by Holly Hart
“Is that your lame attempt to try and get me to stick around?”
Frankie’s question steals the breath from my lungs. Now that she’s given life to it, I realize that’s exactly what I was trying to do. I don’t want her to leave. I slept better last night than I can remember sleeping for years. No dreams, just peaceful, blissful calm.
But I can’t speak. I can’t bring myself to tell Frankie that’s exactly what I want – I don’t know why. I can kill a man as easy as speaking to him; but this, this is different. This isn’t just a girl I want to hit and quit. I don’t just want to get my prick wet; I want more. It’s that wanting more that scares me more than any army of hit men.
Frankie rocks backward. Her face is a picture of shame and embarrassment, and it makes me feel like crap inside. Of course, she feels this way. After everything she’s been through, she tried extending a hand to me, and I knocked her back. Not with words, but with a lack of them.
“Can you look away,” Frankie asks. “Please.” Suddenly her face becomes a mask, showing me a concern for her propriety. But I know there’s more to it: Frankie is concealing her emotions from me; she’s hurting.
I nod and turn away. I’m desperate to see her naked body. I can feel my cock responding in my jeans, growing, throbbing; maybe because it’s forbidden. I can still detect Frankie’s scent on my body. I want to bury my head in her hair, shape my hands around her ass.
But I can’t.
The sensible part of me – the one that’s not wracked by indecision – is screaming at me to ask her to stay by my side. But for some sad, crazy reason, I can’t bring myself to speak those five little words; “Will ye stay with me?”
The sheet wrapped around Frankie’s body swishes as she passes by me on her way to the bathroom. She pushes the door to, but doesn’t latch it, leaving it open a crack. It’s as if she’s afraid to be alone. I can’t resist peeking. I watch her reflection in a tiny shard of the mirror.
Frankie lets the sheet drop to the floor, then her denim dungarees. She steps out of them, completely naked. She’s been beaten and abused worse than any woman I’ve ever seen. Her back is marked with scars and bruises like abstract art, the rest of her body speckled with purple and black like a Dalmatian.
And yet, she is still the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever seen in my life. Even so, my erection dies. I look away, ashamed of myself for not having the force of will to control myself. I shouldn’t have peeked.
“They’ll find me, won’t they?” Frankie asks through the thin partition. “And then –.” She breaks off, leaving the question open in the air between us.
We both know what will happen to her if the cartel finds her. Neither wants to say it.
“You could go to the police,” I offer. “I’ll take you there meself.”
Those words have never crossed my lips in my entire life. To me, the police have always been an enemy: an army of men, in blue coats with pistols, who want to bring my family down. But for Frankie, they might be something else entirely.
They could be salvation.
“No!” Frankie says, and for the first time I detect a hint of panic in her voice. It’s possibly the last emotion I expect to hear. Before I know it, I realize that my hand is on the door, ready to push it in. I have to reign myself back, and remind myself that she’s not mine to protect: not my burden to bear …
… unless she asks.
“Are you okay?” I ask awkwardly through the door. My eyes creep back to her naked form. She’s resting against the sink – one hand clasped to either side. I look away, grimacing at my weakness. No girl has ever had this effect on me. I’ve had many, but none like this. The sight of her is addictive: her smell a sweet seduction: and to taste …
God, I’ve never wanted anything so badly.
“Yes,” Frankie replies, breathing heavily. “Yes, I’m fine. We just – we can’t go to the police. I can’t go to them.”
“Why?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, not that Frankie can see. I’m all for this second approach – the last thing I want is for my involvement in Frankie’s plight to be known by Boston’s finest. Still, it surprises me.
“I saw a cop,” Frankie says, her voice quiet, as if she’s worried about being overheard, “in the basement they kept us in. I didn’t see much: just a gun at his hip, and his boots. But he was an officer, I know that. They can’t keep me safe.”
“Then what other choices do you have?” I ask. “What will ye do?”
