The After Party (A Badboys Boxset)

by Karr, Kim

  My legs buckled beneath me. “You’re scaring me.”

  “I’m headed outside. I want you in your car and driving—now! Are you at the vehicle yet?”

  The rain was coming down so hard it was whipping against me and it was hard to see. “No, I just turned back.”

  “Reschedule my clients for the day,” I heard him say.

  “I’ll call you when I’m in the car,” I said.

  “No! Stay on the phone with me.”

  My heart was beating erratically. “It’s just ahead.”

  “Okay, keep walking as fast as you can.”

  Panic like I’ve never felt gripped me. I hit the key fob and unlocked the door as fast as I could. “I’m getting inside. What’s going on?”

  “I’ll tell you when you’re safely inside and the door is locked.”

  “I’m in,” I said, my voice nothing more than a whisper.

  “Start driving. I’m outside waiting for you.”

  That woodsy, pine-like smell was still in my car. It was stronger than ever now and it no longer smelled like the outdoors, but more like the expensive aftershave I can remember my father wearing on special occasions. I wanted to gag. I couldn’t stand it.

  Just as my head turned to see what it could possibly be, an arm came around and covered my mouth. Terror plagued me. I tried to scream, but all that came out was a muffled sound. My eyes darted to the rearview mirror. There was a man wearing a black ski mask in my backseat. Icy blue eyes were all I could see.

  Fear assaulted me.

  My pulse started to thunder out of control.

  All I wanted was for my defense mechanism to kick in.

  My heart beat wildly as I figured out what I had to do.

  The phone fell to the ground when I raised my arms to attack. But we weren’t standing, and he had an advantage. As a result, my movements were jagged, not coordinated like they should have been. When I reached back to tear his eyes out, pull his hair, cause any bodily injury I could, he pressed something sharp against my face—a knife. “Don’t move,” he said through gritted teeth.

  I knew better, but I tried to knock the knife from his hand by jabbing my elbow upward. His response was immediate and he pressed the blade harder. Along with pain, I felt warmth tricking down my face. He’d cut my cheek. How bad, I had no idea. Tears leaked from my eyes.

  Then, in a rage, I went a little crazy. My hands going to my cheek, to the roof of the car, reaching behind me. My wild actions were enough to knock the knife from his grip, but in response he started to strangle me. I wasn’t going to be able to get away from him. All my training, all the strength I thought I possessed, and I wasn’t going to be able to fight him off.

  “Elle?” I could hear Logan’s frantic voice.

  My attacker’s hand was no longer on my mouth and I screamed, “Help! Help!”

  In an instant he was covering my mouth again, this time with something thick and cottony. It smelled sweet and I immediately began to feel nauseous.

  Moments later, his mouth was at my ear and I could smell the foul scent of his breath permeating my membranes even through the chemical scent. “‘They said to him, teacher this woman has been caught in adultery, in the very act. Now in the law Moses commanded us to stone such women; what then do you say?’”

  My sounds, although muffled, had to convey my fear.

  “You’re much stronger than your sister. I thought you weaker. I thought I’d only have to hold on to you for a day or so. That all I had to do was convince you of the value of monogamy. I didn’t realize you were snooping into affairs that have nothing to do with you.”

  I shook my head no.

  He tsked. “Don’t lie. He hath punishments for those who dare do so.”

  Again, I shook my head.

  “I overheard your phone call. I know that you were looking around at things that are none of your business,” he said in a whisper.

  I tried to deny it, but nothing came out.

  He removed the cloth from my mouth. “What do you know?”

  “Nothing. I swear. The only thing I care about is Clementine.”

  The cotton was back in my mouth.

  This time my gag reflex was triggered and I tried to push air from my mouth. I didn’t like the sound of his voice at all. It was disguised in some way. It was familiar yet not. It was like he was deliberately trying to change it.

  “You’re the one who’s been calling me,” I tried to say.

