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

by Holly Hart

  “Oh, and Ridley?” The man says,: calling at my departing back, as well as confirming that he knows exactly who I am.

  I glance over my shoulder.

  “Don’t, you know, breathe too hard … Whole place is loaded with asbestos.”

  I keep walking, sliding my way through a warren of shipping containers – some stacked half a dozen deep. Docks are strange places wherever you go: havens for men like me: – criminals.

  All sorts of dangerous things flow around the world’s oceans every day in shipping containers just like these: guns; drugs; people.

  I eat up the distance to Building 37 in less than ten minutes. Not because I’m in the prime of my life – though I am – but because my mind’s consumed with wondering what I’ll find. The old drunk I interrogated told me that he saw women dragged from shipping containers and held in the old brick warehouse. I’m just hoping that he decided not to risk the cartel’s wrath over spilling every last one of their secrets to me.

  I slide a slim leather-bound notebook from inside my jacket pocket. Page after page is ruled with the old drunk’s ugly, brutal chicken scratch. If I squint hard enough, I can still see his fingers trembling as he tried to remember how to make the words appear on the page.

  “Flophouse,” he had murmured as the pen scratched against the paper. “They held the girls there, in an old warehouse down by the docks. Did other stuff, too, but they never let me get too close.”

  The closer I get to the sectioned-off area of the docks, the more I begin to dread what I will find. Between what Frankie told me of her treatment, and the whispers I’ve heard about the Templars, I know that if my Intel’s right – and this is the place – then I’m going to see some shit I’ll never forget.

  The thought doesn’t stop me: it doesn’t scare me; it drives me on. I only have to see it; Frankie had to survive it. I owe it to the gal to do what I can to save the girls she left behind.

  “They numbered us, can you believe that? She was Seven and I was Eight.” Frankie’s dull, shocked voice echoes in my ears. I can still picture the look of barely repressed terror on her face. But there’s something else, as well; a shadow that she’s hiding. I think she’s holding onto guilt about leaving those girls behind: the other numbers. Until someone helps them, she’ll never be the girl she once was.

  I want to meet the old Frankie. I’m desperate to bring that girl to back to life. Even a touch, the slightest taste of this Frankie: the one suffering from guilt, trauma and torment was enough to get me hooked. I’m like a junkie. I need more.

  I step out from behind a line of shipping containers and find myself out in the open. I jerk backwards, pressing my body against the corrugated metal of a battered white container marked with Japanese Kanji.

  A gap about thirty yards wide separates the last shipping container from a long metal fence that leads all the way to the harbor. Behind it, old brick and wood warehouses – the last remnants of the old Boston Harbor – jut into the sky like broken teeth.

  I crouch down and shield my eyes from the morning sun. I’m looking for guards, movement – any kind of life, in fact. But I see nothing. I can’t tell if the old man fed me a crock of shit just to get me off his back, or if whoever’s manning Building 37 is hiding, lying in wait.

  The cawing of seagulls overhead cuts through the sound of breathing rasping in my chest. I scan left and right, up and down – but see nothing.

  “Fuck it, Rid,” I mutter to myself; “Enough arsing around. Sitting here’s helping no one. If yer going to die today, then so be it.”

  I reach around the small of my back and grab my pistol. I rack a round, make the sign of the cross on my chest – and sprint for cover.

  The thirty yards to the fence seems to take a lifetime. I can’t help but feel that at any moment, a rifle’s going to open up and turn me into Swiss cheese, spraying my blood across the asphalt. But there’s nothing.

  I fall to my chest on the ground, peeking through a slit at the bottom of the fence. I’m closer to the warehouses now, and I can make them out in more detail.

  34.

  35.

  My eyes pass across faded white signs, searching for the place I’ve come to find.

  36…

  Then I see it: Building 37. For all I know it’s empty and this was all a wild goose chase; but even so, the warehouse seems sinister. The brick, once red, is now painted a dirty, dull gray by years of ships’ smoke. All around, deep trenches, dug by the tracks of earth movers and construction machines, are carved out of the earth and littered with scraps of plastic, paper and garbage.