“I’ll find a way,” Frankie says simply. Her voice rises in pitch and volume. “I did it before. I won’t let them stop me. I won’t let them change me; because if I do, they’ve won. I’ll never let that happen.”
I believe her. It would be impossible not to. Even after everything Frankie’s been through, she’s braver than any woman I’ve ever come across.
I hear the rustle of clothing as Frankie dresses herself once again. She runs the tap one last time, and then lets the door swing back open. Her hair is wet – sink-bathed – and smooth back behind her ears. It’s an even darker red wet like this – more like the color of blood. I like it. It’s fiery, and determined.
“Seriously,” I ask as Frankie pulls her shoes on. “Where are ye going to go?”
I realize that I’m worried about the girl. It’s not just that I don’t want her death on my conscience – death has never bothered me before now. It’s that this girl is special. Frankie is special. It’s unexplainable; I don’t have to know why I’m responding to her like this, I just know that I am.
“As far away from here as I can;” Frankie spits, “maybe New York, maybe Europe, somewhere big, where I can get lost.”
Somewhere I’ll never be able to find you, I don’t add. I realize that if I let Frankie stumble out of this room, I’ll never see her again, and I’ll regret it until the end of my life.
Frankie walks toward the door. I follow a pace behind. She dips her head, and I start to think that she’s going to leave without saying goodbye.
But she doesn’t. “Thank you, Ridley,” she says, turning to look at me. There isn’t a trace of resentment in her expression, just gratefulness. God, she is special, this girl. Perfect.
“You didn’t need to do what you did,” she continues, without missing a beat. I blink. “But you did; I’ll never forget it.”
She stares into my eyes, and I into hers. Those piercing blue orbs rake my soul. I wonder what she sees. Is it my darkness? Does she see a good man?
I don’t know.
Out of nowhere, Frankie leans forward. She closes her eyes and breaks the moment, but then her lips meet mine. She kisses me – mouth closed – but it’s electric nonetheless. I close my eyes, shocked.
Then the moment’s gone. I hear the motel room door open.
“Goodbye, Ridley,” Frankie says.
The door closes.
She’s gone.
I pitch forward, and my head collides with the door. The bump hurts, but I barely notice it. I let out a heavy groan. I can’t believe I just let a girl like that leave my life without so much as a word of complaint.
My fists clench. I let out a heavy sigh, then another, and I feel the anger growing inside me. My torment: my darkness; my blackness; the rage that’s always threatening to escape.
I punch the wall to the side of the door. Shards of plaster fly off the wall and rattle against the floor. A cloud of dust billows out.
“Don’t do something stupid, Rid,” I growl to the empty room. But it’s already too late. It was too late the second I met the girl who has changed my life. I don’t have any choice in the matter. I never did.
The panic of never seeing Frankie again forces me forward, like a tree limb caught in the rapids of an overflowing river. I sprint down the metal stairs that clad the motel. They sound off like a clatter of drums and cymbals as my bare feet bounce off of them two at a time.
I catch her at the bottom. Her red hair billows out behind her like a mane, its wetness doing little to restrain it.<
br />
I grab Frankie’s arm with firm, but tender fingers. “You’re not going anywhere,” I growl, gritting my teeth. “Not alone. Not without me by your side.”
Relief washes over Frankie’s face. I let out a sigh of my own – a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. I don’t have the faintest clue where this road will lead, all I know is that I won’t be traveling it alone.
Frankie blinks twice, like she’s processing a change she never expected. “What now?” She asks.
Hell if I have any idea.
“Get in the car.”
7
Frankie
Ridley takes the streets of South Boston like a native, which, I guess, he is. I barely see the streets flash by me. I sure as hell don’t hear the running commentary the Irishman gives on the pubs and shops and people he knows in the area. I like it, don’t get me wrong. He speaks with an enthusiasm, about his hometown, that is unmistakable, undeniable, and deeply felt.
I really don’t want to ignore him.
