"Shit, " My oversized winter sweater landed on a Roman-inspired floor vase instead of the floor. 

I didn't want to ruin anything Marco owned—the feeling of the cool air-conditioned breeze on my bare skin invigorated not only my senses but also my excitement for a proper shower. I was stripping swiftly and carelessly from the foyer to the bedroom suite. Immediately, I turned back; carefully lifting the popcorn sweater off from the overly expensive-looking vase. Throwing it quickly down onto the hardwood-like floor. I continued my work, unclasping, and removing the now-oversized bra as I entered the threshold of the bedroom.

Equal to the size of the living room, the dark grey painted walls accentuated the clean, crisp all-white bedding. With an off-white leather headboard, the king-sized bed had enough pillows displayed for a family of five to sleep with.

I never quite understood the concept of having so many decorative pillows of various sizes—I guessed that it added to the luxury. It made everyday people feel important, such as having titles and abbreviations at the end of the beginning of a name—each pillow making up for a lackluster experience.

This for sure wasn't Marco's doing. "A maid or interior designer, perhaps?"

The contracting theme continued with two, dark-metal nightstands on both sides, a small black plush chair in the corner of the room, and a white crystal chandelier hanging from the semi-gloss white-painted ceiling, dead center of it all.

"A bit too extravagant," I spoke out loud. 

My style was more comfortable rather than appearance—besides, I never quite understood the point of having a chandelier in the bedroom. 

"It's not like I eat dinner here." I shrugged my shoulders as I walked beside the bed and removed the final piece of clothing, my underwear. 

Thankfully, there were only two windows in the bedroom. Both of which had sheer white curtains hanging to the ground, with, tied to the side of each window against some white rope, a pair of grey black-out curtains. I was certain no one could see me at this level.

Each side of the bed had a threshold doorway, one of which, I assumed led to the ensuite bathroom. I entered through the one on the left...

Peeking through the threshold I saw what was not the bathroom, but instead, a massive his-and-her walk-in closet. The south end of the wall was filled with an array of familiar suit jackets, shirts, polos, pants, and ties. Underneath those were shoes of all types, lined up in three rows: Top were dress shoes, the middle was fashion sneakers and summer sandals, and the bottom row displayed all the winter wear, from fur to steel-toe boots. Everything is neatly organized and aligned to an OCD's satisfaction.

The north end of the wall was completely bear with empty, white-colored shelving and more than a few extra black felt hangers hanging from the top row. Automatically, assuming the space belonged to me, I was quite pleased with Marco's decision to leave the area blank—although at times he was known to be quite possessive, he had always understood the boundaries between being a stalker and a demanding ass-hole.

From afar I heard the immediate unlocking and opening of a door. "Speak of the devil," I whispered. It was just about two minutes since he last left, maybe he had forgotten something.

Just as I was walking out of the closet, two unfamiliar voices bickered. "Te escondes en la cocina, me quedo con el dormitorio," one male-sounding voice said.

I immediately crept back into the closet and listened in. The mandatory basic bilingual courses at the police academy came in handy—I understood remedial Spanish when I heard it.

"¿Estás seguro de que volverá?" The other replied.

"You sure he's here," I mentally translated while wondering if they were speaking about Marco.

"La recepción dijo que él solo salió a buscar algo de comida." The first voice continued, "Él debería estar de vuelta en breve. Ahora vete escondete!"

"Reception said he went for food," I thought through. "Something, something, something, back soon, go hide." 

Shit. I knew it wouldn't take them long to realize I was here—especially with my clothes laying all over the apartment. I swiftly glanced around the closet, hoping I could find something that would help me fight off these two intruders. There was nothing but shirts, athletic shoes, and felt hangers—I needed a plan and quick.

The creaking of the hardwood became louder as one of the intruders entered the bedroom.

Fuck me, they have guns. Think, Rebecca. Think.

Without much to do, I slowly walked out of the closet completely naked with my arms in the air.

