“That means a lot to me.”
“You mean a lot to me,” he confides, stroking my hair. “You will always be my nineteen-year-old lost kid, Boston. And don’t ever think you cannot talk to me like this. I will forever be your Master.”
This sounds a lot like a goodbye I don’t want to hear. “Did you know about Ginger Langdon?”
“I issued the order,” he confesses as I sob into the fabric. “I wanted Kali Ose to back the fuck off my Iris and killing Ginger scared her senseless.”
“Did Enzo do it?”
“No,” he whispers, rubbing my scalp. “I did.”
“Did you take out Chance Ballister, too?”
“Yes.”
“And Lydia Kettles?”
“Yes.” I never doubted Dom would tell me the truth. And I never doubted his capability of pulling the trigger. “And when I find out who took my girl, I will kill them.”
“Unless I beat you to it.”
We cackle like demons in the darkness.
“Make them suffer, Pretty Boy,” he says, strumming his fingers rhythmically through my hair. “Make them suffer, my boy.”
“I will Daddy, I will.”
In the only bathroom, I take a long shower and pass by Dom in the other bedroom. He is tucked under the covers and reading about Greek philosophy. His prosthetics lay in the chair and his wire rim glasses lend an extra layer of distinction to his pompous ass snobbery. So, he’s doubly arrogant.
“Good night, Dom”
“Sleep well, Sal. Make sure you text Deacon, he is probably worried.”
“Yes, Sir.”
I leave my door open, fully trusting and available. That isn’t to say I’m looking for a scene with Dom, but I’m also not expecting it. Those days—for the most part—are far behind us. We moved on to a mature place of mutual respect and admiration.
Trusting and available for Dom doesn’t require a hard cock; it requires a bleeding heart. And therein resides my trust issues with Deacon. I get so worked up and turned on by his presence, I tend to forget about the emotional and spiritual side of us. I falter and Deacon pulls us back. There are no rules in our relationship because we are writing them as we go.
After I dry off, I crawl into the bed and check my phone. I notice an odd message from Stephanie Cristos. Not her Mistress Serene number. I click on the video made earlier in the day and she looks like she’s been crying.
“Please don’t watch this if Nico is still there,” she says, getting out of the car. I see the hayfields surrounding the farmhouse and I miss home.
Sugargrove, Texas.
Home.
“What you are about to see is for your eyes only, Kid.”
She flips the camera view outwards to the house that was to belong to Kaci and I. She walks closer and I spot the graffiti, the jacked-up garage door, and the broken windows.
“I won’t take you inside,” she whispers, sniffling. “But it’s bad. We arrived home and found it vandalized. A police report has been filed and I’ve done my best to locate any fingerprints. The only ones I can lift belong to you, Iris, Georgia, and Jack. Someone remotely disabled the intrusion alarms and lights. All of the security cameras have been…how do I say this?”
The sounds of her crying fill the video as the images portray the catastrophic scene.
“Someone blew the fuck out of them. There is no surveillance footage. The only thing we have is a white van pulling up and one man in a dark ski mask and dressed in black. The last footage was April 29, but no one has been here on the property for months. The horses are staying with Charlotte and there was no need for anyone to come check on the place because I thought…I thought we were safe.”
April 29—my birthday—and more importantly, the day Iris vanished.
I clutch the phone in disbelief.
The view shifts back to her face as she continues walking around the house. “Every window and door are broken. The contents of the house are mostly destroyed. I know you cannot come home right now, and I don’t want to put this burden on you, but you needed to know what was going on. I’ve hired a local contractor to come board it up this weekend until you are ready to deal with the clean-up. Kade, Swain, and I are fine. The farmhouse is fine. This was a targeted hit aimed at you.”
I’m angry and upset.
The camera flips again. “The pool is destroyed.” Tears stream down my cheeks at the sight of the ghoulish red water. “The tiles are cracked. Ballistics is running samples to see if this is blood or food coloring or who knows what. The outdoor kitchen is gone. It looks like someone beat the appliances with heavy chains, Sal.” Broken glass shards line my back porch as the wall of spray paint comes into view. “I can’t say it, so I’ll let you read it.”
