Wrecking Beauty

by Celia Loren

  “Well?” Cutler said impatiently. What was he waiting for?

  “Why don’t you put your gun away,” Greyson suggested, his expression wary.

  “Why?” Cutler asked, fear and suspicion running through his mind. “What’s going on?”

  He saw Greyson turn almost imperceptibly toward the lawn. Cutler pushed the door open a few inches more and was blinded by rage.

  Dallas was standing on the grass next to his girlfriend, Greta. Cutler shoved the door the rest of the way open and charged down the low steps toward Dallas. He felt Greyson grab his arm but he shook him off. Greta took a few steps forward with her hands up, trying to come between the two men.

  “Cutler! Wait! Wait!” Greyson shouted. Cutler charged on, his hands clenched into fists, ready to do damage; his ears filled with angry static that deafened him to anything else.

  He fell hard to the ground as Greyson tackled him from behind. He tried to turn as Greyson pinned him to the ground. He managed to lift his shoulders off the ground and felt his injuries from the night before lighting up with pain as he attempted to wrestle Greyson off of him. Greyson was older, but he’d taken him by surprise.

  “Why the fuck did you bring him here?!” Cutler shouted.

  “Cutler! You have to let me explain! Let me explain for a fucking second, will you?!” Gresyon yelled back at him, and Cutler stopped for a moment, his arms still locked around Greyson’s neck and shoulder. “He knows where Addison is,” he continued.

  Cutler’s eyes widened, and he loosened his grip. Greyson pulled himself up, keeping an eye on Cutler as he stood.

  “Well, Greta does,” he added, nodding to Dallas’s girlfriend. Cutler glared at them all, furious at their betrayal.

  “After they…found out where you were,” Greta began nervously, looking sidelong at Dallas, “they left me, and I followed them. Please, don’t blame Dallas. He…Owen…he was going to rape me. Dallas was trying to protect me.”

  Cutler breathed heavily, trying to process this new information.

  “Cutler…if it had been Addison, you would have done the same,” Dallas ventured softly. “I’m sorry. I am. I saw how he is. Her ex. I want to help you get her back.”

  Cutler softened slightly, then nodded. Greyson looked around to see if anyone had seen their scuffle. The street was empty, the many abandoned houses working in their favor.

  “Why don’t we go inside,” he suggested. Cutler crossed him and headed into the house, and the others followed him in.

  In the living room, Cutler sat back down on the couch with his guns and leaned forward, waiting expectantly as Greyson filed in and sat next to him. Dallas settled in the chair in the corner, and Greta perched on the chair’s arm.

  Greyson spoke first. “Greta, why don’t you explain,” he said, nodding to her. She swallowed nervously, fiddling with a loose thread on the sleeve of her jean jacket. Cutler noted how pale and drawn she looked.

  “Well, they burst into my apartment with guns, and that main Russian one had a knife. He cut Dallas with it,” a tear slipped out of her right eye and fell down her cheek. “Then that Owen guy was going to rape me if Dallas didn’t help them find you and that girl. They had a guy in a car watching the house the whole time they went looking for you two.” Dallas reached up and placed his hand gently on the small of her back. “I was scared. But I watched the windows so I would see when the car left, and when it did, I ran down and followed it in my car.”

  A small smile crept on to Cutler’s face. He couldn’t help but respect her. Not many people would have had the wherewithal to do what she had.

  “I followed it to this warehouse on Boulder Highway. I saw two men get out and go into the building. And then I found Dallas, and he told Greyson.”

  “Did you see anyone else there?” Cutler asked.

  “No, just those two guys.”

  “It’s our best lead,” Greyson said. “With those two guys at the warehouse, that means there’s at least six of them. I drove by this morning and saw a two black Escalades parked out front. I think that’s where they’re keeping Addison.”

  Cutler nodded, allowing a small hope to flare inside him that they would be able to find Addison before it was too late.

  “How soon can we hit it?” he asked, turning to Greyson.

