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“Roller, please, think about this,” Desna begs, but Roller hears none of it. Gun jammed into her cheek, he steels himself from looking into those brown eyes that makes him weak.
Desna just had to be nosy, had to snoop into his affairs instead of playing her role and keeping quiet. It’s because of her and Virginia that he had gotten shot in the shoulder, held hostage by some crazy swamp bitch and her awful pubic hair artwork, kicked out of his spot in the pharmacy and barely covered his tracks involving his ties to the Russians. If Desna and her crew of old hags could sift through his secrets in less than 24 hours, what would become of him if Uncle Daddy got a hold of the truth?
Blood is thicker than water, but Uncle Daddy won’t take betrayal and going behind his back lightly.
Roller might as well kill himself while he’s at it; shoot Desna then shoot himself. He dies for real, doesn’t have to put up with the Russians, and by the time their bodies are found Uncle Daddy would assume he killed himself to be with Desna out of some star-crossed lovers bullshit and deem him a passionate tragic hero. At least until she gets a hold of Uncle Daddy and tells him his connections. At least he won’t be around to deal with the consequences.
Desna’s begging fades into white noise; he’d let her get her way too many times. Let her manipulate him, made him believe she really loved him and would wait for her man to come home through thick and thin.
He grips the gun tighter thinking about her kissing that man, like they didn’t make love the night before. Like he didn’t make her cum more times than he could count with his tongue, fingers, and nerve-wracking patience.
He was a fool; that night, he really thought he could make it work with Desna; he would forgive her, they would work on making their relationship stronger and what happened between them and Virginia would’ve been a distant memory they’d pretend never happened. When he watched her sleeping figure as the sun creeped through the blinds, his fingers tracing her silky-smooth skin, he, just for a moment, wanted to stay in that space forever. He wanted to be have moments like this more often.
It was that night he realized he loved Desna more than he loved himself.
He saw a future in her that he daydreamed about whenever he visited his nieces: him and Desna, with children of their own, laughing and playing while Desna looks on calmly from their castle over the sea. He thought about extravagant trips to Paris with Desna in tow, the two spending nights naked and satisfied in luxurious villas well into the afternoon.
He thought about marrying her at one point, being an honest man and putting a rock as big as her head on her finger, just like Uncle Daddy. He’ll be loyal to Desna and Desna alone. No one would ever take her place or come before her.
If becomes the word circling through Roller’s mind.
If only she hadn’t snooped.
If only she hadn’t tried to kill him.
If only she had been patient and waited.
If only Roller had honored his end of the deal.
Roller thinks about the last thought more often than not, his guilty conscience gnawing at him. Uncle Daddy had always told him a man is as good as his word, however this was the same man who went back on his word several times.
Desna has a mouth to feed: Dean. Despite Roller’s insistence on Dean being put in a home designed for people like Dean, she refuses. She can’t leave her brother behind, she won’t leave her brother behind.
Family is always first.
Desna wasn’t even cut out for this life; she had told him more than once her concerns and despite him telling her she won’t get caught and she’ll be fine, he can’t guarantee. If Desna goes to prison, he can’t guarantee she’ll get out.
But Roller had always told her he’d take care of her. He’d told Desna that he got her, and that was a promise he’d keep. If only she had trusted him, given him the benefit of doubt.
He sold himself to the Russians for her, went behind Uncle Daddy’s back for her, put his neck on the line for her. And this is what he gets in return?
Sliced with a threader, hit with an ashtray, choked underwater, shot, put in a body bag, set on fire, rescued by a swamp woman who tortured and raped him, and now, the woman he loved went snooping around his business and could’ve possibly gotten himself in a much deeper hole.
He’s on so many levels of angry and betrayed that he could just…
He inhales deeply.
The things you do for love.
He didn’t really have much of a plan of what to do with Desna other than to kill her. But could he really do it? And if so, how?
Doing it quick and painless is the least of what she deserves after all she put him through. She deserves to die the way he did; burned alive with a bullet in the shoulder, trapped in a body bag with an uncertain way to get out. He thought about stabbing her to death, right where her heart needs to be. He thought about choking her, watching the life drain from her eyes as he’s the final thing she sees before she drifts off to meet the big man upstairs. He even thought about drowning her, hands wrapped tight around her throat as she struggles.
So many thoughts run through his head until he notices the chandelier accessory hanging from Desna’s rearview mirror and he thinks about Paris.
He thinks about the croissants he never shared with Desna, the Eiffel Tower he’d never get to propose to her under, the lazy afternoons spent lying in the French villas with Desna lying in his arms, and feels a lump forming in his throat.
“We could’ve had Paris,” he says. Desna looks over in confusion.
“We could’ve had Paris.” He runs his thumb over her right hand, lingering on her ring finger before dropping down to his lap.