Stone Cold Queen: Sick Boys Book 2

by Smoke , Lucy

  “A-are you here to ask me about the girls?” he asks. His eyes flick down to our clothes, no doubt noticing the lack of blue uniforms.

  I can’t speak. Not yet. I glare at him as Abel rounds my side. He takes one look at my face and then turns to the man. “Sit down,” Abel snaps. “You will speak when spoken to.”

  The man blinks. “You can’t talk to me like that,” he replies. “I came here to report a crime. I’m a—”

  “You came here for the reward,” Abel says, interrupting him as he moves across the room. He puts a hand on Sergio’s shoulder and shoves him back into his seat with a rough push.

  “You’re not cops.”

  “No,” I finally find my voice, and it captures his attention. His head swings around, and his eyes widen as I move further into the room, wrapping my hand around the back of the chair across from him and pulling it out to take a seat. “We’re not.”

  There’s a fine tremble in his hands now as he sets one on the table and the other on the back of his chair. “You can’t be in here, then,” he says bravely. “I-I only came in here to do some good. You can’t treat me like a criminal.”

  “I can treat you, however, the fuck I want,” I inform him. I force calmness into my tone. When all I’m really feeling is a rage so hot, it threatens to burn me alive from the inside out.

  My gaze settles on Sergio, watching his eyes dart from me to the door to the camera in the corner and back again. Sweat beads collect at the top of his forehead, right at his hairline. I don’t look at Abel as I speak.

  “Lock the door,” I order.

  “What?”

  No one looks at the man as his eyes widen. Abel walks to the door and turns the lock.

  “Turn off the camera,” I command.

  The camera is shut off, and as soon as the blinking red light goes dead, I reach into my pants and withdraw my pocket knife—the same one I’d given to Avalon that night at Corina’s party. I squeeze it between my fingers.

  “W-what are you going to do with that?” Sergio asks. His eyes dart to Abel as my friend rounds the table and stands behind him once more. Likely to make sure he stays put.

  “Don’t look at him,” I say. “Look at me. I’m the one you should be worried about.”

  “Y-you can’t do this to me,” he tries this time. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “You took something of mine,” I reply quietly, then I nod to the surface between us. “Put your hand on the table.”

  His head shakes back and forth. The sweat starts to slide down his fat, grimy face. The suit jacket he’s wearing is dark, nondescript. It covers him from nearly neck to ankle. No amount of coverage can mask the fear in his eyes right now, though. I bask in it.

  “I’m not going to ask again,” I say, leaning closer as I flip the switch on my blade open and press the edge to my thumb and turn it. “Put. Your. Fucking. Hand. On. The. Table.”

  This time, he does as I’ve asked. Sergio’s hand appears from beneath the table and slides across the surface until it’s flat. Beneath his skin, muscles jump and nerves tic. He watches me carefully, very carefully. Good.

  I reach across the table, grabbing his wrist and making him jump. Then I drag his hand to the middle and glare at him. “Do not move,” I warn him.

  “W-what are you gonna do?” he asks again.

  Finally, I give him an answer. “Well,” I say, “you wanted to talk to someone, right? You’re going to talk to me.”

  “I-I don’t need that to talk,” he says quickly, watching the movements of my fingers with a sharp focus.

  I hum in the back of my throat. “I say you do,” I reply.

  I set the end of my knife between his thumb and pointer finger. Behind him, Abel grins. Braxton remains as stone cold as ever. His face is a facade of absolutely no emotion. I know if that mask slips, we’re all in for a world of hurt.

  “Now,” I start, “let’s see if I can manage to do this without hurting you.”

  “Wait!” he huffs. “Just ask your questions! I don’t need—”

  My hand starts to move, back and forth.

  “Nonononono.” He shakes his head, his hand trembling against the surface of the table. Sergio releases a low shout of terror as I bring the edge of the blade down between his fingers with a little more strength, but he doesn’t jerk his hand back—too afraid of being stabbed. I lift and lower the sharp edge of my knife against the table once and then lifting it over the next finger and doing it again. Over and over, the blade lands—each time slamming into the table. Slow, at first, and then faster and faster as time goes on.

