Mariana sat on the bed, her tears flowing freely. The events of the past few hours had left her completely overwhelmed.
She didn't want to be touched by any man in that way. She respected herself more than anyone else. But nothing troubled her more than the unsettling feelings she had for Calum.
It was too much to bear. She was scared, traumatized, and perhaps, in love.
This situation wasn't as simple as it seemed. She felt like she was falling in love, a feeling she never knew existed within her.
She couldn't blame her heart for feeling something for Calum. What he had done in that situation had deepened her trust in him.
"Is this love? Or maybe just infatuation? I don't know, I've never known what love is or what it feels like. I hope this isn't it. I really hope," she whispered to herself.
Her mood shifted as she wiped away her tears.
She had a fiancé, a kind, responsible man who she knew was searching for her, worrying about her even now. She felt like a traitor, unable to feel any affection for him. Now, she was thinking she was in love with another man, a man she shouldn't trust, a man she barely knew.
She hated herself for thinking she didn't love her fiancé. She didn't want to believe that she had only accepted his proposal because she didn't know how to say no and lacked the courage to break his heart.
She wondered why, why every time life brought her happiness, time seemed to steal it away. She wanted to go back to the time before all this happened. She wished she had never remembered her appointment. Maybe if that had happened, she wouldn't feel this way, like the worst version of herself.
She lay back on the bed, closed her eyes, and her bitter tears fell silently. She didn't care about her messy appearance – her ripped dress, wet face, heart filled with questions, and mind plagued by torturous thoughts.
She just wanted to cry.
One bullet struck the fake man standing thirty meters away from Calum. He aimed for the heart, and the bullet flew true, following its intended path. It was a high-tech shotgun designed to function as a semi-sniper.
"Bravo!"
A round of applause echoed across the green hillside.
"You always hit the bullseye, Calum," a voice said.
Calum removed the headphones from his ears and dropped the shotgun to the ground. He walked towards the man in his fifties, who was offering him a bottle of beer.
Calum took the bottle, holding it firmly, and watched as a smile spread across Trae's face.
"You seem pissed off. I can't figure it out, since your face always looks pissed off," Trae chuckled, removing his sunglasses and hanging them around his neck. His dark brown eyes seemed to darken further as the sun shone on them. He was bald, with dark skin, and his muscular physique was bigger and thicker than Calum's, a fact Calum appreciated. He looked like Shaquille O'Neal, but not as tall or large. He looked much younger than his age. His baldness gave him a youthful appearance, hiding any signs of white hairs. Trae Mc'Adams was the closest person Calum had in his life. He had trained him and molded him into the man he was today. This man played a significant role in Calum's life.
"I can't take this shit anymore, Trae," Calum said, his voice laced with frustration. He brushed his forehead with his right hand, placing his left foot on the wooden bench and resting his left elbow on his left thigh. His lips touched the mouth of the bottle as he gulped down the cold beer, holding it with his left hand.
The statement carried a heavy weight, evident in the expression on his face.
"What shit? Is it about the woman?" Trae asked.
Calum nodded curtly in reply, embarrassed to admit it.
"C'mon, buddy, why didn't you kill her in the first place?" Trae asked.
"I don't know. That's probably the hardest question you could ask me right now," Calum said, his teeth gritted in frustration.
"Are you attracted to her?" Trae asked, his voice laced with curiosity.
Calum stared at Trae, taken aback by the question.
"What?" he asked, his voice rising slightly.
"What? I thought why didn't you kill her was the hardest question? Now tell me, are you in love with her?" Trae asked, his eyebrows furrowed, his gaze intense.
Trae laughed when he saw Calum's annoyance.
"I knew, buddy. You're attracted to her, but that's way milder than being in love," Trae said, taking a large gulp of beer before continuing to chuckle.
"I'm not attracted to her, nor in love with her. I won't be, and please stop asking me those bullshit questions. You're making me sick about it," Calum said, his voice firm and serious.
"Is it because you won't be, or you can't be?" Trae asked, his laughter still lingering.
Calum brushed his closed eyes with his right hand, thoroughly annoyed by Trae's relentless questioning.
He wanted Trae to stop laughing for two reasons. First, he wanted a serious conversation with him. Second, he hated Trae's laugh. He could almost see Trae's esophagus because of his huge grin.
"You're making me sick to my stomach, buddy," Calum said, shaking his head as he finished his beer.
Calum stared at Trae, wondering what the real reason was for his laughter. There was no joke he could discern in their exchange. It wasn't always Calum who was so serious during conversations. Sometimes, he realized that being serious was far better than looking happy and foolish at the same time.
"I was so screwed up. One of Crow's new men knew about her," Calum confessed, his voice low.
Trae looked satisfied, but mostly worried.
"How the hell did that happen?!" he exclaimed, his face registering incredible astonishment.
"I—" Calum hesitated, unable to utter the words. He was ashamed to reveal the reason. He knew Trae would laugh his ass off again. But Trae's face was serious now, a result of Calum's confession.
"You're doing some messed-up things in your life, Calum. You can't even answer simple questions right now. You're in a huge, huge trouble. Fix it," Trae said, his voice grave.
"You know Crow well. If he finds out what you did, he won't tolerate you, even if he needs you the most. You need to get rid of that woman. Kill her. You should have done it before," Trae said.
***