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

by Holly Hart

  I let a little daydream run riot through my mind. It’s not the first time. Ridley and I, living together, in a real place; I mean, not a hole underground; in a home of our own. And maybe –

  No, don’t think about kids.

  Then I snap out of it. Snap back to routine; again. Snap back to this bunker with its cold floor and four brick walls. When Ridley’s not here, the magic isn’t either. I don’t hear laughter, or his gruff, loving tones. Just silence: silence that presses down on me; silence that lets my imagination run riot: sometimes good, and sometimes…

  … not so good.

  The rational side of me knows that I’ve got to snap out of it: this; this darkness. But since when was the rational side of me in control? Not for as long as I can remember. Not in moments like this, anyway.

  I try and focus on simply getting dressed. But as anyone who’s ever had depression knows, sometimes that isn’t as easy as it sounds. First one leg into the jeans, then the other. Pulling them up seems harder than normal. Are they heavier?

  That task done, I glance around the hideaway. I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but it seems smaller: narrower. It feels like the walls are closing in on me. I’m not wearing a top, but even so it’s hard to breathe. I’m getting hotter, hotter than I was when I’m standing under a shower pelting me with super-heated jets of water.

  “Get a grip, Frankie,” I mutter to myself.

  Unlike earlier, my voice doesn’t sound playful. It’s quiet and timid. I only hear a whisper. It’s like howling into a gale.

  I sit down on the bed as I pull a bra, and then a T-shirt on. I fall heavily, as though my body is desperate to relieve my legs of its weight. Then it hits me. The reason I’m feeling like this. It’s no mystery: it’s just my chickens coming home to roost. I’ve been putting this off for far too long, and instead putting on an act.

  An act that says: “I’m fine.” But that’s all it ever was.

  An act.

  A mirage.

  Even if I didn’t know it then – even if I thought I had tasted happiness, I was wrong. Because now everything tastes of ash. Every smell is tainted with cloying despair, every wall painted with death.

  The girls: the memory scythes through my mind, their faces pass on a carousel.

  I abandoned them. I’ve been living this life: this lie, for two weeks now. How could I do this to them. When we huddled around each other for warmth in those cold, dark rooms, we swore that if any of us got out, we’d do something. We would go to the police, or the FBI, or even the National Guard! Anyone who would listen. We would beg and we would plead. But we would not give up.

  Yet, giving up is exactly what I’ve done. I left my friends there, with their tears and their despair. I left them to die, and worse.

  A voice of reason pleads inside my own head. It tells me things I know to be true, and yet which I dismiss as false. But it’s quiet, so quiet.

  I know I could not have gone to the cops.

  I know I saw a man with a badge in our prison, his hand on his gun, his eyes filled with desire.

  I know what the man they called “adultero” said: that if anyone ever spoke to the cops, the Templars would know. They’d know and they would kill us all, burying our bodies in unmarked graves, never to be found.

  And yet…

  And yet that’s just an excuse, isn’t it? Even if I couldn’t have gone to the cops, I could have done something! Instead I let myself get swallowed up by lust and love. I let myself fall prey to happiness, and I kidded myself that it was recovery; kidded myself that I needed it, when I could’ve survived without. When I should have survived without it.

  In my madness, in my despair, I gloss over that word. Love. I barely notice it, scarcely realize I thought it. I’m spinning, off-axis. Someone’s kicked the world out from underneath me. But I did think it. Whether I know it now, or not – it’s important. It’s everything.

  Ridley.

  His face flashes across my mind. Perfect. Hard. His glittering hazel and green eyes glint like gemstones, and that flash of white in his hair shines like a diamond in the rough.

  But my eyes fill with tears.

  “Where are you?” I growl. My angered voice bounces off the hideaway’s brickwork, voice tight, throat closed off.

  In my darkness, I don’t see the man I’m falling for any more. I don’t see Ridley because he’s not here. But it’s more than that. My brain pushes out every rational explanation for where he might be, and only gives me poison in return. He must be with his brother, having fun. Maybe in a bar, drinking. Maybe with another girl…

  No!