But somehow, that kiss – our kiss – still burns on my lips. I can barely call it a kiss – it was just a peck, really. Our lips only met for the briefest of seconds, and then I pulled away. But I can’t deny the electricity that surged through me. I know Ridley felt it as well. It stunned him.
“That’s the Jester over there,” Ridley says, jerking his head as he turns a corner. “It’s me family’s place. I’ll show it to ye, of course, when we got this mix-up with the cartel all sorted out.”
Mix-up? Ridley says the word so casually, it’s hard to believe he’s talking about my life and my future.
“Sorted out?” I choke. “What are you going to do?”
Ridley doesn’t reply. We’re out in the suburbs, now. Quaint, old and slightly faded family homes flash by. The view reminds me that I’m not in Kansas anymore. I’m not in Columbus, Ohio either. This is Ridley’s home, not mine.
The car bounces over a railway bridge, then Ridley hangs a right: all without speaking; all without answering the question I want – need – him to address. He brings the old sports car to a stop in a dodgy area of town. At least, that’s how it looks to me. A road sign declares it is the end of Dorchester Street.
“Where are we?” I ask. “What are we doing here?”
Ridley unfastens his seatbelt, grins at me with childlike excitement, and says: “you’ll see.”
He gets out of the car, slamming his driver’s side door behind him. I grimace. My head sinks back against the headrest for a moment, before I open my door, get out and follow him. I feel like I haven’t stopped moving in days. I need a break; I need some rest.
Huge chunks of gravel crunch underneath my sneakers. We’re in a parking lot near a railway arch – I guess from the bridge we just drove over. “Seriously, Ridley,” I say. “Where are you taking me?” The slightest hint of anxiety is creeping down the back of my neck. This place reminds me of the place I was taken.
Fool me once…
Ridley fishes a necklace from underneath his T-shirt. He pulls the double looped cord over his head from around his neck and holds some shiny object up in front of me. It’s a key: no, there’s actually two. I look around, my face wrinkling with confusion.
“What are they for?” I ask. My eyes pass over the empty parking lot, Ridley’s car, a condemned storage unit underneath the bridge, and a row of empty, burned-out and abandoned shops.
“Look,” Ridley grins.
“Where? What am I looking for?” I complain, as the cold April air licks at my exposed forearms. “I don’t see anything.”
“Look harder,” Ridley says. I squint. I look at the abandoned stores first, guessing that if he’s got a key, it’s got to be for something. But as far as I can tell, not a single one of those buildings is habitable or safe.
My eyes fall upon a door built into the railway arch. “Is it that?” I ask, jerking my chin towards the black-painted, gloomy entranceway. I feel my forehead transforming into a maze of frowning skin. “I don’t understand; it’s condemned. Look, it’s even got a sign from the Massachusetts Bay –.”
“— Transportation Authority,” Ridley says, finishing my sentence with a triumphant smile on his face. “You’re exactly right. Now, guess where my cousin Jimmy works?”
“The…”
“… Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority,” Ridley says again, and this time the grin on my face matches his. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
I follow Ridley. My better judgment might be screaming at me that this is a bad idea: that following a man into a dark, abandoned, industrial district is what got me in trouble the first time, but I ignore it. If my judgment is so far skewed that a man like Ridley can trick me, then there’s no hope for me anyway. I don’t – can’t – believe that he would hurt me. And hell, I’m curious.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” I ask, scowling dubiously as Ridley tugs at a thick, rusting stanchion of metal that’s resting on the faded, black-painted doorway.
“Come on,” Ridley grunts over a metallic squealing – then over a crash as the pillar smashes against the ground, “I’ll show ye.”
He holds the two keys up in front of my eyes. I jerk my head back to bring them into focus. “This,” he says, indicating a thick bronze key, “is for the outer door.”
Ridley pushes it into a battered, graffiti-painted lock that, as I examine it more closely, I realize is perfectly maintained. It doesn’t give off so much as a squeak as he turns it. “There’s a code, too: watch.”
