Mr. CEO(123)

We get to the loft, and Nathan leads me upstairs, carrying my backpack for me. He has to jimmy the lock, but it doesn't take him long. He looks around, nodding in appreciation. “Not a lot, but I've lived in worse. You gonna be okay?”

“I'll live,” I reply, going over to Katrina's bed and lying down. “Maybe later...maybe I'll give you a call.”

“I'll be in touch. And don't worry about the landlord, I'm sure we can work something out with him, too,” Nathan tells me. He leaves, shutting the door behind him. I can smell her on the pillow underneath my head, and as I fall asleep again, I cling to her essence, treasuring it.



“Jackson...”

I sit up, hearing her voice, surprised. “Katrina?”

She comes in from out of the darkness, a little smile on her face and wearing her skirt, but without her sandals, her bare feet whispering on the wood flooring of the loft. “Yes, it's me. How'd you sleep?”

“I had the most horrible dream,” I say, getting off the bed and moving over to hug her. “You wouldn't believe how terrible it was.”

“Well, that doesn't matter now. So are you ready?”

“Ready for what?” I ask, confused. Katrina laughs softly and ruffles my hair, smiling.

“For our big day tomorrow, silly,” she says, holding up her finger with the glittering diamond ring on it. “You know, we're getting married?”

I feel a stupid grin break out on my face, and I shake my head. “I must have slept harder than I thought. Or maybe I'm still sleeping.”

Katrina laughs and kisses me, her lips so soft and perfect. “Don't worry, I'll always be with you.”

I step back, and look into Katrina's eyes. “I love you, Katrina. From the time I was twelve, you’ve been the one. I want...”

A knock at the door interrupts me, and Katrina steps back, fading into the darkness of the loft. I want to follow her, but for some reason, my feet won't move. Just before the shadows swallow her, she raises her hand, palm up to me. “I'll always be with you...”

“Katrina, don't go!”

“Don't go!” I yell, sitting up, sweat pouring off my body. I'm alone, but the knocking continues, and I realize someone's trying to get me to open the door. “Go away!”

“Oniichan, it's me,” I hear, and I get off the bed, going over and opening the door. Andrea is there, and I notice that it's raining, hard. “Can I come in?”

“Of course,” I tell her, sort of ushering her inside. She's dripping wet, and I wonder where her umbrella is. Then I realize knowing Andrea, who tends to be her own woman no matter what, she probably rode over here on the Honda scooter she bought a year ago. I glance outside, and my suspicions are confirmed, the distinctive funky tubular frame and dual headlights making it stand out in the downpour. “Why'd you bring the scooter?”

“It didn't start raining until I was halfway here,” Andrea explains, twisting out her long hair over the sink in the kitchen area. “When Nathan told me where you were, I didn't take the time to read the weather report.”

“Why'd he tell you where I am?” I ask, instantly suspicious.

Andrea sighs and gives me a look before finishing twisting out her hair and then whipping it back. “I'm dripping wet, soaked to the skin, and to be honest, cold as hell since I had a whipping case of wind chill from riding over here as fast as I could. You mind if I at least dry off a little bit and maybe get something to prevent hypothermia before you start the interrogation?”

That's my Andrea, sweet and supporting one minute, sarcastic and bitchy the next. I nod and look around, realizing that I have no idea where Katrina even kept her towels. I go over to the cheap dresser and open the top drawer, trying not to cry again as I see the single sports bra inside, and a pair of red panties that I for some reason know were from the night we got together in the limo. There's nothing else, she packed and took it all with her in that backpack. I close the drawer quickly and pull open the next one, and can't take anymore. Inside is the pair of black drawstring martial arts pants that she wore when she was relaxing or working out, and I walk away, leaving the drawer open.

The lights deeper in the loft aren't on, but I can see the post in the middle that Katrina had wrapped in padding and tires, and I punch, letting my rage and sadness out. It's not enough, and I punch again, the pain of my knuckle smashing against the unforgiving tire rubber helping a little. Another punch, and another punch, each blow letting me vent my emotions. I feel something split on my hand, and it helps more, so I punch harder and harder. I'm gasping, crying, sobbing maybe, but I keep hitting the tires until I can't anymore, and then I punch a few more times before I drop to my knees. The lights overhead turn on, I guess Andrea's found a light switch somewhere, and I see that the tires in front of me are glistening, dark with my blood, and I drop my head, puking at the horror of the image in my mind of Katrina's head exploding as the last bullet blew out the back of her skull.

Andrea comes over, kneeling next to me, and rests a tiny hand on my back. “It's okay, Jackson. I'm here for you, too.”

“Why?” I sob, my stomach turning again before I retch. There's nothing inside anymore, just hot, burning stomach juices that barely splatter out. “Why, Andrea?”