  But as far as I can tell, Building 37 is empty. It seems like every one of the other warehouses that line the harbor’s edge: filthy; decrepit. I can’t see the faintest sign of life: other than a lazy ring of seagulls circling the roof. For some reason, the image of the birds sticks in my mind. It reminds me of a pack of vultures dancing on thermals of hot air, waiting for their prey to die.

  I shake my head to rid it of the thought. I need to focus on the mission. I need to get closer.

  I crawl a dozen yards or so down the long metal fence until I find a section where it’s been dented by something – perhaps a reversing forklift. Whatever caused the impact pried two sections of corrugated iron apart. I’m in: my lucky day.

  It’s not a big gap – barely wide enough to squeeze my body through – but it will have to do. I glance down at my denim jacket. It’s filthy already, and it’s only going to get worse.

  “Ah Hell; She’s worth it.”

  I push my body through the gap, uncomfortably aware of the sharp, jagged metal threatening to carve my chest into ribbons. But I make it through unscathed – except for a new addition to the muck coating my body.

  I pull myself to my feet, hiding behind an old red tractor, spattered by dirt. I feel its pain. I’m quickly beginning to resemble a Special Forces commando: all painted in camouflage.

  I can’t be much more than twenty yards away from Building 37’s façade. From this distance – and without a rusted metal fence in the way – everything’s a lot easier to make out.

  Seagulls.

  I glance up at the birds once again as my mind throws me a curveball. I don’t know why the hell I’m looking at them, but I know there must be a reason. Then it strikes me. Building 37 is the only warehouse with its own personal Air Force of white birds, making bombing runs with their own feces. I glance up and down the long row of broken buildings to make absolutely certain.

  “Jackpot,” I mutter. “This is the place.”

  I’ve got no doubt in my mind now. There’s no reason for this building to be occupied: yet, it is occupied. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Harbor Authority has already marked the warehouse as unfit for human use. It’s falling apart. Even from this distance, I can pick out half a dozen spots where the brickwork is beginning to give way.

  No, the only reason for anyone to be using this warehouse, for anything at all, is if they are up to no good. I know it’s the place. I feel it in my bones.

  I reach down: search for my phone; dial the number by touch; and bring it to my ear.

  “Mac,” I grunt as quietly as I can manage, covering my phone’s mouthpiece with my free hand. “It’s Rid. I’m down on the docks, by Building 37. I need you to bring a few things…”

  I hear a crunch. I pause. “Hold up.”

  A man walks around the corner of the warehouse, an AK-47 lazily slung over his left shoulder. He’s tanned: wearing a basketball jersey that falls almost to his knees; his naked arms marked with blue ink. It’s the only confirmation I need. I drop my voice to a hushed whisper.

  “And Mac – make it quick.”

  12

  Frankie

  When I finally drag myself out of bed, Ridley’s gone.

  Again.

  I don’t know. Maybe it’s crazy, but I feel a sense of loss when he’s not around me. Actually, when I come to think about it, maybe it’s not loss, but worry.

 
Around Ridley, I feel safe. When he’s gone, I worry that the cartel might come and snatch me back at any moment.

  It doesn’t matter that I’m hidden away in perhaps the most secure room in all of Boston: protected by thousands of tons of hundred-year old brick, an escape tunnel and thick, steel doors which could hold off a small army. All of that stuff: I should use some common sense to understand I’m safe, but common sense is no defense when the waves of panic and worry start lashing against my mind.

  Even when I get out of bed, I begin to feel a heightened sense of nervousness. I try to force myself to pull it together, but every time I do it feels like I’m throwing feathers into a hurricane, and my best intentions come flying right back at me.

  “Food,” I groan. My words ring around the exposed brick arches inside Ridley’s railway hideaway, echoing back at me like a parrot’s caw: food, food.

  Now that I’m not in the cartel’s clutches, food is something that I can control. I don’t have to wait for a masked man to bring me a plate of slop. I don’t have to eat it off the floor like a dog, or with my hands tied behind my back.