  “We’ll do it ASAP. I don’t want to give them a chance to…” he trailed off, not wanting to consider the possibilities in front of Cutler. “How’s your nose?” He asked Cutler, wanting to change the subject.

  Cutler gingerly stroked his swollen nose with one finger. “I can breathe out of the left side a little.” He shrugged. “It’s not the first time it’s been broken. Maybe he knocked it back into place.”

  “Glad you can still think positively,” Greyson said with a hint of a smile in his eyes. He looked to Dallas, urging him on silently. Dallas took the cue and leaned forward.

  “Cutler, I know I betrayed you, and the whole club. I’ll stay away if that’s what you want, but I want to help if you'll let me. That Viktor guy is a nasty piece of work too. I want to give him back a few of these,” he said, pulling the beck of his shirt down to reveal the sewed-up wounds on his chest from Viktor’s knife.

  Cutler looked at the cuts. They were still red and raw. Dallas had never been his favorite, but he also couldn’t be blind to the fact that he might not have done anything differently had their roles been reversed.

  “You’re welcome to come and redeem yourself,” he said, only a little begrudgingly. “We can probably use all the help we can get.”

  “I’ve got a bunch of radio equipment we can use,” Dallas responded eagerly.

  “Good,” Greyson said. “I’ll spread the word that it’s a go for an hour from now. We’ll rendezvous here in 30.” He stood, signaling an end to the meeting.

  Dallas and Greta stood, following Greyson out the front door. Dallas looked like he wanted to shake Cutler’s hand, but wasn’t sure if they were on the right footing yet.

  Greta paused as she passed Cutler, then leaned into him and whispered, “She’s a lucky girl, Cutler.”

  With a smile, she crossed to the door and shut it behind her. Cutler blushed. He suddenly felt like a high school boy with a crush. He shook his head. He didn’t have time for that. He had work to do.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Addison awoke to the sound of the office door shutting. Suddenly remembering where she was, her body tensed and her mind filled with instant dread as she prepared for another assault.

  “Relax,” she heard a voice say, and glanced up to see Viktor. “I have some water for you.”

  Addison turned to look over her shoulder, trying to sit up from her curled position on the floor without using her hands for support. She couldn’t even tell right now which of her fingers Owen had cut because her whole hand was one throbbing painful disaster. She rolled awkwardly, conscious too that she was still wearing a short dress.

  Viktor set the water down on the carpet and lifted Addison under the armpits into the chair. She felt like a ragdoll in his arms; he was so strong. He picked the water back up and held the paper cup under her lips. She leaned her head forward, and as he tilted the cup forward she took a long sip. She leaned her head back to catch her breath, and he removed the cup from under her chin.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. He nodded. “Your name is Viktor.” He nodded again.

  Addison studied him. So he was Russian, she guessed, by the thick accent in his voice. He only looked to be a few years older than her and Owen. His hair was light brown and cut short, and his cheeks were slightly pockmarked. He was big and straight through the hips, more barrel-chested than Cutler.

  Cutler. She wondered if he was okay, if he was looking for her. She couldn’t allow herself to hope.

  “I’m starting to think you know Owen better than I do,” she said. “And I lived with him.”

  “I grew up with him, so there’s no contest,” Viktor murmured.

  Addison’s mouth dropped open.r />
  “You grew up with him?” she asked.

  Viktor nodded. “My father used to run his father’s…ah, security, and now I do.”

  “Marcus Devlin. Is he like Owen?”

  Viktor cocked his head to the side. “He is more controlled than Owen, but just as ruthless in his ways. Didn’t you meet him ever?”

  Addison shook her head no.

  “Owen always said he was busy with work.” She paused, trying to think of how to keep this man in the room. Maybe she could befriend him, even. He seemed much more reasonable than Owen. “Were you born in Russia?”

  Viktor smiled sadly at her. “Don’t try that,” he said, as if he were reading her mind. “You’re very beautiful, and no doubt kind, and although I don’t wish for Owen to torture you, I’m not going to help you. I was sent to Vegas to kill you, and that’s what I’ll do.”