  But maybe.

  Once the idea is in my head, it’s all I can think about: Ridley, with another girl’s arms draped around his shoulders, and the glint of desire in his eyes.

  It’s unfair. He doesn’t deserve that from me. Ridley Byrne is the best man I’ve ever known. He’s the only man who ever looked out for me, the only one who ever kept me. And yet the Frankie that understands those truths isn’t here. She’s gone, chased away like a hummingbird in the face of a hurricane of the guilt that’s now driving me on. The guilt over abandoning my friends: guilt that I survived; when others didn’t; guilt that I left them.

  I’m spinning.

  Nothing makes sense anymore. I feel like someone’s thrown me off the edge of the world. I feel like I’m walking in darkness, hands out in front of me, terrified I’ll topple off a cliff.

  Then, slowly, a path reveals itself.

  I know what I have to do.

  The only thing I can possibly do.

  Go back.

  Help. Do something. Anything!

  I see the world as a blur now, blinded by hot tears flooding from the corners of my eyes. I leave the chest of drawers wide open, and the bed unmade. I’m being carried along now: swept by a tide that isn’t of my own making. I’m not in control, not anymore.

  Somehow I scramble for a pen and a sheet of paper. Perhaps whatever forces me to do that is the last shred of the other Frankie; the one that knows that Ridley cares for her. Or perhaps I’m just running on auto.

  I scribble a note.

  Ridley,

  Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. You will never know how much it meant to me. You’ll never know how much you mean to me…

  The second half of the letter is lost in a fog of tears.

  I grab what little I own. It’s not much, really: just a thin jacket that’s barely enough to fight off Boston’s grasping spring. Not much to sum up an entire life.

  When the heavy steel door slams closed against its frame, metal striking metal, it rings. It sounds like a man taking a sledgehammer to the Bell of Liberty. It’s a dull ring, a groan – one I can feel in my bones.

  I tuck Ridley’s key underneath a loose brick to the side of the door. And then I leave, for good.

  20

  Ridley

  I take the stairs inside the abandoned apartment building two at a time. From what Mac said on the phone, this might be the place. We’ve been staking Templar safe houses out all week. I’ve felt bad leaving Frankie alone while I go hunting, but I’m not doing it for sport.

  This time I’m hunting a much more dangerous prey: adultero. The man with the wedding ring tattoos.

  And I’m hunting for the girls that Frankie left behind. I didn’t want to say anything before – I didn’t want to get Frankie’s hopes up. But if this really is the place, then I’ll tell her tonight. I know I need to stop being so secretive with her. It’s not doing me any good, and it’s not helping her either.

  It’s just … It’s just a habit.

  I slow my headlong gallop as I reach the last flight of stairs: metal this time. Even so, my boots ring out on it like I’m striking cymbals – encouraging me to slow even further. Stealth is the name of this game.

  I push the fire escape door to the roof open. Boston in early spring can be as cold as some cities get in midwinter. This morning is one of those days. The cool, fresh
air hits me like a slap in the face.

  “Ye made it.”

  I pause in the doorway, looking around for the source of the sound. When my eyes adjust to the sudden change in light, I see my brother Mac lying on his belly on the ground. He swivels round and looks at me over his shoulder, grinning. “Was beginning to think ye decided not to bother…”

  I keep low, hunching over as I close the distance between him. I can’t see how any Templars would see me, but the last thing I want is to blow this whole operation because some guard saw my outline silhouetted against the sky.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I grunt, lowering myself to Mac’s height and coming to rest on my belly. Gravel and shards of glass dig into my front. I barely notice them. “So – ye think this is the place?”

  Mac pauses for a while before replying. When he does, he doesn’t exactly answer my question in a straightforward manner.

  “You seen ‘em?”

  “Who?”

  “The Templars, brother,” Mac growls, spitting the word like it’s an insult. “I’ve never seen them so cocky before. They’ve got men on every street corner; even down Dorchester. Loitering, waiting: taunting us.”