  “Please,” he whimpers as my hand flies across the table. I focus hard.

  “Please what?” I ask.

  “Please s-stop.”

  I do. “Who took the girls?”

  “I-I don’t know.”

  I resume, and just as I reach past the third finger, the tip of my knife slips.

  “Ah!”

  “Aw, well, that’s just too bad,” I say, pulling my hand back as well as my knife as he grunts out a scream and yanks his now bleeding hand back. “Put it back,” I order.

  “Are you insane!” he yells. “You can’t do this here! This is a police station for—”

  “I can, and I am,” I say. “Put your hand back, or I’ll tie it there.”

  “I have r-rights!” he exclaims, clutching his shaking hand to his chest.

  I roll my eyes. “Brax.” Braxton needs no further commands, he moves forward, like a silent wraith, and suddenly Sergio’s hand is right where I asked it to be. Long cut along the side of his ring finger where a dirty silver wedding band lies.

  “You and I both know there’s a reason you didn’t start screaming when I asked my friend here to lock the door and turn off the camera,” I say. “It’s because you know who we are. You know what we do. And you know what we want. You will leave this room if—and only if—I say you can. Now, if you take your hand from the table again, I’ll cut it off.”

  “Please,” he begs. “I-I didn’t know who they were.”

  “One’s meaningless,” I state, leaning forward. “The other one, though. The one with the dark hair—” Abel leans forward without me asking and produces his phone. He slaps it on the table, facing Sergio. I point to the picture pulled up. “Do you recognize her?”

  The man’s eyes go to the screen, and he nods quickly. “Yes, yes, I do!” he says. “She was one of the girls taken.”

  “Where did they take her?” I ask.

  He whimpers. “I swear I don’t know. They paid me—”

  The fire inside turns ice cold, and I slam my knife into his hand and relish in his scream of agony. “Oh god! Stop! Please stop!”

  “They paid you?” I growl out the question, repeating his words. “Who fucking paid you?”

  “I-I can’t,” he sobbed.

  “You can.” I yank my knife out of his hand and when he moves to pull it back, to protect it—just as I would have done for Avalon had I been given the chance—it only serves to annoy me. Without giving him the time, I slam it down again. Only this time, I catch the edge of his pinky finger, and my blade sinks all the way through—right into the wood.

  His screams take on a new operatic sound. I grin.

  “You’re going to tell me everything, Mr. McConner,” I warn him. “You’re going to tell me who hired you. You’re going to amend every lie you’ve uttered since you’ve been in this room and how exactly you got Avalon to go with you.” I yank the knife up and out, and his trembling, bleeding hand retracts, leaving half of his pinky on the table in front of me. Blood spills from the severed digit, but I don’t care. He won’t bleed out from losing his pinky.

  “You’re a fucking monster!” he yells, cradling his wounded limb close to his chest as tears and sweat run down his bloated face.

  “Yes.” I’ve been one for as long as I can fucking remember. I push my chair back as I stand up and tower over him. “And you would do well to remember that as you a
nswer my questions. Now, I’ll start with the simplest one.” I place my palms down on the table, the knife still in my grip, and lean over the table. “Where the fuck is Avalon Manning?”

  44

  Avalon

  My heart beats with a repetitive thump that’s slowly but surely driving me to absolute fucking insanity. Sweat coats my skin. I track his movements as the man strides across the room and dumps his mask onto a metal side table. Then he sets down the satchel that had been previously wrapped around his chest. The bag slams onto the table loudly—telling me he's got some hefty tools in there. I try to think of what to say or do, but nothing comes immediately to mind. The only thing my brain seems to supply is one question:

  Where the fuck is Dean?

  "Do you think you’re a strong person, Ms. Manning?" the man asks.

  My body jerks as he turns away from the table and marches towards me, getting down on his haunches and pulling out a knife from his boot.

