She thinks for a moment, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. “I’ll talk to Gabby. We’ll decide together.”
I nod. “Rollo, stay with her for now. Don’t let the bitch out of your sight.”
“Mmmffffffffmmmmmm,” Mona cries from behind her gag.
Tricks spares Mona one last glance before we walk to the door.
“Whether you live or die.”
Nine
I don’t remember going to sleep. Once my exhaustion took hold, I was done for. I wake wearing nothing but a Bedlam Brotherhood t-shirt. I look around for Grim, but he’s not around. There’s a note on the pillow beside me in the indent where he’d slept.
“Mastering others is strength. Mastering yourself is true power.” – Lao Tzu
I grin at Grim’s use of the quote and hold the note to my chest.
“It’s true, you know,” Grim says, his massive body taking up every inch of the doorway. His jeans are slung low. He’s shirtless as usual but devoid of the hooded jacket. “I’ve never known anyone like you. Beautiful. Smart. Cunning. Strong. I’ve never been proud of anyone before. But last night…I was so fucking proud of you. You are powerful beyond measure.” He stalks toward the bed. His lean muscles flex under his beautifully tattooed skin.
He pulls me into a sitting position and tangles his fingers in my hair. His lips barely touch mine in a teasing kiss, and I moan at the contact, but I quickly pull away.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, breathing hard.
I cover my mouth and mumble behind my hand. “I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.”
He laughs and lifts me from the bed. “Then, to the shower we go.” He takes a step, then winces.
“What’s wrong?”
“Ah, it’s nothing,” he says. The wince is gone, but he’s got a slight limp I hadn’t noticed the night before.
“No, it’s not nothing. What the fuck happened?”
“I was shot.”
I gasp, remembering one of the task force agents, or Callum’s men, or whoever they were, saying that Grim was shot, but after thinking him dead then seeing him alive and well again, the bullet he might have taken slipped my mind.
Grim has the audacity to chuckle at my concern. I place my hand on my hip, and flash him my best disapproving look.
He grabs me by the shoulders. “It was only in the leg, baby. The bullet’s out. It’s barely a scrape. I’ve been hurt worse.”
I try to ignore the tingling sensation between my legs and my hardening nipples at his calling me baby. “You’ve been—”
“Hey guys,” Sandy says, popping his head in. “I’m switching places with Rollo for a while. Question, do I bring food out to the chick, or are we starving her out?” he asks. It’s a very matter of fact question. “Yes? No?”
This is Bedlam, I think to myself. Business as usual. It’s probably not the first time Sandy’s asked that question. It might not be the last.
“Feed her,” Grim orders. “I want her coherent.”
Grim looks to me and explains further. “Gabby’s been asking to see Mona all morning. Figured she’ll want to confront her sister and hear her side. She can’t talk if she’s passed out from hunger.”
I nod.
“And Marci’s up and about,” Sandy adds. “She wants to leave the hospital against the doctors’ orders. I’m about to head up there.”
“Shit,” Grim says, rubbing his palm over his stubble which is much longer than I’m used to seeing on him. “I’ll go with you.” He grabs his jacket from the table and plants a kiss on top of my head. “Shower. Eat. I’ll be back soon, and then, I’m taking you somewhere. There’s a team of our guys surrounding the place. Haze is in the hall.”
“That I am!” Haze calls out. “Your Bedlam bodyguard at your service, madam.”
“I’ll meet you in Marci’s room,” Sandy says to Grim. “I gotta do something first.”
“Like what?” Grim asks.
Sandy looks to the wall above our heads as he speaks. “Uhhh, I’m… you know…just going to check in on Gabby.” He drums his fingers against his thighs. “You know, just to make sure she doesn’t need anything.” He darts off.
“That was odd,” I comment, looking at the empty spot in the doorway Sandy just vacated.
Grim shrugs. “That was Sandy.”
“You think he has the hots for Gabby?”
“I know he does. Her and every other pretty girl within a twenty-mile radius.”
