do it, to do what he's probably fantasized about on more than one occasion—give this bastard a taste of his own medicine in a way he’ll never forget.

  But should I? Is it the right way to teach this asshole a lesson or is there something better I should do?

  Then I get my answer, though it comes slowly: the Emperor's New Clothes. Well, not exactly that version. My version has nothing to do with some fairy tale written by some dead old guy. Mine's the animated version about an emperor who gets turned into a llama to learn a lesson in humility. As the son of a single dad who spent most of his days slaving away in a mechanic's shop just to afford our meager life, movies and TV shows were an outsized portion of my upbringing. At least until I was old enough to help my dad out in his shop, then my life was torque wrenches, oilcans, and working so late I could barely keep my eyes open while doing my homework. My teachers would constantly berate me about oil smudges on the papers I turned in, but as long as I turned them in and tried my best, my dad didn't give a shit what grades I got.

  I snap my fingers. I know—this old man needs an outfit change. Something to teach him to tone his prickishness down a notch.

  I strip him.

  Strip him down to his bare skin.

  Then I use my knife to cut his fancy pants, shirt, underwear, and suit jacket into shreds.

  The teenager lets out a muted 'Holy shit.'

  I look right at him. "Hey kid, anyone asks, you going to say you saw anything?"

  "Nothing except that I saw some weird old guy wandering around naked."

  "There any security cameras in there? Anything that'd catch my face?"

  "They're just for show. Except for the one over the register at the lobby bar. That one records, but it's aimed right at the register cause the owner's a cheapskate and thinks we steal."

  "Good. Now, kid, this old bastard is going to wake up in a bit and call the cops. If they give you shit, if they really get on you and threaten you to give a statement, just give it. Don't wreck your life to protect me. I know what I'm doing here."

  "Whatever."

  He leaves to return to his spot in the lobby, though he casts a satisfied glance at the naked, unconscious man as he closes the door behind him.

  I allow myself a moment to savor the view, too. Not this man’s splotchy, flabby ass or his bulging belly, but the mud and grime and blood smeared on his face. Even if it doesn't last, he's going to wake up and know that he's worthless. He'll feel the way everyone like him has tried to make me feel my whole damn life.

  That's worth it.

  That is justice.

  I feel it in my soul, feel how satisfying it is, and how I can’t wait to do the same to Alexander.

  Smiling, I adjust my clothes, wipe some of the blood off my knuckles, run my fingers through my hair, and head back inside. As I enter the auditorium, eyes turn and look at me. They narrow, they squint, they peer into me.

  They see the truth: I don’t belong here. Never have, never will.

  No matter what I wear or how I act.

  Not like her.

  These events, in places like this, with people like these, things that are so important to her, will never welcome me.

  I'll always be an outsider. A mechanic's son, a criminal, an outsider. Someone who, no matter how much he tries, will always have a timer hanging over his relationship with that stunning, green-eyed girl.

  Because we're too different.

  Even all the ransom money in the world couldn’t paper over the differences between us.

  At some point, Madison’s going to want more than I can give her. More than just love. She’ll want those things that bring her happiness and fulfillment. Things like the symphony, museums, opera halls, fancy bars.

  And then, in trying to mix my world with hers, she’ll end up getting hurt.

  I can’t let that happen.

  As I approach our seats, I try to cover my pain with a smile. I see Maddy watching me with eyes that beam with love and profound sadness. Watching me with calculating eyes that see the truth.

  We’re too different to last.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Madison

  When I look at him, I just know.

  It hits me with the potency of undeniable truth.

  It's in everything about him and everything around us, from the darkly satisfied look in his eyes, the unhidden blood on his knuckles, and the way the air just changes in a deeply wrong way that tells me that our time together is fast drawing to a close. It isn't just how different we are, it's how I know neither of us can change enough to truly belong in the other's world.

  We'll never quite fit. There will always be something about us that's just a little offset, a little wrong, and that will never change. Because neither of us can make that large a sacrifice. So someone, him, me, the people we love, or everyone, will inevitably get hurt.

  It’s as clear as the solution to the most basic math problem. As simple as ‘A squared plus B squared equals Jackson is my soon-to-be ex.’

  The second our eyes meet, I know he knows, too.

  It shines clear as daylight in the sadly sweet smile he gives me, the kiss that burns with just a little extra passion, as if he's fighting with all his heart to cling to something that's running through his fingers like grains of sand. A long goodbye.

  Our end is fast approaching.

  The conductor waves his wand, drawing a final, mournful crescendo from the band, and then, with a flourish, fills the air with ringing silence.

  The audience stands and applauds.

  I reach for Jackson's hand. Squeeze it. Feel some of the slickness of the blood on his knuckles and suppress the urge to flinch.

  "Shall we go?"

  "You don't want to stay a little longer?" He says. He sounds reluctant. Not that I blame him for wanting to preserve this moment. It's one of the last in our attempt at a fantasy: that we could ever really work as a couple. "Isn't it improper or whatever to leave while everyone's still applauding?"

  It is, but I can't stand the sound of celebration that fills the surrounding hall. It's too discordant with what echoes in my heart.

  "No. They'll be clapping for a while, and it's just tiresome," I say. A disbelieving look crosses his face and my brain scrambles, grabbing hold of a clumsy metaphor. One that I know he'll understand. I also know he's too inexperienced with going to these types of concerts to even question me. "It's like in a sports game, baseball or whatever, when you know your team's won, but the game isn't over. It's okay to leave then, so you get out early to beat the traffic."