  "Strong?" I repeat, thankful that my tone remains steady even though inside, I'm floundering to figure a way out of this. "I don't know. Depends on how you define that word."

  He slices through the bindings on my legs and arms, returning the knife to his boot. His hands latch onto my wrists as he pulls me to my feet. Despite his hold on me, I nearly go down anyway—my legs having been constrained for so long, the second feeling begins to return to the nerves in them, I grit my teeth in pain. He takes it as his opportunity to move me to one of the chairs, yanking my arms behind the back and retying them in swift movements.

  "Interesting," he comments as he backs up and looks down on me. "Most people give me a yes or a no answer.”

  “I’m not most people,” I reply.

  His eyes trace over me, searching, seeking—for what, I can only guess. “Alright then,” he continues. “Do you think you're a fearful person?"

  That's a much easier answer. "No."

  Fear is nothing but the presence of powerlessness. That much I know to be true. The man doesn't respond to my quick comeback, though. Not even with another odd question. Instead, he backs up towards his metal table and leans against it before crossing his massive arms over his chest.

  He looks like a goddamn poster boy for Nazi psychos. Blond hair. Blue eyes. A handsomely cut jaw with only a smattering of little scars here and there. I don't shy away when he stares at me. I stare back. Watching him and daring him with my own look.

  "Do you know who I am?" he asks.

  I snort. "If I did, do you think I'd be here?"

  "Answer the question."

  "No, dipshit. I don't know who you are, and I don't know what the fuck you want." The first is true—I don't know who he is. The second, however, is a bald-faced lie. I know what he wants. I know why I'm here. I know why he took off his fucking mask because he’s not planning on letting me out of here alive. "Are we done playing twenty questions now?"

  He chuckles, and the sound does not make me feel at ease. Quite the opposite, actually. The sound of his amusement sends a shiver down my spine. "One more question, Avalon." I hate the way he says my name. I hate the sound of his voice, and I hate that I feel so fucking powerless, bound to this chair, waiting for whatever it is he has planned.

  If I were to close my eyes and truly listen to that quiet, vibrated chuckle, it might sound completely normal at first. If I wasn't looking straight at him, knowing there are torture tools he's likely keeping in his little tool belt sitting on the table at his back, I might even think he was normal. But even without the torture tools and the barren room and the situation, I think I’d be able to tell what he is. There's something deeper in his tone, in his eyes. Something that would make even the easiest going, oblivious person in the world pause and take notice.

  Maybe it's intuition. A gut feeling. Animal instincts at their finest that tell me this man is anything but normal. Whatever he has seen. Whatever he has done. No matter how bloody or damning, he enjoyed it. And whatever he's planning to do to me—he'll feel the same.

  My head tips back as he unfolds his arms and straightens away from the table, walking towards where I sit until he stands right in front of me. One hand comes down on the back of the chair against my spine, and he leans in close until I can see the individual flecks of various shades of blue in his eyes.

  That's when I see it—the oddity that sets his looks off from others. There's no emotion in them. Even with Brax or Abel or Dean—when they're at their breaking points—there's something there. A wildness. A wickedness. A feeling. In this man's eyes, I see none of that. What I see is just … nothing. No emotion. No happiness. No glee. No remorse.

  "Last question," he says. I meet his eyes and force my heartbeat to calm, shoving down my own questions and thoughts as I wait with bated breath.

  "Are you afraid of me?" he asks.

  Perhaps I should be. It would be a lie to say that my heart isn't pounding in my ears, and I don't have a million and one thoughts racing through my head. It would be a lie to say that he doesn't unnerve me. I don't like being tied up and constrained and unable to fight back, but am I afraid of him?

  I laugh. “That’s cute,” I say. “You think you’re scary.” I lean even farther back until my skull is as flush with my back as it’ll ever be. “I’ve got bad news for you—I’ve seen scary, and you don’t have my smile.”

  His smile widens. “Best answer I’ve ever heard,” he says. “And I think it also answers my first question about you.”

  “Oh yeah?” I inquire.

