“Neil?” I question.
He raises a hand, tips his fingers towards me and from around the corner, two men I hadn’t seen hiding against the wall loom into view. They tower over me and walk into my apartment like I’m nothing more than an obstacle to be trampled. I stumble back the first step, almost fall, and just manage to catch myself until the first goliath lifts his hand and hits me.
He strikes my right cheek so damn hard it whips my whole head around and my body follows. I fall, chin landing inches away from Brant’s kicking feet. He releases a blood-curdling scream that ricochets throughout my whole body, forcing it up and off of the ground even as the whole world spins.
Adrenaline keeps the pain at bay and my fingers graze Brant’s belly. I go to scoop him off of the ground until the goliath’s hand grabs me by the hair. I kick at his legs, but when my heel finally connects with flesh, he growls close to my face and wrenches my head so far back I can’t breathe. Brant’s screams in my ears are the only thing keeping me from passing out entirely. If I pass out, he’ll be alone with them.
“Sasha, vtsavay.” The voice is Neil’s but the language is not one that I know and I don’t have time to try to puzzle it out when I’m hauled to my feet and slammed against the wall. The man who has me wraps both hands around my upper arms so hard I’m sure they’ll bruise if they haven’t already. His eyes are light and his eyebrows pull together angrily above them. They are so light that they blend in with his skin which is paper white everywhere except for the mouth which moves towards mine hungrily. I scream and Brant shrieks as the man’s mouth – and body – presses me so hard to the wall, my lungs are crushed beneath his porcine weight.
Wet lips wander the length of my neck before his hulking presence lurches away from me. More words are rasped between the men and when I blink next, Neil is holding a gun to the goliath’s head. “We don’t hurt mothers,” he says in English this time before turning his gaze down to Brant. He bends down and picks up my wailing baby and I freeze from head to toe. A cold sweat covers every inch of me.
I whisper, “Neil…”
“Erik,” he answers, and as he speaks, he presses a soft kiss to the top of Brant’s head. Brant screams harder, chubby arms reaching for me, straining against the cage of flesh that holds him.
I lick my lips, heart bruised from pounding so hard against my sternum. “Erik.” My voice comes out as strong as I intend it and I’m glad for that. “Give me back my baby.”
He smiles and looks like a schoolboy, so coy and so beautiful. Also insane. His eyes hold a fire he’d been hiding and it terrifies me because I imagine that this is a man who could and would do anything. Who is he? Why is he here? How did this happen? I have no answers. Only fear and a tattered hope that mother really does mean something to him.
Erik steps forward and I don’t move except to lift my arms, wincing from the dull pain in my shoulders where the other man held me. Erik hesitates before placing Brant into my hands. “I am terribly sorry about this,” he says without sounding sorry at all.
“Are you going to hurt us?” I ask him the only question that matters as I rub Brant’s back softly. I shh in his ear, though it doesn’t help at all. Brant is terrified, shaking violently, and so am I.
Neil – Erik – laughs and traces his finger down the side of my face. As he reaches again for Brant, I twist towards the wall, shielding the baby. “Sara Sweetheart. I did so enjoy watching you dance.”
“You didn’t answer my question.” My voice hitches and my throat has gotten so dry I cough when I mean to swallow.
“I won’t hurt you or your baby until he comes with what I need. If he gives it to me, your baby may just survive.” He doesn’t say anything about me.
“He?”
“Ohh, don’t be shy. I know how much he cares for you.”
“Wh…who?”
Erik takes a step into my vision and I twist again, holding Brant directly between my chest and the wall. I close my eyes against Erik’s stare because it’s suddenly wild and frightening. I feel, rather than see, as the cold barrel of his gun slides against my temple. “I don’t like playing this game, Sara Sweetheart. I’ll give you to the count of three to say the name of the man who wrongs me, who loves you. One…”
“Dixon,” I scream, knowing there is only one man he could possibly be talking about. There is only one man who’s ever told me he loved me. Who I foolishly thought actually did. How could he though, if his actions would lead to this? “Do you mean Dixon?”
