by Denise Wells
15
Quinn
There was a time I thought I’d never get enough sleep to feel fully rested. When anxiety riddled my mind with persevering thoughts that kept me awake until the late hours of the night. And when the only decent slumber to be had seemed like the few moments immediately before my alarm went off. Now I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t rested.
Which is not to say that I’m feeling my best and able to act to my fullest potential. I’m so far from that. I’m hungry, thirsty, dirty, exhausted, awake, angered, and defeated. I can’t imagine why I thought being abducted was a good idea. It’s a terrible one. There is nothing remotely enticing about the situation I’m in.
It’s nothing like I’d ever seen on TV. Not that I was including the really bad movies or TV shows when I thought about this. Despite my rules, I at once set aside such scenarios as Silence of the Lambs or anything Ted Bundy related when I imagined being in captivity. And, instead, thought of it more like a forced break from reality that included cable TV and a normal bathroom with running water. Kind of like when they seclude people who are going to testify right before they go to court.
The accommodations aren’t the best or the most comfortable, but at least everything you need is included. But here, well, that’s not the case at all. Minute melds into minute, blending into hour after hour until entire days have passed, and here, I sit. On this drab, threadbare mattress, hoping beyond hope that someone will find me, someone like Reed or Daria. Mack even. Whoever it needs to be to get me out of this and back home again.
I promise to never think of my existence as dull and boring. I won’t ask to be a Dirty Darling any longer. I won’t even work at the bar if Daria doesn’t really want me there. I just want to go back to the way things were however many days ago it was when I was still at home and things were normal. When the direst thing I had to worry about was whether Reed would call the morning after we had sex.
Now I have to worry about things like water and food. Basic survival. All the while hoping no one comes in to force themselves on me. I’ve seen the way the big guy looks at me. I don’t like it. I can’t imagine anyone would. I also have to worry how long I’ve been here. Because while you think it would be easy to gauge the passing of time, it’s really not.
Maybe if I had a window and could see the sun rising and falling, it would be different. But that’s not the case. With no way to mark time as it passes, it’s easy to lose track. Not so much that I think I’ve been here a year or anything. But definitely to where I have no idea if it’s been a week or two. Or as short as a couple days.
Based on the number of meals they’ve brought me, I can make a rough guess that three days have passed. Possibly four. The problem is, I don’t know if I’m being fed multiple times in one day, or once a day. That’s really all it is. All anything is. I don’t know. Maybe things would be different if I did. Or maybe I would feel worse because I would be aware.
At least now I can still pretend it’s only been a day or two since they took me. So of course, Reed hasn’t rescued me yet. He probably barely even realizes I’m gone. But if I’m wrong, and it’s been a week or longer, well, then it means he just doesn’t care enough to rescue me. Or he can’t find me.
And really, what’s worse? That he doesn’t care? Or that he can’t find me?
To be honest, I’m not sure at this point.
I pick at the lingering polish on my fingernails, letting the little flakes fall in my lap and on the mattress around me. So much for fourteen days with no chips. That’s a crock of shit. So is no smudge eyeliner after you’ve been tossed around in a back seat and a van floor, then thrown in a dungeon-type room to fend for yourself. Because, let me tell you, that shit runs like nobody’s business at the first sign of seriousness.
The same with waterproof mascara. Because as soon as I cried more than a little, it was like a black river of muck raining down my cheeks. Hopefully, I’ve rubbed it all off now. I’ve cried enough times to wet my skirt and wash my face to the point where I almost feel one notch down from totally disgusting.
I’ve tried sending telepathic messages to Daria. Just in case she and I are connected on a cosmic level without realizing it. But either I’m totally blocked as an other-worldly communicator, or we don’t share that connection.
When I’m being honest with myself; and not the real honest, but that pseudo honest that is more pretend than reality, that’s when I’m surprised that neither Daria nor Reed have rescued me yet. And that version of honesty is way more palatable than the more realistic honesty that is my current scenario.
I mean, we all do it, right? Have a few different versions of reality that we buy into depending upon the circumstance and just how brutal we want to be with ourselves. Because there’s fake brutal, the woe is me, I can’t believe this is happening. But it’s more for show than anything. You can still watch TV and eat ice cream while hosting your pity party. Maybe even complain to friends, have a few cocktails, wave your arms around while you vent to all four of your walls about the injustice of it all. Whatever that all may be.
Then there’s the real brutal. No blinders, no buffers, nothing to prepare you for what’s coming. The debilitating impact that leaves you breathless and without a foundation to stand on. It’s that shit that sends you to bed, phone off, windows locked, head under the covers, and you barely surface to use the restroom. And even then, that’s only because you don’t want to lay in soiled sheets.
You get it, right? ‘Cause that’s the real I’m in right now. This could be me from here on out—a shell of a person, gutted by the lack of running water and companionship. Am I so simple that’s all it took to break me? Because I sure as fuck feel broken right now.
