Page 27 of Sing For Us

Noa

“Oliver, what’s the ETA on the cleaning crew? Over.” I ask him while watching Lana like a hawk. She is barefoot and checking for glass.

“Twenty minutes out. Do you want one of us to come? Over.”

“Let Josh come. Over.”

“He’ll be there in less than fifteen minutes.” I close the communication with Oliver. I grab my machete and check my pockets to see if all my knives are still there. They are. But there is one small detail I need to take care of before my crew arrives.

Lana motherfucking Osmanovic.

She checks her rifle, and then she admires our teamwork. Once she is done, she heads for the door. Wait, she is leaving? I don’t fucking think so. I grab one of my knives and throw it at her. The knife slides atop her head—barely grazing her. But enough to make a statement.

She turns around, and there is fury in her eyes. Her pupils are dilated sharply, making her eyes dark, bottomless voids. And just as empty as her soul.

“How did you do that?” Her question catches me off guard, but I stay steady. This might be another manipulation tactic. I study her face, and I don’t read any lies. Maybe she genuinely wants to know? And I would be a terrible person if I didn’t tell her. Or show her.

“You think I am going to teach you anything?” I ask her incredulously. She points her rifle at me.

“If you think a rifle is going to scare me, you are mistaken.” My hand slowly reaches one of my knives behind my back while she is focused on my face. “I am not going to tell you how I did that.”

“You fucking ass-“

I cut her off, and I look at her arm for one second. Squinting my eyes and determining which place I want to graze. “I am going to show you.” My hand clasps around my knife, ready for a demonstration. I take a deep breath, and as I am throwing my knife, I exhale and plant my feet firmly on the ground.

That’s how you throw a knife precisely. And practice.

The shiny object grazes her left arm, and she lets go of her rifle for just one second, and I utilize that. In a split second, I run towards her, and now I am standing in front of this menacing woman. My hands fly towards her rifle, and I grab it. She doesn’t dare to look in my eyes and keeps them focused on my grip on her weapon. I let her have her moment and bask in her struggle.

“Getting tired, Lana?” I am patronizing her and hoping she takes the bait—and she does. She looks up at me, and I am mesmerized, again. While her eyes shone with innocence before shit hit the fan, they are wallowing in rage now.

“Not a chance.” She sounds so cold, keeping her voice even. I can see why she has pulled off deceiving me for so long. Lana is dangerous. I tug the rifle towards myself, and with that, her body inches closer to mine. I don’t only see the beads of sweat on her forehead; I can smell them. Her usual vanilla scent is replaced with wood scents. Her knee is touching mine, and this proximity is dangerous. My heart rate is back up again, and I am breathing through my mouth.

While we are struggling for the rifle, our eyes are locked on each other. Not willing to let go of the weapon, and of each other. Her demeanor can be interpreted as steady, but the slight trembling of her lips, the bobbing of her vein in her neck, and the flickering of her eyes give her away. She is still affected by me. By us. But one thing remains true: she betrayed me, and I can’t let go of that. A coldness washes over me, and I lock in.

“Have it your way then,” I tell her through gritted teeth. I kick her in the kneecap and yank the rifle away. She doubles down onto the floor, holding onto her stomach. Weirdo.

I point the rifle towards her. “We still have some unfinished fucking business, Lana.”

“You don’t say,” she scoffs. Lana looks up at me, whilst still holding onto her stomach.

“I am going to make you suffer for what you did to me,” I respond.

“You can’t hurt me anymore than you did.” I can see that she is still not over this bullshit of me killing her father. I roll my eyes.

“You,” I clock the rifle and aim it at the spot on her arm where my knife barely grazed her. “are going to fucking listen to me.”

“No.”

“Just what I thought.” I shoot at her arm, and the bullet leaves a flesh wound. She puts her right hand on her left arm and groans.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” she yells me as she is starting to stand up. I cock the weapon again. I place the tip of the rifle on her forehead and make a tsk-sound.

“The next one is going to go through your skull if you don’t stay down.” The order isn’t something to be stewed upon; she must follow it if her life is precious to her. Her compliance is immediate, and I want to smile. I crack my neck and take a couple of steps back until I am three meters away from her. She keeps her eyes focused on mine, while I admire her willingness to listen to me.

Time to have some fucking fun.

“You are going to crawl to me, brat.” My order makes her lips press into a thin line. She is seething, but that’s not my problem.