Scorched: A Dark Bad Boy Romance (Byrne Brothers Book 3)

by Holly Hart

  “Don’t go getting any ideas,” I mutter, face flushed. God, even the heat of Ridley’s eyes on me is making me burn up inside. I’m almost ashamed to be experiencing the sensations I’m feeling. I feel like I shouldn’t – not after everything that happened to me. I feel like it’s a betrayal of everything I’ve been through, and a betrayal of the girls I’ve left behind.

  But I am – feeling things, that is. Feeling things I never thought I would again.

  Of course, I have another thing fueling my embarrassment. I’m filthy. I’m wearing clothes fished out of a cupboard in the hovel the cartel locked me in: clothes that have probably been on a dozen girls without ever being washed. I need a shower, a fresh set of clothes, and –.

  I flinch. I feel the tug of need inside me. It’s been more than a day since my last hit, since my last pill, and it’s beginning to show. I hold my hand up in front of me. It trembles.

  I’m ashamed of this too. I know the addiction isn’t my fault – I keep telling myself that I tried to spit out those pills when those beasts shoved them into my mouth. I tried to make myself vomit, shoved my fingers down my throat and retched until they kicked me in the gut.

  But that doesn’t change anything.

  It doesn’t matter whether it was my choice or not, I’m an addict now.

  How can any man be attracted to that?

  They’ve ruined me forever.

  “Are you okay?” Ridley asks, immediately concerned. I don’t know how he does it. It’s like he’s tuned into my frequency – like he knows my body and mind as well as I do, perhaps even better.

  “Are you hungry?” He asks, eyes narrowing. It’s then that I see it: the flash of understanding in his eyes. I bite my lip. “Oh …” He says.

  I close my eyes. “Oh,” I repeat. It’s so quiet that even I can barely hear it. “Oh.”

  “It’s not your fault, gal: the way they treated you; the things they did to you; none of it.” Ridley states, his tone serious and deep. I hang on to it like a ladder, except the sides are greased, and I’m slowly slipping down.

  “I know,” I reply. “But that doesn’t change anything.”

  “It doesn’t,” Ridley admits sadly. “I’m sorry. I’ll get ye a doctor, how’s that?”

  “Thank you,” I reply. “That would be good.”

  And just like that, we’re out of sync again. Sometimes conversation is so easy with Ridley; it feels like we’ve known each other for years, been dating for years. Then we – I – hit a speed bump, and the car falls apart around me. I swallow hard. I need to change the topic.

  “Ridley,” I whisper. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Ye already did,” he grins, waving his hand graciously. “But go ahead.”

  “How long will I have to stay here? It’s not that I’m not grateful, but –”

  “– but you don’t want to hide out here like a mole for the rest of your life,” Ridley grins. “Never ye mind about that, doll. I like this place, but not that much. I’ll get ye out of here, soon enough. But tell me something?” He says, his voice rising in a question.

  I nod. “I guess that’s fair.”

  Ridley’s eyes shoot me an apology. I bite my lip: hard enough to draw blood; hard enough to push back the whispering addiction; hard enough to push back the hurtful memories. “Tell me about the man,” he starts, “the man with the tattoos on his face.” He taps his left eye with one finger.

  I close my eyes. I know exactly who he’s talking about. How could I forget? That man’s face will be burned into my mind for as long as I live. I begin to pant, my breath is ragged. It’s hard to think, hard to speak.

  “Take your time, gal,” Ridley says. “You can tell me later…”

  “No,” I growl back. My voice is hard, I barely recognize it. “They called him adultero. I don’t know what it means. He had three rings tattooed by his eye. The girls – they whispered things about him. He kidnapped couples – married couples – for fun. I don’t know what happened then.” I say. “But I can’t believe it was anything good.” The story finishes in a whisper. My voice is hoarse, my throat raw.

  I look up. “Why do you want to know?”

  Ridley doesn’t answer except to point at the screen by the entranceway. “If you see anyone on the other side who isn’t me, then run. Get into the tunnel. It’ll get you up to the tracks. There’s money in that drawer: enough to get you far away from here.”