I stroke my chin and rage at the massive bright red words piercing through my soul like a thousand shivs.
Warning! Stay out of S*Grove!!!! Fucking WOP!!!!
“The inside is worse. All of the walls are painted with racial slurs or strange phrases. I cannot go in there. It hurts too much. The upstairs hallway says, You even killed the girl with C. I have detailed pictures and video of it all. Text me when you get this. We’re staying at Scarlet House with Anna.”
Immediately, I type out my question, “Who did it?”
“There is a number 5 above the bed.”
I grip the phone so tight my knuckles ache. “Our wedding picture and the framed text messages…”
“Was… Everything…is trashed, Sal.”
Gone.
22
Suck My Pacifier
The next morning, Dom and I drive to Nashville. He gets a midday flight to Chicago. I leave a half hour after him for Boston. We’re sitting in an airport restaurant eating breakfast when he says, “Are you okay? You’ve not said two words.”
“I’m fine.”
“That's two more,” he announces, and we laugh. “It’s been a long few days,” he points out. “You need to go home and get some rest.”
Home is the last thing on my mind.
Or maybe going home is the only thing on my mind.
We part ways with a hug and kisses to one another’s cheeks as he goes to his Chicago gate and I go to the one for Boston. This split is the very problem plaguing me. We're all over the map. It was different when he was in New Orleans and I was in Sugargrove. I could hop in the car and be at The Dollhouse by dinner. Now, we have flights and traffic and complicated relationships.
On my way, I pass by the gate to Houston and note the flight leaving minutes after Dom’s flight to Chicago. I pull out my phone and check flights. I exit security and go to speak with the agent at the counter.
“Good Afternoon,” she says, pecking away at her keyboard. “How can I help you?”
“I need the earliest flight to Texas,” I say, setting my driver’s license and credit card into her hand. I mean business.
“City?”
“Doesn't matter, just as soon as possible.”
The edges of her lips skid into a frown as she bites her lip and eyes the screen. “All of the flights to Houston are overbooked. You’d honestly be lucky to even get in on stand-by. I can do Houston tomorrow morning at six.”
“Is there anywhere else you can get me in a flight?”
Her lips twitch from side to side. She’s older, mid-fifties, and if I was in the mood, I’d flirt. She’s got gorgeous bluish green eyes. “How about Dallas at 12:05, young man?”
“Seriously?”
“There is one spot left in first class. Arrives at 2:10.”
“That’s fine. Do it,” I request, not wasting time. I’ve lost flights before from my previously mentioned flirting habit. I’m anxiously awaiting her smile to confirm the booking. I check my watch—11:15. Dom takes off in fifteen minutes.
“We’re good,” she says, handing me my cards and boarding pass. “But I’d hurry through security if I were you.”
“No, you’re good,” I correct with a priceless smile. “Thank you so very much.�
�
I haven’t carried in months, but when I arrive at the main security desk, I hand over my identification cards to the cute, young, African American woman. Her long yellow fingernails run an invisible line beneath my name as she glances over my credentials. She waves me on. “Thank you.”
Done.
I don’t often play the agent card to gain access, mostly because I find people fascinating. I like studying their habits, conversations, and just overall people watching. Sometimes, if spoken to, I will chat, but it’s rare. I’m the quiet, relatively good-looking guy no one ever expects to be snapshotting everything I see.
I duck into the bathroom and change my clothes into something less obvious than my slacks and sport coat. In dark gray joggers, tank top, hoodie, and ball cap, I look more like a ramen eating, Monster slugging, collegiate kid than a mobster on the rise.
Concealing my identity is always a good time.
At the gate, I make arrangements for a car—nothing too flashy, two door, dark. I need to be as inconspicuous as possible. The surge of adrenaline pumps hard as I plan my course of attack to get in and out of Sugargrove without being seen.