Even if someone comes for me, and I’m rescued, can I bounce back from this? Is there such a thing as recovery? Who will be the one to piece me back together? The only thing I know for certain is I don’t think I have it in me to do it. And where does that leave me?
And when did I become so weak?
Or have I always been this way?
And if so, what do I bring to the proverbial table, really?
You want the answer?
It’s nothing.
16
Ronan
“Busy day,” Andrei grunts as he enters the study, two hours later than our agreed upon meeting time.
I coolly look at my watch, then at him, brows raised. The other men with him fade back into the shadows of the room, allowing Andrei to take on the full brunt of my anger.
I remain silent, waiting to see how he will excuse himself. The lack of respect his tardiness demonstrates is not tolerable.
Not realizing my mood, or perhaps just ignoring it, Andrei walks to the bar cart and helps himself to a glass of my vodka, taking a large sip that he finishes with a content sigh before taking the chair opposite mine. His legs spread, his posture slovenly.
I look at him coolly and see in his eyes once he realizes the error of his ways, with the lateness in the day, at the same time not having a time machine in which to go back and fix it.
“What time were we set to meet, Andrei?” My tone is calm, but the meaning behind it is anything but. My heavy crystal tumbler hangs from the fingertips of my right hand, with just a trace of vodka left in it. The fingers on my left hand running up and down the arm of the chair lightly. To the casual observer, I probably look as though we are shooting the shit, as the Americans say, and having a light conversation. But to Andrei, who I’ve known for over fifteen years, it means something entirely different.
My fury rarely needs to show itself. When it does, it is deadly.
Andrei swallows visibly before answering. “Two o’clock, boss.”
“What time is it now?”
Several of the men, including Andrei, scramble to answer. “Four o’clock.”
I nod.
“What is four minus two, Andrei?”
“Uh, two?”
“Which means?”
“I’m two hours late?” He says it like a question even though he knows the answer. And I would forgive him if he didn’t also in that same moment sit forward, elbows on knees, and turn to scoff toward the guys behind him, as though this isn’t a big deal. Something he can do whenever he wants. No need to pay attention to detail or authority. I drain the vodka from my glass, then lean toward him and smash the tumbler against his temple. The heavy base protects my hand slightly as the thin mouth of the glass shatters into his skin, cutting him in multiple places, barely missing his left eye.
Andrei slumps in his chair, knocked out cold by the blow.
“Get the fuck out of here,” I roar to the men. “And take this piece of trash with you.” I can’t wait any longer for Daria to heal. I need her to take Andrei out now. The longer he stays in my employ, the weaker I look. I want them all gone. Every last one of these assholes who are out with him, and who returned late as well. I pull a burner phone from my desk and send Daria a message.
UNKNOWN: Up my order to six piroshki. I’m feeling hungry.
It takes a moment before she responds.
UNKNOWN: Six is a good number. Will that satisfy all your hunger?
I type back that it will. Then head upstairs to the bedroom I’m using while I stay here to pull the small pieces of glass from my palm that embedded themselves when I hit Andrei. I don’t always like to do my own dirty work, preferring a degree of separation when possible. Because at this point in my career, I can afford to give myself arm’s length from the law. But even I can’t deny there was something exceedingly satisfying about smashing that crystal tumbler into Andrei’s face. The moment the thinner top rim collapsed from the impact, seeking purchase against the weaker flesh, the battle between the two barely even. In truth, I’m lucky I didn’t slice my palm open. Any damage done to me was worth it after seeing Andrei crumble in his chair. The men behind him failing to hold back their surprise. The new guy more than anyone else.
I know little about him other than Andrei recently brought him on. Supposedly a poach from Viktor Limonov, which doesn’t bother me in the slightest. Anything that I can take from that man I will. I met the new guy for the first time yesterday, but I had a feeling I’d met him before. Or seen him somewhere. Andrei introduced the guy as Rico, but I doubt that’s his real name. He looks to clean to be a Rico. And not clean in a general hygiene kind of way, but more in a legal way.
As far as I’m concerned, this Rico will have limited access to me, my operations, and my knowledge. Andrei has a tendency to act without thinking. For all we know, Viktor Limonov has planted Rico in our organization as a spy. Which means I must test Rico at the same time I do away with Andrei. Maybe I can have Daria and her girls add Rico to their list.
If they are already taking out six of my men, what’s another one? She’s getting what she wants out of the deal, Katya’s killer and her friend’s life spared. Surely her friends one life is worth just as much, if not more, than seven of my low-life traitors.
We’ll make an example of those who have turned against me, and if anyone dares try it again, they’ll be dealt with just as swiftly. A man in my position can’t afford rebellion.
Because if Andrei or any of the men think they can take anything from me, they’ve got another think coming, as the American’s say.
17
Daria
I can tell something is up with Mack. He thinks he’s so closed off and hidden, but really, he’s transparent as glass. At least to me. I have a feeling it’s something to do with his job, since he’s been by my side non-stop since the explosion. And I don’t see how he’s able to do that without having to call in or check-in or something. The FBI usually has a leash on him that is fairly short and tight—even with how much of a lone wolf they allow him to be.