  “What are you going to do, Ridley?” I ask. I can’t hide the anxiety in my voice: it’s high, sharp and girlish.

  “You know what I’m going to do,” he growls. “I’m going to find out who this adultero is. Then when I do, I’m going to finish things.”

  8

  Ridley

  I must be distracted by all the shit going on inside my head, because my legs carry me to the Red Lion before my brain catches up with them. The ember of anger inside me – that little candlewick that never goes completely out, no matter how happy I feel – is more than just smoldering right now.

  Every time I think of the way those Templar freaks treated Frankie, I want to punch something, hurt something, and break something. My eyes are peeled: if I so much as sense a man with teardrop tattoos – leaking out of his eyes like sewage from an underground broken pipe – I’ll end him right here and right now.

  “Ridley,” the pub’s owner smiles as I let the heavy wooden door close with a clatter behind me. “Good to see ye; haven’t seen you around these parts for a while.”

  I shrug; “Hey, Barry. You know how it is. We’ve got the Jester now. Hard to drink in another man’s establishment when you’ve got your own, you know?”

  I glance around at the old Irish pub. It’s one of my favorites. It’s clad in dark, heavy wood, taken from an old sailing ship that plied the waves on the old spice run back when sailing ships still ruled the waves. During the time when my family’s ancestors farmed potatoes back home on the other side of the Atlantic, if they were lucky. I guess they often weren’t, and that’s how we ended up here.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Barry chuckles, patting his belly for good measure. “And more’s the pity. But it’s good to see you, Rid. Can I get ye a drink? On the house, o’ course.”

  I think about his offer before accepting. On the one hand, I want a clear head for what I’m about to do. But on the other, Pa always told us boys to never turn down a drink …

  “Go on then,” I grunt, taking a seat on one of the stools lined up against the long wooden bar. “Can’t do any harm, I guess.”

  “What can I get ye?” Barry asks. I cock my head and close one eye in response. It’s all I need to say – or not – as the case may be.

  “Silly question: Guinness it is then,” the landlord grins; “coming right up.”

  It’s not much past midday, so the pub is pretty quiet. I scan the room. A few construction workers sit on the other end of the bar in bright orange reflective coveralls, wetting their whistle with lunch. There’s an old drunk slumped over in a booth at the back of the bar, and not a whole lot else.

  Barry slides over a thick, full pint of beer. I accept it gratefully and give myself a thick foam mustache. Barry takes my silence as an opportunity to talk.

  “What are you really doing here, Rid?” He grunts, leaning forward and lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Because I know it ain’t for the good of me health.”

  I lower my pint glass with a thud and hold my hands jokingly above my head. “You got me, buddy. I’ve got an ulterior motive.”

  “Don’t we all,” Barry says, rolling his eyes. “So what is it, then? Hit me.”

  “You’re a man who knows things, Barry,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “Or so you’re fond of telling me: secrets and such.”

  The portly landlord has the good grace to throw a smile my way. “So some say, so some say,” he – well – says, rubbing his knuckles against the thick ginger bristles on the underside of his chin. “Course, that’s the thing with secrets. They
don’t stay so secret if you open your mouth.”

  “I’m looking for some information,” I say, digging the tip of my finger in my pint and dragging it around the rim of my glass. It gives off a high-pitched squeak. “Maybe you can help me?”

  “Depends,” Barry says with a half-nod of his head. He looks around shiftily. “I don’t want to be getting in any trouble, now. And you Byrnes seem to have a knack of throwing yourself in the deep end.”

  I decide to cut to the chase. We both know that Barry’s going to give me the information I want. That’s just the way things work down here in South Boston: my town; my brothers’ town; my family’s town. So why beat around the bush?

  “The Templars,” I say in a voice that’s barely more than a whisper. “Tell me what you know about them.”

  Barry bites his lip and turns slightly pale, like eggshell paint. “Tell me you ain’t asking that of me, Ridley my boy,” he moans. “I told you I didn’t want any trouble, and that’s the kind of question you ask.”

