Up to Me

by M. Leighton

  The street looks innocent enough. It’s a lower-income neighborhood. That much is obvious by the size and simplicity of the houses. Two fairly neat rows of small, square, shutter-less brick homes line the street. The lawns are neat, but functionally so. There’s no fancy landscaping here. There are a few bikes on a few walkways, but I don’t see any elaborate outdoor equipment in any of the backyards.

  As I make my way along the cracked sidewalk that snakes between overgrown trees, I realize it’s the perfect place to be anonymous. There are a few cars along the street, likely those who work the night shift and are sleeping by now. The rest of the residents are probably either at work or at school, leaving the criminals with lots of privacy to do whatever they like. There’s no one around to hear any screams.

  I spot Gavin’s Hummer. My eyes scan the area from left to right as I approach it. When I confirm that it seems we’re not being watched, I open the door and duck inside.

  Immediately, Gavin hands me a knife with a four inch blade, perfect for cutting throats or stabbing into deep tissue. Without question, I take it and slide it into my boot as Gavin screws a silencer onto the end of a Makarov.

  “Irony?” I ask, referring to the Russian made gun. Gavin grins. “So, what do you know?”

  “Not much more than I did. With the houses like this, and it being daylight, it makes it hard to sneak around. Now if I’d known and could come prepared, I’d be checking the cable or telephone. But as it is, I’m lucky I had my stash with me.”

  “Thank God you’re a paranoid bastard.”

  “Right? Otherwise your girlfriend might be in deep shit.”

  “You mean deepER shit.”

  “Well, I figure it could’ve been worse. The blokes that have her shouldn’t be too much of a challenge. I’d say we got lucky the transaction with you was going down at the same time. If I had to guess, they’d made all kinds of preparations for that. Not just making the trade, but disposing of bodies as well. All in all, I think we’re in good shape. It doesn’t hurt that they’re Bratva either. No one should find out about what’s going to happen in that house until some of the big boys come to check in on these piss-ants when they don’t answer the phone.”

  It helps that this is probably the kind of neighborhood where people mind their business for fear of getting shot.

  “You’ve been here all morning. Don’t you think this is pretty risky, considering someone may have gotten your license plates?”

  “Nah, I circled the block when I saw them stop and stuck one of my stolen sets on. They’re magnetized, so they just slide right over the real plates and no one’s the wiser. If anyone gets my tags and if the police somehow get involved, they’ll have the plates of an old pedophile that lives in Canton.” He pauses and frowns, nodding. “Actually, it might be a good thing if someone does get the number. I think that bastard needs a little visit from the authorities right about now.”

  “So what are you thinking then?”

  At the thought of taking action, adrenaline pours into my bloodstream. I feel like I could bench press a damn car!

  “You’re not anxious to get in there, are you?” Gavin teases.

  I think of Olivia and I grit my teeth. “I can’t wait to get in there and crack some skulls. If they so much as laid a finger on her…”

  My heart pounds in my chest as I try and push visions of a brutalized Olivia out of my head.

  “You just have to stay calm, Cash. We have to make sure and do this right or bad things could happen.”

  I take a deep breath and nod. “I know, I know. I’m not worried about them hurting me. I just want to get her out safely. I don’t give a shit what happens to them, as long as they never come after her again.”

  I look at Gavin and he’s shaking his head. “Ever,” he says with finality. It’s not a little thing, what he’s saying. We stare at each other for a tense second or two then I nod in agreement.

  “Ever.”

  Another gush of adrenaline, possibly mixed with a little fear of what might be ahead. I’m not afraid of the people themselves. Or even really getting Olivia out safely. I will get her out. And I will make sure she’s safe. There is no other option.

  It’s the consequences I’m afraid of. I’ve seen up-close and personal what can happen when plans go awry in dealings with people like this. It’s not pretty. It’s ugly! In fact, it’s often ugly to the tune of twenty-five years.

  “Then let’s go get this done. Why don’t you drive me around the block and drop me off? Come back and park somewhere else. You go to the front door and I’ll go to the back. I’m sure there’s a back door.”