I arrive at two. By the time I get out of the airport, it will probably be close to three. If I don’t drive like I normally do—grins—it will take about four-and-a-half to five hours to get home which means I will get in around seven. It stays light until around nine now. There is a two-hour open window to be easily seen.
The problem with being seen is the abhorrent amount of communication likely to occur. I’ll have to greet people, chat about life in Boston, and they’ll ask about Emily. Maybe even Iris. It’s not something I want to discuss. I want this to be quick and easy; it won’t be painless.
But nothing involving my wife has ever been pain free.
I arrive in Austin at 5:37. Traffic on the freeway is terrible, so I exit and take the backroads to Sugargrove. I go further out of my way to enter town through the west, closer to Little Bee, so I don’t have to drive on Main Street. That would be just asking for trouble. I pull into the side entry of the Creekside Loft Apartments.
In my shades and ball cap, I dart up the staircase to the loft. Once inside, I toss six bottles of water into a reusable grocery sack, take a few protein bars, a couple cans of beans, and consider what else I need.
I’m not cleaning; I’m assessing.
And no matter how many pictures or videos Serene sends me, nothing will compare to having the feel of the case on my own. It sounds hokey, I know, but every crime scene has a feel to it and every agent picks up on different things. Simple nuances, not even evidence per se; things Serene might not have noticed, I potentially could.
I go to the Master closet, strip down, and drop to my knees in front of the large coffin safe. I put in the code. The mechanisms turn over and I grab the ballistics vest. After I fasten it on, I toss my tank top on along with the chest holster. I strap the ankle holster on and crack open two of the six Glocks we have on reserve. I attach a silencer to one, check the mags, and grab one of Jaid’s low rise belts for holding shivs.
In a tactical bag, I take two extra mags, two boxes of ammo, a pair of night vision goggles, rope, cuffs, and survival knife. I glance at the dozen pre-loaded syringes of goodnight, asshole, and decide if someone is breaking into my house, there isn’t going to be a need for such things because they’ll be leaving in a body bag.
Overkill? Maybe.
But I’m not stupid.
If they hit the house once, then they could easily show up again. And while I have plenty of defensive combat moves, I’d rather have my tools in this case.
I briefly consider borrowing the case with the AR-15 we have stashed for emergency purposes, but the odds of having an entire militia show up at the house are slim.
A professional hit team on a house is typically between two and eight men. With the five marked above my bed, presumably by Cinco, it doesn’t present like being pro talent. Thing is I’m not sure the whole thing wasn’t about framing Cinco to confuse everyone into believing they did it, which is at the heart of why I am here in the first place.
I’m not here to walk down misery lane.
I’m here to find out the truth.
And I’ll deal with the crippling emotional fallout in Boston.
I finish getting dressed and tug on an old pair of my work boots. Cracking my neck with a tilt of my head, I prepare for the final and most difficult task of my preparation.
With my phone in my hands, I consider calling one person to let them know of my actions. The hey-I’m-going-to-do-this-really-dumb-thing-if-you-don’t-hear-from-me-come-find-my-ass call, but I’m not sure who it should be. Deacon will try and convince me to wait. Dom will get onto me for not doing what I said I was (going back home to Boston.) Nico will rush over with his box of tricks in tow. The decision weighs heavily on my shoulders as I toss my hoodie back on. I’m an idiot if I say nothing.
I think about calling Jaid, but the girl who swallows with a grin is not the answer.
Out of my hat, I pull a strange card and hit her number.
“Hello?” Her soft voice answers. I stay quiet, like a creepy caller, and listen to the sound of her breath. “… Lucas?”
“I’m doing something,” I whisper in a deep, confident tone. I don’t want her worrying. “If you do not see me in the next twenty-four hours, please call Dom.”
“Where are you?”
“I can’t say.”
“Okay,” she eases with the light, carefree attitude I knew she would. “Be careful. I love you.”
Without even thinking, I reply, “I love you too, Emlee.”