  Just then, everything around me became hazy. He let go of his hold on me. I wanted to open the door and run, but it was too dark. I couldn’t see anything. The sound of the rain on the roof of the car seemed to be amplified and I felt like I was drowning, like I was lying on the sidewalk and the water was rushing over me.

  I wasn’t breathing. I gasped and sucked in a breath. Air. I needed air. The window. Could I open it? I tried to find the button on the door, but my fingers wouldn’t move that far. The horn, what about the horn? I should pound my fists against the horn. But my body was sluggish and by the time I placed my hands on the center of the steering wheel and pressed, no sound came out. Wait, I wasn’t pressing; I couldn’t.

  My limp body was like a puppet and he was tugging the strings. I could feel what he was doing, but I couldn’t fight it. He pulled at my coat, took my arm out of it, and then he tore my top. I heard the sound of buttons popping and a cool draft hit my shoulder. I heard the familiar sound of a wrapper being torn, the flick, flick of nails against plastic, and then smelled the all-too-familiar scent of Band-Aids.

  It was the nightmare of my mother’s diabetes all over again, except I wasn’t diabetic and he was going to give me insulin.

  In a hopeless attempt, I tried to move away. I couldn’t.

  The needle plunged into my arm. It felt cool as the liquid swooshed through my veins, and then in the next moment I felt like I was falling. Falling into a deep, dark hole.

  My father’s face flashed before me. “You’re so weak!” he yelled.

  And this time I couldn’t argue with him, because he was right.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  LOGAN

  As the crow flies, Beacon Hill was only a hop, skip, and a jump from Dorchester Avenue.

  At the most, it was ten miles.

  Given Boston traffic, it was going to take me fucking forever to get to her, and in the pit of my stomach I knew I didn’t even have five minutes.

  Black rose petals.

  They meant dread.

  That was all I knew.

  A chill ran down my spine, my stomach lurched, and my pulse skyrocketed. I hoped I could reach her in time. But as soon as I stepped out the door, I knew I was fucked.

  The sky was dark, black clouds circling overhead, and the rain was pouring down like sheets of ice. It was fucking hailing out and the temperature was dropping by the minute.

  Her sharp, agonizing scream echoed in my head and I ran as fast as I could to my vehicle. Just as I started it, the passenger door whipped open.

  Fuck!

  My gun wasn’t on me. It was locked in my desk drawer back in the office and my other one was in the glove box right in front of where . . . my father was now sitting.

  “Pop.” I blinked in surprise.

  He pounded the dashboard. “Go, go, go!” he yelled.

  My hands gripped the steering wheel. My heart thundered and I pressed on the gas full power. “Call the cops,” I ordered.

  “No, we can’t do that, son.”

  Of course, he was right. Who knew which cops would be dispersed and whose payroll they were on?

  I wove in and out of the traffic, the cars moving at a snail’s pace with their hazard lights on.

  “Watch it!” my father yelled.

  Suddenly, I skidded to a stop at the traffic light and the burning red circle seared into my brain like a hot poker. I was being way too emotional to think this through tactically. The jerk and skid checked my emotions, though, and focused me on the task at hand—getting to E
lle.

  In one piece.

  “Where are you headed?” my father asked.

  “The boutique,” I managed.

  The urgency in his voice told me he must have heard me on the phone with Elle. “Take the back way to Ashmont Street and then cut through the small alley to get to Neponset Avenue.”

  I nodded. “Call Declan—tell him someone grabbed Elle in her car. She’s in the Mercedes and it was parked . . . fuck,” my throat was tightening, “I don’t fucking know where she was parked.”

  My father pulled out his cell.

  “And tell him to get a hold of Miles,” I managed to say even though my throat was almost fully constricted now.

  “Declan, are you at the coffee shop?” he said. “Okay, we have a problem . . .”

  Elle’s cries echoed in my head and I found myself driving blindly through the haze.

  “Logan, turn here!” my father yelled.

  Fuck. Pay attention, asshole, I told myself. I took a right and then an immediate left and got my head back in the game.