I do. Ridley’s fingers dance over a keypad and a steel inner door clicks open. Whatever this place is, it looks as safe as a bank vault. “What is this place?” I whisper, taking a deep breath.
Ridley steps inside. He turns his head and grins at me. “It’s mine.”
“That’s,” I say resignedly – yet following behind regardless, “not exactly what I asked.”
Whatever this place is, it’s not what I expected. It looks like a high-end club, or an apartment that would cost more per month than I’ve earned in my entire life. Ridley flicks a light switch, and plumes of light shoot up into the ceiling, illuminating a brick railway arch. I gasp, so impressed by the huge room that my breath escapes me.
Another bank of recessed light bulbs flickers on, and showers the rest of the room with light. It’s decorated with deep maroon sofas, a bed in the far corner, and modern gray cabinets built into the walls.
The only giveaway that there’s something unusual about the place – unfortunately, it’s a big giveaway – is that there are no windows.
“You like it?” Ridley asks, spinning around with his hands out.
I nod, struck dumb. “I do,” I whisper. But what’s it for?”
“For times like this,” Ridley replies, “Times when I – or you – need to hide.”
I walk around the hideaway in a daze. I can’t really believe this is happening – that I am here. It all seems too convenient, like someone’s about to pull the rug out from underneath me, or as if all four walls are about to topple down and I’ll find myself on the set of some strange Japanese game show.
“Why?” I croak.
“Do I have a secret hideaway?” Ridley grins. “I guess that’s a fair question. I told you what – who – I am: a gangster (though I don’t like to use that term). Let’s call me a businessman. Sometimes I make a,” Ridley clears his throat with a self-aware smile tickling his lips, “bad deal. Sometimes unsavory people come looking for me. So, when they do, I come here.”
“Well,” I murmur, dragging my fingers across the soft red velvet sofa. “I guess you’re just perfect, aren’t you? I thought criminal master minds with their own secret hidey-holes were just a myth, but…”
“You like it?” Ridley asks softly.
I nod. I do, very much. For the first time in weeks, I’m fully relaxed. Even when I was tucked against Ridley’s chest last night, it was hard to fall asleep. When I closed my eyes, I had dreams that the Templars were going to bust down the door.
But in here, with four thick walls – thick enough to hold up a train – I know that I’m completely safe. There’s no way the cartel can bust their way in here. Not without a freaking bulldozer, anyway.
“I did it myself,” he says. “No use having a secret hideaway if there’s a construction firm who knows exactly where it is. Took three years, and –.”
“You’re still not done,” I smile, pointing at a small pile of paint pots stacked neatly against the far wall.
“Not quite,” Ridley admits. “But close. I had to cart the furniture in here in the dead of night. I know most of the people who live around here, but it’s not just the Irish, these days. So you never know…”
“What are those?” I say, pointing at the far wall. There are two doors: one as big as the front entrance way, and colored a dark, rusting red. The other is small: goblin-size. Even I would need to crouch in order to enter it.
Ridley holds up his hand. There’s another key – this time shiny steel. He points at the hobbit door. “What’s a hideout without a secret escape tunnel?” He chuckles. The grin on his face is now so broad it’s threatening to split apart entirely. It would be irritating, if he wasn’t quite so handsome. Besides, Ridley did save my life. I can’t just forget that.
“You dug a tunnel?” I say, stunned. My voice comes out slow and halting. I get an image in my mind of Ridley dressed as a coalminer, complete with the lamp on the top of his helmet, and filthy with caked-on dirt.
Ridley shakes his head. His grin dials back a touch – but only just a touch. “Not quite. It was there to start with: a service tunnel for the signal lines up above. I just dug my own entrance.”
“Surprised you didn’t try and claim credit…” I smile sweetly.
Ridley licks his lips. His eyes flare with interest. “Oh, so ye’ve got a bit of lip, do ye?” He replies, his voice husky. His eyes rake up and down my body. “I like that in a girl.”