  “You might run into a little something back there. Don’t forget that they’ve probably been warned.”

  “They shouldn’t have any idea that I know where they’re at, though.”

  “No, but they’ve probably already gotten a call that the plans have changed. They might be getting ready to move her or do…something to her.”

  I feel a knot of pure hell lodge in my throat. “Then let’s get in there.”

  Gavin starts the Hummer and shifts into gear. “Lift up the back seat. I put a storage space under it. There should be some hats and gloves and face paint. It’s not like going in under the cover of night, but at least we can disguise our features a bit.” I reach back and lift, but the seat won’t budge. “There’s a little lever under the cushion.”

  Feeling for the lever, I find it and press it as I lift. The rear cushion folds up to reveal a small storage space. Sure enough, there are a couple hats, gloves and face paint, among all sorts of other needful things.

  “My best friend is a guerilla,” I say caustically, taking out what we need.

  “You better be glad, too.”

  I snap the seat back down into place and turn toward the front. I look at Gavin, he glances at me and I nod. “I am, man. I appreciate it more than you’ll ever know.” Gavin nods, too. I know he knows how sincere I am. It’s there in his expression. It’s kind of like a brotherhood we’re in. We have pasts we’re trying to escape, we’re both willing to go to extreme measures for those we care about, and we’ll both likely meet an early death. That’s a lot for a couple guys to bond over. It’s a tighter friendship than any amount of football or frat parties can make.

  I pop off the flat, round lid of the dish of face paint. The content is inky black and looks like shoe polish, only oilier. Flipping down the visor, I quickly rub two fingers through the grease then smear streaks of it on my cheeks. I repeat the action until my features are patchy and less discernible in the mirror.

  I shove the ball cap onto my head and pull it low over my eyes then I push my hands into the gloves. Gavin slows to a stop on the street behind the house.

  “I’ll whistle when I get to the porch. Keep your head down and your hands in your pockets. Don’t forget to watch your flank. Be careful in there.”

  “Thanks, man. You, too.”

  “I’ll leave the keys under the floor mat. Get Olivia the hell out of here as soon as you can.”

  “Here,” I say, taking my motorcycle keys out of my pocket and handing them to Gavin. “Behind the red minivan, one street over. Meet you back at my place.” I reach for the door handle. “See you on the other side.” Gavin smiles and holds up his fist. I give it a bump before stepping out of the Hummer.

  Keeping my chin tucked against my chest and my hands in my pockets, I make my way slowly across the sidewalk to the house that sits behind the one where they’re holding Olivia. Casually, I walk through their yard and around the side of the house, steadily approaching my destination.

  I hear the throaty grumble of the Hummer as Gavin drives by the house to park down the street. I slow my pace enough to give him time to get to the front door. I stop to pretend to tie my shoe, which makes no sense because I’m wearing boots. But it looks good if anyone’s watching from a distance, which hopefully they aren’t.

  I hear the clap of Gavin’s boots on the sidewalk, followed closely
by some light whistling. I rise and walk to the back patio, stepping onto it and approaching the door. It’s old and wooden and looks easy to kick in.

  I hear the doorbell ring then I hear a couple of hushed voices followed by some footsteps. Just out of curiosity, I try the doorknob. It’s locked.

  No such luck. That shit only happens in the movies.

  When I hear the first sign that Gavin has made his move, which in this case is a guy yelling what the hell, I raise my leg and kick as hard as I can just below the door knob.

  As I suspected, this place being an older home, the door frame gives away easily and the door pops open. Standing in the kitchen, watching with a stunned expression as I step through the wreckage that used to be the back door, is one of Olivia’s captors. He’s a young, college-age guy, but that doesn’t make me feel the least bit guilty for beating the shit out of him.

  He doesn’t even see my fist coming.

  Two punches to the face and he’s unconscious.

  That was easy enough.