  “He’s out looking for her now and Miles is on his way. They’ll both probably beat us there.”

  I laid on the horn at the slow traffic in front of me. “Move, move, move.”

  “Go up on the sidewalk, get around the cars, and take the next right. That will get us to 93 faster in this traffic.”

  My tires climbed the curb and I moved around the cars on the pavement until I got to the turn he’d told me to take. “What are you doing here?” I finally asked as I swerved around the bend in the road and went over the railroad tracks somewhere in Boston I’d never ventured.

  He spoke calmly and rationally. Nothing like me. “Logan, I don’t know what you’ve been up to but I know whatever it is, it’s dangerous. I heard the terror in your voice from my office and followed you. Now tell me what’s going on.”

  I chanced a single glance toward him. “That’s just it, Pop, I don’t have a fucking clue what just happened. She told me she’d found black rose petals on her back step this morning and a sinking sensation hit me like a ton of bricks. A story Gramps told me.”

  “Yeah, they were the calling card of the Savin Hill Gang back in Mickey’s short heyday. Left as a warning.”

  Ring. Ring.

  It was my cell, and the name Miles flashed across my dash. I pressed the accept button on my steering wheel. “Tell me you’re there. That you’ve found her.”

  “No, I’m in Beacon Hill though. Her vehicle isn’t anywhere outside the boutique. Declan’s on foot combing the side streets, I’m almost to the end of Charles, and then I’ll start looking in the parking lots. Listen, Peyton saw Declan and wanted to get him out of the rain. He had to tell her Elle was missing and now she’s near hysteria. What do you want me to tell her?”

  “Fuck!” I slammed the steering wheel.

  My father’s voice filled the car. “Miles, let’s not say anything right now until we figure everything out, but she shouldn’t be anywhere alone.”

  “Yeah, I agree. I’ll tell her to lock up the boutique and go to Mulligan’s Cup. The streets are a ghost town, but Declan said the café was packed. She should be safe there.”

  It was odd listening to the conversation, because the one thing about the Irish Mob that had really changed over the years was that they never made a move in public. The days of shootouts in public places were over. Not enough police protection. Not enough men in their pockets. Therefore, Miles’s plan for Peyton was a good one.

  “Keep in touch,” my father told him, “And we’ll call when we’re closer.”

  “Roger that,” Miles said and hung up.

  The familiar blue and red sign for Interstate 93 was just ahead. That meant less than eight miles to get to her, but it could have been the entire two-hundred-mile distance of 93, which ended in St. Johnsbury, Vermont, that I had to travel because the traffic on the highway was at a complete and total standstill.

  “Fuck!” I cried out.

  The sigh from my father told me he felt the same. “Turn around and go back to Dorchester Avenue.”

  “It was worse there.”

  “We’ll double back to Washington Street and then over to Blue Hill Avenue.”

  “That’s at least ten miles out of the way.”

  “Logan, trust me, son, it will get us there faster.”

  I threw the car in reverse and looked backwards as I zoomed the wrong way off the on-ramp. I felt raw and nervous inside in a way I never had. Back on the road, I hit the gas, spraying water, speeding to the corner, and turning left so fast that I almost fishtailed up Washington Avenue.

  My father gripped the handle above the door but said nothing else.

  I kept control of the Rover and when the light ahead turned red, I hit the gas and powered through the intersection.

  Nothing was going to stop me from finding Elle.

  Not now, not ever.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ELLE

  The sun was shining.

  Clementine was chasing me through a field of dandelions as fast as she could.

  “Mommy,” she called. “Please slow down, I can’t keep up.”

  I was in front of her, trying to get away. I couldn’t slow down. I wanted to be with her but I knew I shouldn’t.

  “Please, please, Mommy, don’t leave me.”

  My heart stung and I turned around. I couldn’t stand it and I had to comfort her. To explain to her it was safer for her not to be with me. I bent down and picked a dandelion and handed it to her. “Blow, just blow,” I said. “And everything will be okay.”