  “Perils of being a man who knows things,” I say, shooting Barry a grin that dies somewhere in between us. “I guess.”

  “Better for both of us if you just forget you ever asked me that question,” Barry says, throwing out a Hail Mary pass. He and I both know that I’m not going to give up on this one. But it’s interesting that he’s so desperate not to get involved.

  “It might be better for you, maybe.” I growl.

  Barry shakes his head. “Trust me, Rid. These guys ain’t messing around. They are bad people: real bad guys. It’s not the same world as it was in your papa’s day. They’ll put a bullet in your skull just as soon as shake your hand; won’t even say hello.”

  “Times change,” I mutter. “But I’m not letting these thugs into me city without a fight.”

  Barry’s eyes bulge. “What do you mean, let them in?” He gasps. “Rid, look around. They’re here already. They’ve been here for months. Years, even. Like I said, they ain’t messing around. There’s no honor among thieves these days.”

  “Tell me what you know,” I growl, unsettled by Barry’s clear concern. I’m starting to think that I – and hell, my brothers too – have taken my eye off the ball. I don’t want to believe that we’ve allowed a new crew to step onto our territory without even noticing, but judging by Barry’s reaction that moment’s come, been and gone.

  “That’s all I want,” I say, leaning forward and squeezing the landlord’s shoulder. “Then I’ll be out o’ your hair, just like that.”

  Barry runs his fingers through the thinning hair on the top of his domed head. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he groans. “Fine then; but you keep me name out of it, you hear? Last thing I need is a bunch of gang bangers kickin’ down me door and lightin’ me granpappy’s bar on fire.”

  “You have my word.” I zip my mouth, to make the point. “You can trust me on that.”

  “I don’t know much,” Barry says, glancing nervously around the gloomy pub. “But I’ll tell ye what I do. I started hearing about them, what, about eighteen months ago? Nothing big; just a bunch of Mexicans slinging drugs on street corners, you know? We’ve all heard tha’ story before; hell, I thought you boys would deal with it. I guess you had bigger things on your minds.”

  I bite my lip at Barry’s implied criticism. I want to respond – give him a piece of my mind for having a pop at me – but I don’t blame him. He’s hit the nail on the head. We have taken our eyes off the ball: too consumed with our own problems to take care of our city like we’re supposed to.

  “But it’s been getting worse,” Barry whispers. “I’ve been hearing stories –.”

  “– what stories?”

  “About beatings: murders – even in broad daylight. They’ve got the cops on the payroll, and you know how Boston is. This shit gets swept under the rug. Unless –”

  “– Unless someone’s listening,” I say, staring thoughtfully at Barry, “someone like you.”

  He nods: “someone like me. They’re into some bad shit, Ridley. Drugs, women, guns; you name it, they’ve got their finger in the pie. This might be one bridge you boys don’t want to cross, if ye know what I mean…”

  “Sorry, Barry,” I glower. “No can do. If we let these punks into our city without a fight, then we may as well pack up and go –,” I pause. “Well, not home. This is home. We may as well leave.”

  The old landlord shakes his head sadly. “I think it’s too late, Ridley, I really do. They got their claws in, now – dug in hard – and they ain’t letting go.”

  “Where are they are operating from, Barry?” I grunt. I’m in no mood to listen to the landlord’s defeatism. There’s no way I’m rolling over and taking a kicking from two-bit thugs like the Templars. What happened to Frankie, it’s got me boiling over with rage; and now I know they’ve been doing this to other women, in my city…

  “That,” Barry says, spreading his arms, “I can’t tell you –”

  “Can’t,” I growl, “or wont?”

  “Can’t. I told you everything I know, Ridley. That’s the honest truth.”

  “Then find me someone who knows more than you.”

  Barry’s cheeks dance in dim light fighting its way in through windows that don’t look to have been cleaned in years. “Terry,” he mutters, jerking his chin at the other end of the bar. “Terry Butcher. He’s got what you want.”

  I glance around without making it obvious. “Who,” I say, my face crinkling up, “that old drunk?”