  Eating is… a victory.

  Unfortunately, I discover there’s no more food in the fridge than there was last night. When Ridley gets back, I’m going to have to make him go to the grocery store. Maybe I’ll tag along with him. I’m desperate for the touch of fresh air on my cheeks: after spending so long bouncing from prison to prison; stuffed into a shipping container; huddled in an old brick warehouse; or restrained in a suburban home with secrets to hide. I dream of the kiss of the sun on my forehead.

  … But a kiss of sun isn’t going to do a damn thing to stop my stomach from growling.

  “Ridley, you ass,” I groan, complaining to all four brick walls. “You better get your sexy little butt back here before I have to come looking for you.”

  I get nothing in response.

  Still, just thinking about Ridley is enough to put lightness in my step. I know: that makes me sound like I’m Rapunzel, withering away in my tower; or else Princess Fiona from Shrek, but I promise that’s not the case. Just looking at me will tell you everything you need to know. I’m no beauty. I’m not fishing for compliments, it’s just – I’ve got curves and lumps and bumps like every woman. Besides, Ridley’s no Prince Charming.

  He’s… He’s more than that.

  Ridley Byrne is gruff and brutal. He looks like a figurine carved from some volcanic stone. The details: black hair sporting that white streak in it, and his hazel and green eyes; he’s unbreakable; Indestructible; but also light and caring, and –.

  And not here, I think wryly to myself, so no need to fall head over heels for him just yet.

  My stomach grumbles yet again. “All right, all right,” I mutter. “I get the picture.”

  I glance around the small bunker’s exposed brick walls with narrowed eyes. I’m glad no one can see me. After all those weeks surrounded by women whimpering with fear, and the aggressive, pleasured grunts of evil men; hearing the sound – and lightness – of my own voice is something of a joy.

  I open the fridge door once again.

  And once more, I’m disappointed by what I find.

  “Man can’t live on Champagne alone, Ridley,” I grunt with disappointment. “And neither can this woman…”

  Since I can’t stomach a sparkling wine this early in the morning, I pull open one of the gray kitchen cabinets and grab a clean water glass. I stroke the cold metal of the tap with my fingers, and pull it upward.

  A stream of water runs out, fizzing and popping with bubbles, and splattering against the metal basin. I let it run, testing it from time to time, until the flow streams out as ice cold as a mountain lake.

  “Perfect,” I mutter, smiling with satisfaction. Pouring a glass of water seems like such a small thing, but I’m doing this myself. I’m not drinking water from a bowl while my captors point and laugh; I’m not holding an empty plastic water bottle above my parched lips, trying to eke out the last warm droplets before some laughing, tattooed monster snatches it from my hands.

  I push the glass forward, but it clips the tap. I watch, unable to do anything, as the glass flies from my clutching, useless fingers and smashes against the sink.

  A wave of cold fear cuts through me. It’s like falling onto a thick, sharp icicle.

  A cry of worry escapes my lips.

  I back away from the sink, and the evidence of what I’ve done. I can’t think straight. My mind is filled with scenes of what Ridley’s going to do to me; how he’s going to punish me. I know he is, and I know I deserve it. My head sinks forward against my chest; my lungs pump with ragged, breathless nerves.

  “Stop it!” I yell, loud enough that the sound bounces against the brick and flies back towards me. My voice is serrated with anger and depression and worry, like a cat’s claws dragging across a slate roof. I dig my nails into my palms, waiting for the sweet embrace of pain to hit me.

  I need it.

  It’s the only thing that helps me fight the fear.

  I know it’s not healthy, I know it’s no way to live a life – but it’s the only way I can cope.

  “You just broke a glass, silly,” I say. I repeat it once again – like a mantra. “And Ridley’s not – not them. He won’t hurt you for this.”

  Speaking the words out loud seems to help. My breath returns to normal, and the cold hopelessness of fear recedes from the back of my neck. My eyes glance around the room – as if seeing it for the first time.