“Fifty, at least,” Haze corrects from the hall.
Grim shrugs on his jacket.
“Good luck talking Marci out of leaving,” I say, running my hands over the heat of his chest.
He shakes his head. “I’m not going to tell her she should stay. Once Marci makes up her mind, the decision is made. There’s no point in arguing.”
“Then, why are you going?” I ask, knitting my eyebrows.
Grim plants a quick kiss to my lips. “To make sure she doesn’t take out any of the nurses or burn the damn building down on her way out.”
Grim
Marci is dressed in her regular clothes when Sandy and I arrive at her room after he spent a good amount of time talking quietly about god only knows what with Gabby in hers.
“I assume you two are here to escort me out, so I don’t make a scene,” Marci says.
“The four of us actually,” Tricks answers, entering the room with Haze.
“Sorry, I couldn’t stop her,” Haze says.
Tricks looks up at me apologetically. Her hair is wet from what had to be the world's quickest shower. I hope she, at least, ate something and remind myself to ask her when we’re done at the hospital.
“She’s not a prisoner,” I say. “She can go wherever she wants.” I take her hand in mine.
“Damn right, she’s not. She’s family,” Marci says. “Boys?” she asks Sandy and Haze. “Will you go get me the release forms the doctors are taking their sweet time with?’
Haze and Sandy leave the room.
I pull Tricks over to the couch. She takes a seat while I help Marci tie the laces on her boots.
“Thank you, my sweet boy.”
I tie the last knot as a shadow crosses the doorway.
I reach for my gun and stand. I turn around just as Agent Lemming steps from the shadows.
Marci’s eyes go wide. “Callum?”
I don’t even have time to be shocked that the son of a bitch has the balls to step foot onto the reservation and into Bedlam territory after trying to kidnap Tricks.
Before Callum can breathe a word, my gun is aimed and cocked at his head. I’m seething with hatred, and if my girl wasn’t standing in the room, this fucker’s brains would be sliding down the wall behind him.
Marci shuffles over to Tricks, keeping her protectively behind her.
“I had a feeling it was all a ruse,” Callum says, his lips curving up at the corners. “Good to see you back in the land of the living.”
I hold my gun steady. “Thanks, I intend to stay awhile, in case you had other plans.”
He raises his hands, slowly from his sides. He’s holding something. It’s not a weapon, but a white handkerchief. He dangles it, holding just a corner. He waves it around. “I come in peace. I’m not armed. I’m just here to talk.”
“So, talk.” I say, not lowering my gun.
He leans to the side, looking over my shoulder. “I’m here about the girl.”
“Like hell you are,” I say. There’s no fucking way I’m allowing him anywhere near Tricks since he’d tried to load her onto a plane and take her to fuck knows where.
“Why? Who is she to you?” Marci asks.
Callum straightens. “She’s my daughter.” “Bullshit! Why should I fucking believe you?” I ask, holding both my words and my gun steady.
“I can prove it. Just let me talk to her,” Callum says, his accent thick and Irish.
I shake my head. “You’ll talk to me first before I let you anywhere near her.”
; “Very well then. By all means. Let us talk.” Callum produces an envelope from his pocket. “And while we talk—.” He looks to Tricks once more. “I’d like her to read these. They’re just letters. They ain’t gonna kill her,” he says when I eye them suspiciously.
Tricks is now behind me. She reaches under my arm and grabs the letters.
Callum confidently looks to her, then me. “I’m all yours. Lead the way.”
Ten
I take Callum to the main living area attached to the brothel. Callum takes a seat. I sit beside him at the head of the table, resting my gun on my lap and my hand on my gun.
“You know by now that it wasn’t Bedlam who took your shipment,” I tell him.
“I do know that, but it’s not why I’m here. I’m here about my daughter.”
“And how exactly are you so sure that she’s your daughter?” I ask skeptically. “There seems to be another hat in the ring for that title.”
“That’s absurd,” he laughs.