  “I’ve seen.” My voice is gruff and controlled, but no less angry for it.

  “They’re like rats spilling out of a sewer,” Mac says. If anything, he’s even angrier about it than I am. Or maybe I’m just hiding it better. “Ye know what they’re doing, right?”

  “Watching us,” I nod. “They ain’t even bothering to hide it, the knobs.”

  Mac chuckles, but his laughter is entirely devoid of humor. It’s a chilling sound. My brother is a killer. I’m just glad he’s on my side.

  Really glad.

  “Yer right. I doubt a mouse could swish its tail in the city without one of those tattooed fucks snitching to their higher-ups.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief that I’ve got Frankie safe in my hideaway. Mac’s right. This city is too dangerous for her to be walking around in right now. Hell, even I’m in danger.

  “On the plus side,” Mac continues, turning to face me. This time I think the humor on his face is genuine. “At least we know where they are.”

  “What do ye mean?”

  He grins. “Like I said, they are rats: every one; to a man. And what do you do with rats?”

  Understanding dawns in my mind. I clap Mac on the shoulder.

  “Exterminate them.”

  “Exactly.” He says. A short pause reigns as he scans the buildings down below through a set of binoculars.

  “Say, Rid,” Mac says, in a tone that I should know by now spells trouble. “Why are we doing this, again?”

  He drops the binoculars and turns to face me, a wicked smile toying with his lips. I choose my words carefully. The glint in Mac’s eyes tells me he knows something: I just don’t know what it is.

  “Doing what? This? Like you said – pest control.”

  “Ye know, I don’t think that’s the whole truth, brother,” Mac grins. “I think there’s more to it than yer telling me.”

  I stay noncommittal, reaching for the binoculars. “Ye do, do ye? And what gives you the impression I care what ye think, now?”

  Mac’s face takes on a wounded expression, scrunching up. “Ye wound me, brother. I’m here to help, so I am. I just want to know why. Whether there’s an ulterior motive to all this…”

  I break my eyes away from the binoculars and look at my brother dead on. The glint in his eyes is clear as day now. He knows everything – or at least, he suspects, and that’s pretty much the same thing. Mac won’t stop hounding me until he gets an answer. I don’t blame him. If our positions were switched, I wouldn’t either.

  “You know I can’t lie to ye, right?” I say, blithely ignoring the fact that I’ve been lying to Mac this whole time. “There’s a girl.”

  “There’s always a girl,” Mac replies. “Who’s this one? Is she special?”

  Frankie’s face fills my mind: Long red hair; shining blue eyes. It takes more than a blink for me to concentrate again.

  “Frankie,” I mutter. I can’t disguise the small smile that breaks out onto my face. “And yeah – she’s a special one, alreet.”

  Mac arches an eyebrow. “Special enough to start a war over?”

  I give Mac the only response that question needs. “And then some.”

  “Well then,” Mac says, accepting my decision without flinching. “I guess we got our very own Helen of Troy. See how that one worked out…”

  “Helen of who?”

  Mac chuckles lowly. “Ye never did pay attention to Father Patrick, did ye?”

  I bring the binoculars to my eyes again. The apartment building on the other side of the street stands alone. Whatever once stood to its left is now a building site: just a pile of rubble; to its right is an empty lot.

  “Not if I could help it,” I agree.

  “Boring old soul, so he was,” Mac agrees. “So – this girl. What’s she like? Hot?”

  I turn and shoot Mac a look which takes no prisoners. He grins, entirely unfazed. I knew I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. My twin’s like a dog with a bone, sometimes. All the time…

  “And some,” I say again. “How long you been watching this place?”

  I see a flash of movement through the lens, and focus the binoculars on it: a twitching curtain. Inside, a man stands peering out. He’s got a pistol sitting on his hip.

  “’Bout twelve hours,” Mac replies. “So where did ye meet her? A bar? Tinder?”

  I heave a sigh of irritation. I realize that I’m going to have to come clean and tell Mac everything. My only other option is to sit here and have him pepper me with questions until I keel over from exhaustion.