  Objectively I know that what happened to me; it wasn’t my fault. I know that I shouldn’t blame myself for getting kidnapped, and I sure as hell shouldn’t let fear control my life.

  But trauma doesn’t work like that.

  It’s insidious.

  It creeps into every area of your life: like cold, black water seeping in through the smallest of cracks. It takes you places that are impossible to imagine. Heck, places you wouldn’t want to imagine. It hugs you with icy arms and refuses to let go.

  But I can’t let it.

  Not anymore.

  I’m sober enough to realize that if I let the fear beat me this time, then I’ll never pull myself from its clutches. I need to make a change. I need to break the pattern. I don’t know if I’m strong enough, but I know I need to try.

  If I don’t try now, then this is my life: dropping a glass and freaking out because my brain screams that I’m about to be beaten: dropping a French fry on the floor, and apologizing like a broken, tamed slave.

  That’s not me. I won’t let it be.

  I force myself back toward the sink. My legs feel heavy at first: like lead, like they are sinking into quicksand beneath me. I push them forward, one after the other, fighting every scrap of resistance my brain throws at me.

  A cold sweat forms on my brow: a tight knot forms in my stomach: hard and gnarled like a walnut, but with all the relentless intensity of a black hole.

  I know what this is.

  Not just another attempt from my brain to stop me from taking such a little act of courage – so little it scarcely counts – but the harsh bite of addiction rearing its ugly head once again: tempting me. I should leave this little bunker, it whispers. Ridley can’t care about me, not really. I have the key. I know the code. I leave, and –.

  No.

  I shake my head. I wipe the tears forming in my eyes with the back of my hand, squeezing my eyes shut tight to hide the evidence of how close I am to the brink. The heat and the wetness trickles down my cheek, cooling like a dying star.

  “Get a fucking grip, Frankie,” I hiss, resting my hands on either side of the basin. My voice sounds hoarse and pained. “This isn’t you. It’s chemical. It’s science. You can beat it.”

  I reach down into the sink, groping for the shattered shards of glass. My hands tremble. Without the sound of my voice encouraging me, the emptiness of Ridley’s bunker even sounds threatening. Another tear trickles into my eye, momentarily blinding me.

  Of course
, the inevitable happens.

  I see it before I feel it. For a few seconds, I feel like I’m underwater, pressure pushing down on my body. I’m in a world of silence, groping around for up and down. Everything’s quiet, everything’s peaceful. The blood rolls down my finger: a thick, round droplet. It glints like a ruby from the light overhead.

  I watch it, stunned.

  I know what pain is. This isn’t pain.

  It’s release.

  I gasp. It’s like I’ve broken through the surface of an icy lake. The air hits my face. I don’t feel the aching grate of addiction anymore; the burden of trauma isn’t just lessened – it’s gone.

  And the blood still rolls down my finger.

  One droplet lands in the sink. It explodes, carried along in the little puddle of water, spreading out like a red ballroom dress spinning outward in mid-twirl, and staining it.

  Another falls …

  … and another.

  Absently, I grab my injured finger with my free hand and close my palm around it. For the first time in weeks, I feel alive. I squeeze the finger, and another spark of what should be pain trickles down every nerve ending.

  The redness stains my hands.

  It paints the sink red.

  But I’m not seeing those girls I left behind, not anymore. I’m not hearing their cries, nor tasting the acrid scent of fear on my tongue. Not as long as my fingers squeeze the cut, and not as long as the crackles of pain speed around my body. The weight of guilt is lifted from my shoulders. I feel light on my feet. A smile graces my lips. I feel like me again.

  I flick the tap on.

  Once again, the water falls against the metal sink, like rain on a hot tin roof. Once again, I test it with my finger – except this time I let the water fall directly into the open cut. It hurts. It stings.

  But it’s better than crushing guilt, and it’s better than fear. I just don’t know how healthy it is.

  The pain lets me think clearly. Without the burden of old pain, guilt and fear weighing down on me, I see the world through new eyes. It’s so clear now: as if the dawn sun has cleared away the darkness and the cobwebs, and left behind only answers.