The I stuns as her words hitch. “… Sal… Are you okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just time to prioritize. I’ll be home soon.”
I turn onto High Drupe Road at 7:18. Again, I take the west way, so I don’t have to drive past the farmhouse. I bump down the maintenance path, praying the rental car can handle the dirt and potholes. I’m cautious and drive slowly as I spot the back yard wrought iron gate. Upon closer inspection, I see the red water in my gorgeous lagoon style pool. I parallel park the subcompact car against the house behind the row of red top bushes, where no one can see the car from the road.
Snapping on a pair of black latex gloves, I get out of the car and look at the ground for any obvious signs. There has been a lot of weather in almost two months.
The gate lock is broken along with all of the windows and doors. Glass sparkles in the grass like dew drops in the morning sun. It is everywhere. I approach the pool, clenching my fists at the broken fountain—a little boy and girl with an umbrella—and note the color of red. It’s intense. I walk over to the filter. Cords are snipped. But still something bothers me about the color.
I ignore it and continue my exploration. The stainless steel on my outdoor kitchen appliances is dented and marked. I jostle the fridge door open. Nothing. I check the warming drawer. Nothing.
Upon opening the cabinets under the sink, a foul odor hits my nose. We’ve never used the outdoor kitchen and to my knowledge, neither has anyone else. The drainage pipes are all disconnected. I pick one up and notice the stains of red and the etching in the PVC like someone was trying to retrieve something from the pipe with a sharp object.
I place everything back under the sink and go to the broken back door. It’s locked, which seems strange, as I step into the million shards of glass. It crackles under the weight of my boots. I pull out my key and unlock the door because knowing my luck, I’d slice up my hand if I reached through.
The house is exactly as Serene described. Graffiti covers the walls as I start to capture every inch in my hard drive. The stuffing from the sofa piles up like snow drifts, every cabinet door is open, every closet door left a jar.
“They were looking for something,” I quietly mumble. “But there was nothing here. We never lived here. Iris lived here.”
I continue stalking through the house, eyeing the spite filled messages painted on my w
alls, but I pay little attention to them. They are merely a distraction for whatever they were after. I peek into the office and notice the printer with the copier lid left open.
“That’s weird.”
I take a closer look at the machine, pop out the memory card, and pocket it. It’s a long shot, but it might have something stored on it. I glance around the room at a few of Jack’s things. He lived here for six months with Iris, which was my first failed attempt at keeping her safe.
We’ve been at this awhile.
Unconcerned about my noise, I walk through the house. The crunching of glass, collapsed furniture, fragments of knickknacks, and picture frames is almost deafening. I will never forget the sound, like the decimation of bones.
Heading up the circular staircase in the main hall, I suddenly stop. From the landing, I can see the antique farmhouse—the regal beauty standing majestically, as the sun sinks in her wake and she promises the night. It belonged to my wife, and it now belongs to me. It’s not dark yet; it isn’t light either, but we’re beyond mere dusk where shadows evoke eerie images in the gloaming. But in the driveway, I clearly see a white, unmarked van.
“We’re staying at Scarlet House with Anna.”
Rushing into the Master Suite, I stand in the darkness by the windows and watch from afar. My first reaction is to stop them and it comes on strong. The alarm is going off and I can hear the sirens wailing from inside my house.
Briefly, I glance at Kaci and I in the enormous three-by-three black and white photograph, but I force myself to not become distracted by these remnants of my past. We live, discard, and move on. We only carry what we can; we only forget when we forgive; we only love when we sacrifice.
I run, jetting down the staircase with mammoth leaps to the car. I cannot stay here. I cannot go there. I tug the hoodie from my sweating skin and drop my ass into the seat as I drive the car into the overgrown brush. I’ve done this hundreds of times in my truck. I pray the path is still beat down. We ride the horses here in the summer, under the canopy of the trees, and I know this path next to the creek with the hairpin turns and serpentine twists like the back of my hand.
Every Minute I Love You (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 3) Page 18