  She took it and blew on it, but still she wouldn’t stop crying. Although I knew better, I reached my hand out for her to take, but instead of feeling her smooth, baby-soft skin, I touched something damp, gritty. Dirt. The ground. Sand. I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that I wasn’t in a field and a hammer was pounding against my brain.

  I tried to move but couldn’t. It was as if my arms and legs weren’t attached to my body. Chemical fumes stung my nose. I was aware I was somewhere, I just didn’t know where. I couldn’t see anything but that retched blackness.

  With all my might, I concentrated harder. Slowly, my consciousness was coming back.

  Something was around my eyes, but it wasn’t thick enough to prevent me from making out shapes. Trees. Flowers, maybe.

  The smell of chemicals was everywhere in the air.

  I could hear noises. Water running, maybe.

  A figure stepped toward me.

  I didn’t dare even try to move now.

  “I think she’s waking up, Father. What do you want me to do with her?” an unfamiliar voice said.

  “I’m not ready for her to begin her repentance yet. Keep her quiet so I can concentrate.”

  That was the voice I’d heard in the car. I‘d heard it before. I still couldn’t place it.

  “Why don’t you use the same sermons you prepared for her sister?”

  “She’s not a drug addict. We don’t have to take her through withdrawal to repent for the unholy sins she committed on her body.”

  “What about her adultery? Perhaps you could use the lessons you already designed to atone for the sin of adultery.”

  “Enough! She’s not an adulteress—yet. My goal is to prevent her from becoming one. I need some time to think. Her repentance must be unique to her.”

  Was I in church? What was going on? I started to squirm. Tried to scream.

  “Give her another injection so she doesn’t get away from you like her sister.”

  My sister. He had taken my sister?

  Frantic and scared, I scraped at the ground beneath me. My hands were tied together, but still I tried to heave myself up. I wasn’t weak. I did know how to defend myself. I could take him . . . if I could just figure out which way was up and which was down.

  Before I could distinguish direction, that horrible Band-Aid smell was back in the air and I heard a flick, flick.

  “No, please no,” I pl
eaded.

  With a yank of my hair, whoever was beside me sat me up. “Shut the fuck up or you won’t like what I do to you.”

  “Leave her alone. I told you I don’t want you to touch her. You’d be mindful yourself to recite your own lessons and repent for your own weaknesses.”

  “Yes, Father.” His tone had completely changed to subordination.

  “Let me hear it,” that familiar voice ordered.

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now.” I heard a slam and flinched.

  Fingers crept to the back of my neck and I was left hanging there by my hair. “‘To preserve you from the evil woman, from the smooth tongue of the adulteress. Do not desire her beauty in your heart, and do not let her capture you with her eyelashes; for the price of a prostitute is only a loaf of bread, but a married woman hunts down a precious life. Can a man carry fire next to his chest and his clothes not be burned? Or can one walk on hot coals and his feet not be scorched?’”

  “Very good, now remember that.”

  My body slammed against the ground as the one holding me dropped me like I was nothing more than a child’s stuffed animal. “Now, be a good girl and stop moving around,” he hissed low in my ear.

  Good girl.

  My mother used to say those words to me when my father was on a rampage. It was her coping mechanism. I didn’t understand it then, but in later years I did. It was the only way she knew how to deal with my domineering father. She couldn’t fight him; all she could do was try to make me understand that if I followed the rules I would be better off. “Now, Gabrielle, be a good girl and finish your peas and you won’t have to sit here all night. Now, Gabrielle, be a good girl and be brave; it will be over before you know it. Now, Gabrielle, be a good girl and don’t cry. You know he wants you to be tough.”

  I wanted to scream. I hated those two words. I didn’t listen then and I wasn’t going to listen now.

  I squirmed and flailed my body. He yanked my shirt up, exposing my bra to the cool air. Vomit got stuck in my throat. His fingers were on my stomach and he was pinching the skin. I didn’t whimper. Instead I tried to fight him off, but I knew it was hopeless.