  I step over his body, sparing a glance toward the front door where Gavin is pummeling another of the Bratva’s boys. Seeing that he’s very much in control of the situation, I start looking for Olivia.

  There’s a short hallway to my right. It’s lined with four closed doors. She could be in any of them. At the end of the hall is either another door, a closet of some sort, or possibly stairs to a basement. Hurriedly, I open the first door I come to.

  I see only a flash of movement before he’s on me. I take a punch to the gut before I recover enough to smash my fist into his balls. I hear his groan and he falls at my feet. I kick him in the ribs and then kneel to punch him once in the face. His head lolls lifelessly to the side. I give him another hit just to make sure he’ll stay down.

  Obviously there are more here than what Gavin thought.

  I look around the small bedroom. It’s empty but for a beat-up green recliner and a television sitting on an old plastic crate. I exit the room and proceed to the next door, using a little more caution.

  I twist the knob, push open the door and step back. I hear the gun fire a millisecond before I feel the bullet graze my shoulder. It’s not enough to stop me, though. The next one, however, knicks my ribs on the left side. It slows me down and hurts like a son of a bitch, but it’s not enough to keep me from launching myself across the room at the guy before he gets off another shot.

  We crash to the ground, my hat flying off as I use all my weight to roll him over, which isn’t easy because this scarred bastard is much bigger than the others I’ve seen. As soon as I have the dominant position, I slam the crown of my forehead into his nose. Above the roar of my pulse, I hear the crunch of bone as the guy yells in surprised pain.

  Before he can fight back, I see Gavin’s boots appear at the top of the man’s head. Then he’s bending down to wrap the crook of his elbow under the guy’s chin and squeeze. The Bratva’s hands go straight to Gavin’s thick arm to try and free himself. Ineffectively, I might add. Gavin’s strong as an ox and twice as mean if you’re on his bad side. And this guy? He’s on the bad side.

  Levering myself up off him, I nod to Gavin and head for the door. Only two more rooms to check for Olivia. She has to be here somewhere.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE- Olivia

  As I begin to come awake, I hear a loud pop followed by some banging against the wall. I know where I am, inasmuch as I’m being held captive…somewhere. And in a fuzzy, disjointed way, I remember immediately the fear that gripped me when the rag was placed over my face again the last time.

  I recognize the noise as gunfire. I know it’s strange, but my initial reaction isn’t fear; it’s relief, relief that I can put the sound together with its source, that I can quickly make the association.

  That must mean my brain is still working to some degree. I’m not a cucumber yet.

  I hear a second shot. It brings with it a more logical response. Fear. No, not fear. Terror. My pulse races with it. The sensation is only exacerbated by the fact that I can barely move, much less do anything about whatever is happening. I realize I’m helpless and that my fate will likely be decided without me even be able to manage coherent speech.

  Where’s Ginger when I need her?

  In my head, I’m laughing. As a bystander might, part of me is worrying that I’m making light in the midst of such a serious situation.

  Am I losing it? Is any of this even real?

  I struggle to open my eyes. Blearily, I blink my reluctant lids. A bright reflection on the ceiling swims across my vision, making my stomach roil. I close my eyes for a single breath and then fight to open them again.

  I hear bumping again and the sounds of heavy footsteps. My heart thumps heavily inside my chest as panic sets in.

  They’re coming for me! Oh sweet God, they’re coming for me!

  Summoning every bit of strength left in my sedated body, I lift my head off the flat, smelly pillow and look from left to right. I’m in a small, sparsely furnished bedroom. Alone. With a window to my left.

  I don’t feel the tears so much as see my vision blur behind them. If I could just make it to the window…and outside…to freedom…

  Maybe someone would help me…

  Taking a deep breath, I bend my arms and slide my elbows under me to try and push myself into a somewhat upright position. As though they’re made of jelly, though, they melt away as soon as I try to bear any weight on them. I try a second time, to no avail.

  The futility of my efforts, the hopelessness of my situation hits me hard again. Only this time, the longer I’m awake without the drug-dosed rag being shoved in my face, the clearer my head becomes. And the more panicked I feel.