“I can tell you are awake.” I hate how my voice sounds, as though I’m still mostly asleep when really I feel almost awake. “Your eyes keep moving under your lids and your brain is smoking with all the thoughts churning and burning inside.”
He smiles first before looking at me. And my god if that smile doesn’t shoot all the warm and fuzzy feels straight to my heart every time. His eyes open slowly, and I find myself captured in his gaze. Not intentionally, but definitely willingly. “Hey, you got that analogy right,” he teases.
I try to play it off like it’s no big deal, but inside I’m preening with pride. Because I don’t care how smart you are, the English language with all of its homonyms, homophones, idioms, and analogies—it’s confusing as hell. And I get it wrong all the time. So, fuck yes, will I feel good when I’m on point.
“Good morning, beautiful.” He kisses me on the forehead, his breath hot against my skin. He smells like sleep and sweat, but still all male and Mack-like.
“Did you sleep okay?” he asks me at the same time that I ask him. It makes me laugh whenever that happens. But it also makes me happy that we are on the same wavelength so often. He motions for me to speak first.
“As well as can be expected. You?”
“Same,” he says and we kind of stop talking after that. My guess is he’s feeling weird about whatever is going on. And I know that I’m ready to confront him about what’s going on, so he’ll talk to me. And even if I’m not right about something happening with his job, I am right about him acting differently.
“What’s going on, Mack?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re acting weird, you’ve been with me non-stop, you haven’t checked in to work at all.”
“Can’t a guy worry about his woman without her getting all up in his business about it?” He tries to make his voice sound gruff and serious, but I can see the smile behind it. That and the joy in his eyes that I’m awake and complaining once again.
I do my best to level my gaze at him, which is difficult with two blackened eyes and a sore neck. Regardless, it works.
“Fine,” he sighs. “I have to tell you at some point anyway. I took a leave of absence from the bureau after you got hurt.”
I’m not sure how to feel about that. If I should be happy. I mean, of course my initial instinct is relief because if he’s not with the bureau, he can’t affect what I’m about to do. Which I’m sure will be worse than all the things I’ve done before. Combined.
The rational side of me realizes he has to work. I mean, he can’t NOT work, right?
“What will you do for work?” I ask, despite myself.
“It’s just a leave of absence, beautiful. Don’t get your feathers all ruffled for nothing. It’s like calling in sick every day for a few weeks in a row.”
“Can you do that?” I ask.
He chuckles and runs his hands through his hair, trying to fix the bed head. “Well, I did, so I guess so.”
I’m always amazed at how generous the US government is with its citizens. I know some people complain about the bureaucracy—but really, a leave of absence? From a job? That would never happen in Russia. You either have a job or you don’t. There is no in-between like what Mack describes.
“What does this mean?” I ask finally.
“I’m going to take care of you, make sure you get back into fighting shape and all that.”
“So, you come to my house every day and be my nursemaid?” I ask only partially joking. While I like the idea of Mack caring for me, I’m not sure I can really relax enough to let anyone do that unless I’m paying them and can make demands. Like my idea of a hired nurse who can wipe my ass.
I shudder at the thought of Mack and toilet paper going anywhere near there.
“Is the idea of my helping you so horrible?”
“No, no, I was thinking of something else.”
He looks at me skeptically for a moment before continuing, “No concerns about me just moving in.”
That stops me. If I’d been drinking, I would have choked. I’m pretty sure my heart skipped a beat or twelve. And my lungs just quit working altogether.
“Move in?”
“N
ot forever, just until you’re able to move around better on your own.”
“But that’s what nurses are for?”
“Baby, why you want to pay a nurse when I can do it for free. Plus, I guarantee my bedside manner is much better.” He waggles his eyebrows as he says that, making me laugh. Which hurts my ribs and I wince.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yes, just don’t make me laugh.”
“Well, that might be hard given all of my charm and obvious wit.”
I smile at that but refrain from laughing. Barely. Because he makes me laugh all the time, it’s one of the things I love most about him. Just not when I have a broken rib and punctured lung.
“How about if you are there for the charm and wit, but you go home at night and a nurse takes over?” I ask, immediately regretting it when I see the hurt look on his face.
“You don’t think I can handle it?”
“I know you can handle it.”
“Then what’s the problem?” he asks.
We could keep going in loops, or I could just be honest with him. I choose the latter. “There will be personal things you’ll have to help me with, you know.”
“Oh, I know. I excel at sponge baths,” he says suggestively.
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Sweetheart, I did four tours in combat, I can handle a bandage change.”
“Also, not what I mean.”
He looks at me, brows raised.
So, I go for it. “I have to use the restroom.”
“Do you need help getting there?” he asks, standing. Confusing me for a moment.
“No, I mean, I will have to use the restroom.”
“I can help you with that, babe. You embarrassed for me to know you poop? Everyone poops. There’s even a book about it.”
“Okay, and what happens after the poop?”