“Suka, blyad,” he slurs withdrawing his weapon, and it leaves a chill behind in all the places it touched me. “She gets it gentlemen.” Light laughter fills the room and at the sound of bodies hitting my couch, I remain planted, facing the wall, eyes shut, Brant screaming.
“I’ll be back in an hour. Keep her here until I give the signal. I need to make sure the other package is secure.” My front door opens, but doesn’t shut right away. Right before he leaves, he utters, “Don’t fuck with the mother or her baby. Yet.” Alone now with these two other men, I understand two things: I’m going to be killed, and Dixon put me in danger.
“Hey girl,” the goliath shouts, “shut the baby or I shut the baby. Get beer for us and remote control.”
It takes me some time to coerce my legs into obeying the commands I give them. Instead I am too wrapped up in the sound of the men speaking amongst themselves. Vaguely, I remember Dixon asking Erik about his accent at the club. He’d said German. My history teacher in ninth grade was German though and this definitely isn’t that. Something Eastern European perhaps? Russia’s the only country that comes to mind but I’ve never met a Russian before. Also, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I never asked Dixon about his businesses and he never shared any reason for me to think being with him was a risk.
Looking back on it, I feel foolish. His house, all of his money, his stuff? He must be involved in drugs or something much more sinister. And he never shared. Why would he? He’s a criminal, and involved in dealings with men like this. No wonder he had so much to give me. All of it was blood money and like an animal I moan, wounded. I realize now as I turn towards the bedroom that I don’t know the man I love any more than a stranger.
“Girl! Where you go?” The smaller of the two men says. If the first is a goliath, this one is a hawk. He holds his long aquiline nose pointed in the same direction as his gun: towards me.
Shuffling Brant to the edge of my body furthest from them, I gather my breath. “The bedroom. Where Brant’s things are. I need to get his binky if I’m going to keep him quiet.”
The goliath starts to stand but the hawk threatens him with the butt of his gun. Words pass between them before the goliath falls back to the couch and rubs his crotch. The hawk comes after me, following me as far as the bedroom door. He leaves it open and waits for me on the threshold. I quickly cross the room and, on the other side of the bed I see that I’ve placed my plastic box of medical supplies right next to Brant’s day bag.
The blue box is non-descript – no red and white emblem – and I wonder if he’d even notice if I grabbed the wrong one. Even if he did, couldn’t I just pawn it off as panic? But what if he doesn’t believe that? What if he thinks I’m planning something? Am I? I have no idea what I’m doing. All of my thoughts are a red hot blanket that screams survival.
“Girl,” the hawk barks.
I grab the blue case from the ground and shuffle out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. I set the box down by the sink, underneath the bar ledge where the two men can’t see it. Then I turn to the fridge. I grab a bottle for Brant and put it in the microwave before reaching in and plucking out two beers. I set them by the sink while the hawk settles onto the couch beside his larger, more lecherous counterpart. The man’s eyes remain fixed on my face, more guiding than following my every movement.
As the sound of the microwave blares in the background, I readjust Brant on my hip and pop the lid to the box. Inside are rolls of
white bandages, sterile white and blue gauze packets, plastic vials of every kind of pill imaginable and there, nestled between them, three medicine bottles and six unopened syringes. The microwave dings behind me and in one motion, I grip Brant fiercely in my left hand and with my right, release one of the syringes and grab the clear canister of a benzodiazapene.
I make sure everything is open and all wrappers are tossed before I turn around and take Brant’s bottle from the microwave. Brant goes onto the counter, bottle nipple pressed between his lips. I tip the syringe full of sedatives upside down at the same time the goliath lumbers up off of the couch. He stretches his arms high above his head, easily grazing the low ceiling with his hands. He starts towards me and I throw up into my mouth.
I thought my heart had been at maximum speed before but this is different. This is enough to make me start breathing through my mouth, and then stop altogether. My hands are shaking violently as I inject two doses of Lorazepam into each beer bottle. It’s meant to be an anti-anxiety drug, but in this quantity, I wonder if it’ll be enough to kill them. I hope it is because the alternative is that I’m found out and if I’m found out, then it’s over. I snap the lid shut and push the blue box aside just as the goliath reaches the other side of the counter.