“You should take a walk in my shoes. You have no fucking idea what absurd is. You want to talk to my girl? Well, I want answers. One doesn’t happen without the other. So, if I were you, I’d start talking.”
Callum sighs and pushes a photograph across the table. It’s of a younger Callum, a woman with honey blonde curls like Tricks, and a baby girl sitting between them. “That’s my family before my baby girl was ripped away from me and her mother. She’s mine. I’ve been looking for her since she was a babe, and now, I’ve found her. You want proof?” He claps his hands together. “Fine. I’ll submit to any and all blood tests. Whatever you’ve got. I’m as sure she’s mine as the days are long.”
“We’ll see about that,” I say.
Callum sighs. “I’ll tell you how it all started, but I’d rather have her here—”
Our heads snap to the door where a pale-faced Tricks appears. She’s holding the letters Callum had given her in her shaky hand. “I don’t…” she starts then pauses to collect herself. She holds up the letters. “Is this all true?”
“Aye, every word,” Callum responds.
I stand and pull out a chair for Trick’s guiding her to sit. She passes me the letters.
Callum points to the one with feminine handwriting. “This one first.”
Dearest Fernando,
At one time you were my greatest love, and now you’re my biggest regret.
The child I’m carrying isn’t yours, but you’re not a stupid man, I have no doubt you know this by now. I’m writing this because I need you to know that’s not the reason I’m suddenly gone from Los Muertos and from your life.
I took Gabriella and Mona, my daughter and yours, because they don’t deserve to grow up in that hellish place. I couldn’t live with myself anymore, knowing their lives would always be in jeopardy in one way or another. That they wouldn’t ever get to be kids. Carefree. Without violence. I want them to be loved. To be part of a family. A real family.
I won’t let what happened to Marco happen to them. I saw the devil in his eyes last night as he sat at the table twirling a knife into the wood. My plan was to take him, too, but there’s no saving him now. He’s killed for the first time, and the blood of the poor boy who found himself on the receiving end of Marco’s wrath, has twisted his mind and corroded his soul.
I can’t save Marco, but I can save the girls. I will save the girls.
Then, there was Emma Jean. I knew better than to ask questions about where she came from or why you’d brought her to Los Muertos. What you don’t know is that I spent most of the night vomiting, and not because of the child in my belly, but from disgust. God only knows whose hands she was ripped from, or what fate she would suffer at your own. I tried to tell myself she was a bastard child of yours, and that maybe, you were doing the right thing by bringing her home to raise her yourself. But, there is not a drop of your blood in that beautiful pale-faced gringa. I know because I searched for it over and over again. I won’t allow this child to be a tool in your already cluttered work box or as a pawn in the game of life and death you play so well.
In the end, it doesn’t matter who she is. All that matters is that she isn’t there with you.
As much as I wish to raise the girls myself, I know it’s not possible. In time, you’ll catch up to me and you’ll kill me for all I’ve done. For the evidence I handed over to the FEDS that has landed you in prison. When you do, you should know the girls won’t be with me. They’ll be somewhere else. Somewhere safe.
I have made many, many mistakes in my life, Fernando.
This is not one of them.
When I die, they will live on.
I’m not asking you to spare my life, but I am asking you to spare the lives of Mona, Gabriella, and Emma Jean. If you have any ounce of humanity left in you, please, don’t look for them. Don’t bring them back to that place. If you love your daughters at all, and if you ever truly loved me, then please, let them go.
Yours,
Camilla
Intrigued and baffled, I flip to the next letter, surprised to find it’s actually from Fernando himself.
My Dearest Camilla,
I’m writing this letter to you from prison, but you knew that’s where I’d end up because you’re the one who became una rata and handed over enough evidence to the FEDS to send and keep me here for a minimum of fifty years to life. By my count, I’ve got forty-six more to go. Although, I won’t make it that long. I’m afraid I won’t even make it through the month. So, life it is.