  “Red hair, blue eyes, and curves you wouldn’t believe. Trust me, Mac – you ain’t never getting your hands on a girl like Frankie.”

  If I thought that insult was going to dissuade my brother, I thought wrong.

  “Frankie, eh? And tell me ye met her on Tinder.”

  My brother’s eyes are alive with delight. If he was a balloon, I’d stick a pin in him. he knows it. He’s doing his best to push me as far as I’ll go. Younger siblings: they are all the same, irritating as hell.

  “Ye want to know where I met the gal?” I growl, staring at Mac. I jerk my head at the apartment building.

  “She was running away from these bastards. They were going to beat her. Kill her. Rape her – I don’t know which. I don’t want to know. I shot some prick with wedding ring tattoos coming out of his eyes, knocked two more of them out. I should have killed them all.”

  Mac’s eyes flare.

  “So I’ve been looking after the gal for the last couple of weeks; nursing her back to health. She’s a fine lady, Mac. I’m serious – she didn’t deserve what those pricks did to her. You should give her a bit of respect.”

  Mac doesn’t reply for a second. When he does, his voice is more restrained: even cautious. I swear I hear him suck a deep breath in through his teeth.

  “Rid… Did ye say a man with wedding ring tattoos?”

  I nod.

  “Jaysus. Ye got lucky. That man is one bad hombre.”

  “You know where he is?” I growl. “I’m going to kill him. I should’ve done it the first time.”

  Mac shakes his head. “No, brother. But I know who he is. They call him adultero. Whisper it, even. He’s a scary dude, Ridley.”

  “Stupid feckin’ name,” I grunt. “Deserves a bullet in his skull just for that.”

  “Deserves a bullet in his skull for a whole lot more than that. He’s a sick puppy. You know the tattoos?” Mac asks, indicating his cheek. “Women. Married women – each one.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve heard whispers. Stories,” Mac says, recoiling with disgust. “Man went around searching for married women to fuck. Now, don’t get me wrong, Rid – I ain’t condoning cheating. But adultery’s a matter for the good Lord to look into,
not us.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The tattoos: each one is for a woman. He’d find them, flatter them, take them out for drinks – you know the story. Then, the night after they slept with him for the first time, he broke into their homes. Tied up the husband: kept his eyes stuck open with duct tape.”

  “And then?” I ask, feeling sick. I ask, even though I’m sure I already know what Mac’s going to tell me. “Then he raped the wives. Killed them the moment he finished.”

  “And the husbands?”

  “They got to live,” Mac says with a quiet, bitter laugh. “But would you want to? Knowing that this fucker killed your wife, and there’s nothing ye can do for revenge. And not only that –”

  “Knowing that it all happened because your wife cheated on you…” I whisper.

  Mac nods. “These are some sick bastards we’re dealing with, brother. It ain’t like it was back in dad’s day. These guys aren’t just gunning for us; they’ll take out our whole family.”

  “Feck tha’,” I growl. “Not if I have anything to say about it. Frankie ain’t safe until I put that bastard in a grave. Trust me, Mac, I’m going to.”

  Another silence.

  “You’re falling fer her, aren’t you?” Mac asks.

  The question would have irritated me a few seconds ago – but after hearing Mac’s story, I welcome it. We’re back on safer ground. I don’t have to picture Frankie’s broken body in my mind: worrying what will happen if the Templars get their hands on her: again.

  I pause to think about my answer. It’s strange, but I haven’t considered it before now. I’ve been taking each day at a time. The answer, when it comes, surprises me.

  “Ye know, I am,” I say.

  Mac pats me on the shoulder. “At least some good’s come out of all this, brother. I’ll have to meet her – Frankie. She sounds like a class gal, alright.”

  “That she is.”

  The more I think about it, the more I realize it’s true. I am falling for Frankie. Hard. I’ve never met a girl like her before – never met a girl who can make me laugh and cry in the same breath. It’s hard to explain: Frankie’s just different. And our chemistry – it’s something else.