“Girl. Where is beer?”
I set his beer on the counter and grab Brant, clutching him as close as possible while the goliath brings the beer to his lips and empties half the bottle down his throat. It pulls free of his full lips with a loud popping sound. “You good girl.” He pauses to take another sip. “Maybe I don’t let Erik kill you. Maybe I take you instead. If you good then I keep you for a long while. If not, then I give you to my brothers to sell. You fetch good price.”
I shudder and he seems to delight in that. He slams his empty beer onto the counter and reaches across the sink for the second one. Sh… That amount of tranquilizer would take down a boar. This is bad. Really bad. Because if he stands here all day watching me I won’t have time to make another cocktail for his buddy before he drops like a log.
“Don’t want to save one for your friend?” I say, voice sticky, arms starting to strain under Brant’s blossoming weight. He’s quieted since he’s been given the bottle, but I continue to press soft cloths delicately to his cheeks. His eyes swim with tears and his tiny nose is red.
Sweat pools on the back of my neck and drips down my spine. The bear doesn’t seem to see it. He winks at me and laughs. “No friends in Russkiy mafiozi.”
The guy on the couch says something tersely in Russian before tilting his gaze to me. “Bring me a beer.”
I nod and say nothing. Turning back to the fridge, I keep it mostly closed and, while my nerves vibrate loudly in my brain, sounding like an electrical storm during a tornado, I force my hands to steady as I reach for the beer. I pull back, but as I do, notice the Senokot I keep for Brant. It’s kids’ strength and a syrup. He’ll surely notice that.
I gnaw hard on my bottom lip until I hear the collapsing of weight onto the couch and the bunched nerve bundle in my lower back gives just a little. I dose the beer with the Senokot and walk it over to the two men seated on the couch. The hawk snatches it and I try not to pay attention as he takes his first drag.
“Disgusting,” he says, spitting over the side of the couch. He reads the label and thrusts the base of the bottle towards me. “What is this?”
“It’s a craft beer,” I answer in my smallest voice. “An IPA.”
The goliath nudges him in the ribs and the hawk rolls his eyes but continues drinking. “American beer tastes like shit always.”
“Sorry.” My voice warbles.
I take a seat on the only other chair in the room – some decades-old LaZBoy monstrosity Amber’s parents tossed. I expect Brant to be sated on milk, but when I look down at the bottle, he’s hardly drinking. Coercion doesn’t work either. He won’t have it. His eyes are red and his cheeks are flubbery and soon he starts to stink. I change him in the bedroom fifteen minutes later, when the hawk begins to squirm. He holds his stomach while the goliath leans his head onto the back of the couch. As if to disguise the fact that he’s sleeping, he lowers his shades.
I’m in the bedroom with Brant, he in a fresh diaper, me sweating through all my clothes, when I hear the hawk finally go into the bathroom. I’m freezing though my apartment’s always too warm and I head to the open bedroom door. I peek out and around the corner and see the goliath with his head fully reclined at the same time I hear the sound of shitting coming from the bathroom behind me. I don’t hesitate.
The keys to my – to Dixon’s – car have been in my pocket for the past hour. So has my phone. It’s rung a dozen times and I’ve gotten a few text messages I haven’t dared glance at for fear they’d take the device from me. I’m surprised they didn’t. Are they that confident, arrogant, cocky? Or is there something they know that I don’t. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe anyone I could call already knows. Maybe they’re all dead. Maybe they killed Dixon before they came for me and I’m just too stupid to realize it yet.
Fear grips me as I cross my living room, this time for more than one reason. And I hate that I’m so afraid for him when I should hate him. He did this to us – to Brant. I grip the doorknob and slide back the chain, praying desperately that the door doesn’t stick like it usually does. For once, luck is on my side and the door opens soundlessly. I slip out into the hall and walk to the top of the stairs. From there, I run.