  He nods. “I hope you’re strong, Ms. Manning, because with what I’m planning to do to you, you’ll need to be.”

  * * *

  Ace. My kidnapper’s name is Ace. It both relieves and frightens me to know it. Relieves because when I get out of here, I know exactly who to hunt down first—if he even makes it. And frightens because I have the sneaking suspicion that he tells me for a reason, and I’m not sure I want to find out.

  Though he seems like the type to enjoy dishing out a little torment and agony, when a knock sounds on the door and he admits entrance to a familiar face—the kidnapper I’d punched—I know this shit is about to get painful.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m hating my stupid ability to be right. Abso-fucking-lutely hating it.

  I take another hit to the face the same way I took the first, with my eyes glaring at the motherfucker before me, my irritation level on fucking high. My head snaps to the side, and I feel more blood wash into my mouth. Pivoting, I spit out a wad of saliva. It comes out red.

  "Anyone ever tell you that you hit like a girl?" I ask conversationally.

  Knuckles slam into my cheekbone and move up into my eye socket. Fuck! That's gonna leave a bruise for sure. It takes me a second before the black and white dots stop dancing in front of my vision.

  "You know, just guessing, but I'm thinking you took that last comment as an insult," I say. "Maybe you're not aware of this, but I am a girl, and that was a compliment."

  The chair beneath me scrapes against the concrete as the man kicks it over. The back of my seat hits the ground, jarring me. My teeth clang together, and I grunt as he sets a booted foot right between my tied legs and then withdraws a long hunting knife from somewhere behind him.

  "You must really be loving this," Van boy replies darkly. "’Cause you just can't seem to keep your mouth shut."

  "I have what's called ‘run your fucking mouth syndrome’—it's incurable, I'm afraid."

  Behind him, Ace hums in his throat. “Pity,” he agrees right before the tip of Van boy’s blade slams into my shoulder, and I suck in a quick breath. Pain radiates outward as he twists it inside my skin. Blood comes to the surface of the wound and soaks through my shirt before running beneath my armpit.

  "Well, you've never met me before," Van boy says as he leans closer. Though I know he doesn’t mean to—it’s just our positions—spit flies at my face.

  I blink and turn my cheek away and rub as much of his nasty ass saliva onto what I can reach of my shirt
. "There's a reason for that," I say.

  He pushes the blade deeper, and for some reason, that makes me chuckle.

  “Fucking bitch,” he says right before twisting the handle again. Fresh agony ripples through my shoulder and down into my nerves. Still, though, I can't stop laughing. "You like this, don't you?" he asks. “Freak like you likes a little pain.” When he smiles, it’s wide and annoying—makes me want to break my foot off in his ass just to hear him scream. Another chuckle escapes me. More blood flows out and begins to drip from me, through the slats of the chair, and onto the cold hard floor at my back. “Do you like the pain, little girl?”

  I laugh again, staring up at him. "There's absolutely nothing you have that could turn me on, limp dick," I curse. "Your knife is harder than you'll ever be, and even that can't get me off." That comment earns me another hard cuff to the cheek, but with my back pressed nearly flat against the floor, there’s really nowhere for my head or the rest of my body to go. I rock back and forth momentarily before resettling into position.

  It’s only when I do that I realize Ace has called this round of torture to a halt. “I think that’s enough, Robert,” he says. “I’ll take it over from here.”

  Robert—aka Van boy—takes a step back, scowling down at me. “I’d wave you goodbye,” I say through a cough, “but I’m a little tied up at the moment.”

  He pulls his booted foot back and delivers a kick right in my gut. All of the air escapes my lungs. I wheeze out a breath, wondering what the fuck is wrong with me. Why am I provoking him? Right, because if they last longer on me, it gives Dean more time to get here, and oh, Dean better get here fucking soon because, after that last kick, I swear something cracked on the inside of my chest. A rib, maybe?

  “I said enough, Robert,” Ace says, his tone growing cold.

  Robert blinks and backs up a step. “Sorry, boss. She just—”