  I’m telling myself I’ll try again and again when a loud crash sounds at the door across the room. Splinters fly when it’s torn off its hinges by a body being launched through the opening. My mind struggles to take in what I’m seeing.

  A tall, thin man with a springy bush of brown curls on his head lands with a thud on the floor in front of the bed. I look back to the doorway, my heart lodged in my throat, and I see the most wonderful hallucination I could ever imagine conjuring.

  It’s Cash, standing like a thunder cloud, right in front of me. His face is smeared with black streaks and his lips are curled in rage. He looks fierce. He looks murderous.

  He looks like heaven.

  For a fraction of a second, his eyes lock with mine. I see the anger, the determination, the I’m-teetering-on-the-threshold-of-apeshit-crazy. But I also see relief and something that makes my heart swell. Then his attention moves to the foot of the bed.

  I see him drop to his knees and I hear his animal growl as his fist pumps up and down over and over again. The dull thump-squish-crunch makes saliva gush into my mouth. The image that comes to mind is of a bloody, mangled face being pounded into the floorboards by Cash’s massive fist. But I can hardly feel sorry for the guy. In fact, if I could manage to move, I might go lend a hand in beating the everlovin’ crap out of him.

  Just a few seconds later, Cash is coming to his feet and rushing to the side of the bed. The whole scene has a surreal quality until he squats down, putting his face level with mine, and reaches out to gently touch my cheek with his fingertips.

  “Are you okay?” he whispers. His face is a mask of agony. I can see the guilt eating at him. He thinks all of this is his fault.

  “I am now.”

  He closes his eyes for a heartbeat. When he reopens them, his soul is there for me to see. “Oh my God, Olivia, I didn’t know…I thought… If something had happened to you…”

  “I’m fine,” I say, not really knowing whether or not I actually am. I just feel the overwhelming need to soothe Cash and take away some of his pain.

  Right before my eyes, I see logic sweep in and force him into action. “We have to get you out of here.”

  I know he’s right and I can feel the medication wearing off a little more every minute, but still, I don’t think I can walk. />
  “Can you help me up?”

  A frown flickers across his forehead. “Help you up?” he asks, almost like he’s insulted. I feel confused, but he doesn’t give me time to ask questions. Rather, he rises and slides his hands beneath me and lifts me into his arms.

  As though I’ve been given a sedative, a drug of a different kind, being in Cash’s arms has an instant and an intense effect on me. I feel like crumbling and flying, like dancing and crying, like living and like dying. Wrapped up in him, in his bad boy ways and his good guy heart, is my whole world. Somehow, while I wasn’t looking, I fell. And I fell hard.

  For my soul mate. For the love of my life. For my hero.

  In the blink of an eye, I realize I’ve never been broken by a bad boy. I’ve never been devastated by a cheater. I’ve never been duped by a player. I’ve never cared enough for them to do me any real damage, any lasting harm. My pride has been wounded, my heart has been kicked around a little and my self-esteem has taken a hit or two, but all that’s like child’s play in light of what the loss of Cash could do to me.

  What I did learn from my relationship failures, however, is that trust doesn’t come easy for me. I’ve blamed my issues on the men in my life. I’ve chalked every disastrous attempt at love on the skirt-chasing ways of the bad boy, when it’s been me all along. Subconsciously, I’ve chosen men who would prove me right about the worthlessness of a bad boy, rather than bring to light my own shortcomings, my own fears. And it’s been a convenient cop out until Cash came along. Cash broke all the rules, broke all my rules. He’s not giving me reason to run. He’s giving me reason to stay. And all I have to do is muster the courage to do it, to take the chance that it might not work out, to take the chance that I might very well get hurt. He’s giving me something to invest in, and all I have to do is believe in it.

  For real this time.

  But can I take the leap? Can I tell him I love him, and mean it, when death isn’t knocking at my door? When disaster isn’t looming? Can I open up my chest and make my heart vulnerable to him?