The moment I stepped out, a 9mm with an attached silencer was pointed to my chest. Surrendering, with both of my hands in the air, I plead. "P-Please don't shoot, I'm... I'm...I'm an escort!"

The man holding the gun stood at about six feet, two inches with a darker tanned complexion, based on his hands and a hand-cut black ski mask over his face. He wore a black leather strapped, off-branded, watch on his left wrist. A dark purple and white striped Adidas jumpsuit, and uncoordinated clean, white, Adidas Superstars.

How he planned to murder someone and not get his white shoes dirty was beyond me.

His light brown eyes scanned my body before speaking, "Quien te envio?"

"Who you sent?" I wondered aloud trying to piece together the grammar. "Who...who... sent me?"

"Si," he demands.

"I...I'm," I continued the response with a shoulder shrug and seemingly innocent smile. "Private."

"Bueno," the intruder's mask creased from the smile he possessed. " You no die, unless..." he came inches away from my face while gradually lowering his gun. The intruder placed his pointer finger and thumb on my chin and lifted it upward. "No Talk."

He stood a bit too close for comfort, but I needed to distract him a bit longer. I needed that gun.

"No move," his fingers slid from my chin to my neck and lower down to my left breast. He clutched it and began to knead it with his palm.

I leaned my head back, pretending to enjoy his allowed foreplay. I brought my eyes up and headed forward as I noticed the rush of lust in his look. This was the moment I was waiting for. I wrapped my arms around his neck, thrusting my body harder into his one-handed grip. I began to slowly squat down and let my hands ease down his chest, followed by his torso. His grip on my breast faded as he obsessed over my next move. I looked up at him as I placed my thumbs on the inside of his elastic jumpsuit waistband, teasing at the possibility.

His smile grew as he used his free hand to slide off his pants. I swiftly snatched the gun from his loosened grip and immediately shot his exposed groin.

"Fuck," ounces of warm blood and small skin particles splattered forward onto my naked torso and neck-thankfully missing my face.

"Hijo de puta!" The intruder screamed as he buckled down to the ground.

I stood up above him and instantly fired two more times, aiming for both sides of his lungs. The increased frequency of his friend's footsteps came to a halt as I pointed the gun directly at the bedroom door.

"Shit," I said as I saw him staring down at his dead friend.

He looked up and stared back at me with anger, fear, and vengeance. Something, I was all too familiar with.

I got closer, walking around the deceased body, while keeping my attention on him. "Bajala!" I commanded.

Before the intruder even had a chance to make a move, I aimed and shot the shoulder side of where he was holding his gun. The similar-made weapon dropped forward as the intruder fell to the ground. I walked up closer to him, kicked the gun away through the hallway with my barefoot, and took aim at the intruder once more.

"Quien te envio?" I asked in the same dialect that was recently just told to me.

He remained silent for the most part, except for keeping his pain-induced moans at bay. I cautiously stepped forward and pulled off the black overhead mask from his face. He was a teenager. Sixteen, maybe, but still a fucking kid.

Damn.

"C'mon, really" I wondered out loud. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"I-I was just trying to help my father," he responded with tears building up. "He said I...I didn't have to do anything."

Of course, my guilt swarmed in as I realized that it was his father that I had killed. Great job Rebecca, you can officially add family destroyer to your resume.

"Who sent you?" I asked again.

He laid there, continuing to moan in pain. From the looks of it, the gun wound wasn't clean, the bullet remained within his shoulder. The poor kid gave me no reason to kill him on the spot—but then again, he did break in to kill, especially with the possession of a weapon.

First-degree attempted murder; that's enough for a five-year juvenile sentence, at best. Arresting him would have been easy; but lately, I've come to realize that the easy way is not always the smartest choice.

I heard the abrupt sound of the entry door once again. Scanning forward, I saw Marco walking in and dropping the brown McDonald's bags onto the floor as soon as he saw my completely naked, blood-splattered body, holding a gun down to a bleeding, moaning teenager on the floor.

"The fuck?" He questioned with confusion and anger in his voice.