Dixon
I’m laughing at something Knox said when Clifton walks through the living room door. He looks up and, seeing me, pivots to the kitchen. Knox calls after him and when Clifton’s only response is terse and uncharacteristically cold, Knox mutters, “Something’s off with that guy.”
Mer and I exchange a meaningful glance but neither of us responds. It’s hard for me to believe she hasn’t said anything yet and harder still for me to understand why she hasn’t. She should hate me and yet she shows me an allegiance that is more than I deserve and more than I could ever deserve from her.
I, on the other hand, am shut tighter than a nun’s legs because I don’t know what it would do to Knox, his knowing what I had planned. I know what it would do to me if I discovered he’d been out for Sara’s blood. I’d have to take his and it would have been deserved. Owed. My blood is the least I’m going to have to give and for every minute that I say nothing, I feel the penance grow. I clear my throat, working up the nerves to say something, to end the guilt hanging over me like the blade of a guillotine.
I open my mouth but before I can speak, Mer cuts me off. “Get me a beer too! Hey, what time is it?” She lowers her voice and speaks directly to Knox. Her dark chocolate eyes pan to mine once and they are full of a knowing that fills me with guilt, both for what I had been about to say and more for what I didn’t.
“Quarter to five,” Knox says.
He shows her his watch and she murmurs, “Almost time for check in.” She glances at me and winks as if there’s nothing wrong between us. In Mer’s eyes, I see that she’s already forgiven and forgotten.
“I wouldn’t forget,” I say cryptically, meaning something else. She doesn’t answer.
On the couch, Knox slips his hand around Mer’s waist and pulls her in close. He stands, dragging her with him. “No time for beer, little one. We’ve got to get to the barn.”
“Barn’s closed tonight, estúpido.”
He snarls into her mouth and kisses her. “What day is it?”
“Sunday,” she answers. “So closed. So beer.”
“Fucking hell. I thought it was Tuesday.”
Mer laughs into his lips. A few moments later, Mer mumbles about the beer Clifton was meant to be fetching. At the same time, the front door opens. “There’s a car swerving down the driveway. Gunning it,” Clifton shouts, reentering the room with his hands empty. “Could it be them?” He doesn’t wait for a reply, but runs into the hallway and turns left, towards the basement steps. “
Aiden!”
I’m on my feet and striding towards him fast, the length of my legs eating up the distance. Behind me, Knox and Mer are both running to their room to grab weapons. “What kind of car?”
His brows are drawn in concern and his hands hang like a gorilla’s on either side of his torso. He’s a big guy and for a moment, looks like he’s forgotten he hates me. “BMW M3 series. Red.”
I see the door in front of me, closed against an invasion and am suddenly running towards it. I barrel out onto the driveway as Sara’s car screams to a stop. She kills the engine and I stalk around to the driver’s side door, wanting to rip it off the handle. It opens as I reach for it and she steps out into the narrow space between us, her body a wall, arms wrapped around Brant, shielding the crying baby. He’s got no car seat and no blanket, she’s got no purse and no coat. She’s shaking badly and when the wind whips the strands of flaxen hair away from her face, I take in the welt below her right eye like a punch to the groin and all but collapse. Against her cream colored skin, the welt stands out in violence. Shades of red skirt its outer edges before hardening to a deep crimson, purple at its heart.
I reach for her arms and pull her half a step towards my chest. “Sara…”
She winces dramatically and I release her. “Sh…” She hisses. I look down and beneath her short, white sleeves, there are finger-shaped bruises on her arms.
I reach for her hair, whispering her name again only this time it’s my voice that comes out unsteady.
“Don’t.” Her eyes hit mine then immediately shift away, down to the gravel beneath her feet and she doesn’t move except for her trembling.
The wind pushes the scent of vanilla towards me, that and the smell of encroaching winter. As a kid, I hated that smell because it reminded me of Christmases I’d never have, shared with families that I’d never know. I never thought I could hate a smell more than that until I smell a man’s cologne wafting from her clothes. One that I don’t wear.
The Hunting Town (Brothers Book 1) Page 29