  Barry nods. “He’s a drunk, all right. But men like him will do anything for a few pennies to rub together.”

  I twist my body on the stool to get a good look at the man Barry’s referring to. Whoever he is, this Terry hasn’t aged well. He’s clutching the dregs of a pint of lager. His fingernails are stained yellow, and so is a polluted once-gray beard. I can almost smell him from over here.

  “I’m going to need some privacy, Barry,” I say. “What did you say his name was, again?”

  Barry grimaces. I can tell that the last thing he wants to do is leave me alone in his pub. “Terry Butcher. But Ridley, –”

  “What is it?”

  “I know what you’re like, okay?” He says, with a pained expression tightening his cheeks. “I want to have a bar to come back to, you know what I mean? Just –, just don’t throw anything, all right?”

  “I can do that for you,” I chuckle mirthlessly. I can feel the blackness that Barry is talking about rising in my chest. It’s hard to describe: a tension in every muscle, an urge to do harm. I glance at the construction workers, now wiping their hands against their overalls, their plates now empty. Barry gets my message.

  I sit at the bar, nursing my Guinness until Barry’s done his job clearing the men out, and it’s just me and the old drunk left. I watch him in the mirror, behind the bar, studying his every move. Not that he makes many of them. He’s consumed with staring at what’s left of his drink. It’s as though the alcohol in that fingerprint-stained glass means more to him than life itself.

  I get to my feet. The stool scrapes back behind me, as its feet are dragging against the ground. My footsteps echo around the empty pub as I walk – taking my time – over to the old man’s empty booth. Despite the sound, still, he doesn’t look up.

  “Mind if I sit here?” I say, keeping my voice pleasant, while plunking my pint glass down on the table in front of him, just to make it completely clear that it doesn’t really matter what answer he gives. Terry jumps – the first evidence I’ve seen that he’s actually alive – and looks up at me from beady black eyes set in a weathered, lined face. I resist the urge to shiver. There’s an air of cunning about him that I don’t like, not one little bit.

  “Who the hell are you?” He growls in a gravelly voice that’s seen one – or one thousand – too many packs of cigarettes.

  “Just a man with some questions.”

  “Well … fuck you and your questions,” Terry replies. “Now leave me alone.”

>   I shake my head, unable to tear my eyes away from the man and – more particularly – from the damage he has done to his body. Now that I’m up close, I realize that he can’t be much more than forty years old, even if his face tells a different story.

  “I can’t do that,” I say, pleasantly enough, sitting down in front of the drunk. His eyes snap between me and the pint of Guinness that’s resting just in touch with my fingers.

  “Where is everyone?” Terry asks while dragging a dry tongue across lips with cracks as deep as the Grand Canyon. “And who are you?”

  “I told ye already: just a man. But I’m glad I finally caught your attention. Now, are you going to answer my questions, or…” I pause, leaving an unspoken threat dangling in the air.

  “What’s in it for me?” Terry says in his ashtray voice. “Why should I do anything for free?”

  “Well,” I smile, “what do you want?

  Terry glances at the beer in my hand, then at the row of taps on the bar. For a second, he looks like he’s seen the face of God: which to him, I guess, is the same thing as being left alone in an empty pub.

  “Another beer,” Terry hisses, in a sibilant, snake-like voice. “No! Make it two.” He leans back against the leather booth bench, a smile blooming across his cheeks. It reminds me of watching dawn break over the horizon from a passenger jet, forty thousand feet up in the air.

  I get to my feet, conscious of Barry’s close attention on me the whole time, and pour two full pints of Barry’s cheapest lager. I figure that Terry doesn’t give a crap what he drinks as long as it’s got alcohol in it. Judging by the greedy look on the man’s face as I turn to carry them back over, I’m right.

  I hand him one of the tall glasses of beer, but keep the other by my side: almost as leverage.

  “A little birdie tells me you run errands for the Templars,” I finally say, not bothering to hide the distaste in my voice. It’s the truth. This man sickens me. The nicotine stains in his gray beard remind me of snow that’s been stained yellow by piss.