I’m sick. Very sick. Which is probably why I’m writing this letter to you now after all this time, knowing you’ll never read it. I’m a coward like that. I always have been. At least when it came to you. You see, the cancer has spread to my brain, amongst other vital organs—like my heart—which the prison doctor assures me I do have, despite your past accusations to the contrary.
You were right, mi amor. About so many things. I did come for you, just like you said I would, and I did find you…and, well you know the rest.
I would tell you that I’m sorry, but apologizing to the dead is like whispering in a deaf man’s ear.
Pointless.
I admit I did what you asked me not to do. I located the girls. It was clever how you put Gabriella and Mona in one foster home and Emma Jean in another. You knew I’d be looking for three girls together. I also like the last name you gave Emma Jean. Parish. Your mother’s maiden name. Cute. It was also clever how you were able to have their records sealed. No doubt due to the deal you’d struck with the FEDS in return for my head on a platter. It’s too late now, but you should have demanded witness protection as well.
I really wish you had.
Back to the girls. Clever or not, it only took one phone call and I had all three of their files in my hands, addresses and all.
I was arrested before I had the chance to retrieve them and bring them back. I did have plans for Emma Jean. To use her in a way that would benefit Los Muertos. I was going to have Marco carry out my plan, but then, something happened. It was Marco. He came to the prison with a file I’d asked him to bring. Power of attorney documents, and other boring paperwork that needed to be taken care of so Marco could take officially take the reins and become the leader of Los Muertos.
But then something fell out of the documents as I was signing them. It was a sealed envelope. A letter. Your letter. Written on the day you ran off. It must have fallen from the table or been pushed into the drawer with the file.
My deepest regret was and still is having read it three months too late.
As if I was making up for not reading it then, I read it a hundred times a day during the weeks leading up to my sentencing and several times a day still.
It was your letter that opened my eyes. So much so that when Marco came to see me again. I was finally able to see the devil in his eyes, as you so eloquently put it. He never even asked about his sisters. Not once. It’s like they never existed at all in his mind. It’s all my fault that he’s b
ecome a blood-thirsty power-hungry monster. I raised a soldier, not a son. Even as a young child, when his mother had just died soon after giving birth to Mona, he didn’t shed one single tear. I didn’t recollect that until now. I didn’t see or didn’t care what I was doing to my own boy, and you’re right. It’s too late for him.
But it’s not too late for me. Not my body, that’s clearly on the way out. And not my soul, I pissed-out that withered up thing long ago. But since you can’t apologize to the dead, I can at least respect the dead’s final wishes.
I never told Marco about my plans for Emma Jean. Instead, I let the girls be. That is, until very recently, when I arranged for Emma Jean to be placed in the same home as Gabriella and Mona in hopes the three of them will grow up and navigate this lonesome world together. I can’t give them the family you wanted them to have, but I can give them each other. If I could, I’d send Emma Jean back to where she came from, or rather, where I’d taken her from, but it’s too late now. It would only bring about more harm and pain when my intention is, for the first time, to bring about less.
Several times a day, I start writing letters to Mona and Gabriella. Every single one winds up in a crumpled ball beneath my mattress. I know I’m poison, and would be so even from behind cell bars. I don’t want them to get to know the dying man version of me, and I don’t want them to know the man I was.
I know this letter is growing long and dull, but I only have a few things left to say to you. The first, is that I forgive you for finding comfort with the chief when I offered you none in the life I was supposed to share with you, not make you fearful of. And I’m not really forgiving you, because you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who needs forgiveness, for taking your life and the life of your unborn child, but as I’ve said, I’m not seeking it.
The second thing I want to tell you is about the girl you call Emma Jean, which I’ve now taken to thinking of her as myself. I must have been muttering when I brought her to Los Muertos that night. You always said I was not much of a talker and more of a mutterer. And, Camilla, I’m only telling you this because it’s not possible for you to ever tell another living soul. You didn’t get a chance to take this secret to the grave, but I’m taking it to mine. Her name isn’t Emma Jean.
The Perversion Trilogy: Perversion, Possession & Permission Page 34