  “So this is a job to you? I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “Not possible?”

  “I don’t think anyone could go into your line of work without a sadistic streak. You must enjoy it somehow.”

  Viktor paused, considering. “I like control. But I don’t relish violence in and of itself. I use as much as I need to get the job done, and no more.”

  “Do you think that gives you some moral superiority? Allows you to sleep at night?”

  “Oh, I don’t sleep,” Viktor said, smiling slightly. “But perhaps if you had starved as a child like I did, you might be willing to go to further lengths to survive. Just because you have never needed to live a life like mine, doesn’t mean you’re not capable of it.”

  “Can you stop him from torturing me?” Addison asked, her mouth dry.

  Viktor sighed. “He is, after all, my boss’s son. I can try to control him through various ways…fear, manipulation, but I can’t actually force him to do anything. Marcus would have my head—literally. Continuing his bloodline is very important to him.”

  Again, Addison thought of the kings who believed they were born to rule.

  “Surely you’ve made enough money now, and you can stop,” she pointed out.

  “Ah,” he said, “I will soon. There is only so long a man can lead a life like this before he loses his mind. I will buy myself a nice plot of land, maybe in Florida, or perhaps Hawaii, and I will have a series of beautiful mistresses, and I will drink every day.”

  “I don’t know if you’re better or worse than Owen. You know what you’re doing is wrong, and you have the power to stop yourself. I don’t think Owen can even control himself.”

  He smiled down at her sadly, then crossed to the door and opened it. As he stepped out, he turned back to her.

  “I’ll try to get him to make it quick,” he said, then shut the door behind him.

  The startling coldness of impending doom swept through Addison’s body. Cutler probably didn’t know where she was, and any hope she had of Viktor helping her was now gone.

  She stood up. She wouldn’t give way to feeling helpless. She'd been a victim throughout her entire relationship with Owen, and she never would be again.

  Kicking off her heels, she looked around the small rectangular office. It was completely empty except for the heating pipe in the corner and the chair. Couldn’t do anything with the pipe. She looked at the chair, considering her options. Her mind had gone remarkably quiet. She tested the bonds of her rope. They were tight, and there was nothing sharp around to try to cut them with.

  She studied the door—the top of it was glass, maybe she could break it. It would attract a lot of attention, but she’d rather be gunned down by one of the thugs than have Owen slowly torture her to death. She walked around to the back of the chair, and turned around so her back was to it. She bent her knees slightly and grasped the top of the chair in her fingers. She gasped as pain shot through her right arm from her wounded finger.

  She straightened up, then set her mouth in a hard line, determined to at least try to make an escape. Gritting her teeth, she bent her knees again and grasped the metal chair as hard as she could, ignoring the pain that was now pulsating up her arm. She pulled the chair up so that it was standing on its back two legs, then pushed it to the wall, pressing the seat against the wall so that it was folded and might be easier to pick up.

  She turned and dragged the chair to the door. She knew she would only have one chance, and she’d have to be fast. She tried bending her elbows to pick up the chair behind her. It was an awkward angle, and difficult to get leverage. She’d have to throw her whole body into it. She set her right leg in front of her left and leaned forward at the waist.

  Please. Please, let this work. With a grunt, she picked up the chair, and in a fluid motion, turned her body and threw the chair against the glass. She heard a snap and saw the glass crack, a long splintery crack ran down the middle. She backed up, and with a slight running start, threw the chair against the glass as she spun. It cracked again, hairlines fractures splitting off from the crack and reaching the wooden door frame. One more time. She backed up, and with all her strength, she slammed the chair into the glass and it shattered, showering glass outward into the hallway.

  She quickly kicked her foot backward, unfolding the chair. She pulled it up to the door so she could climb out the top of the door where the glass had been. She climbed onto it, then swung one leg then another over the wooden frame. She dropped onto the hallway outside, feeling her left leg turn uncomfortably over her ankle.

  Her eyes darted around as she tried to get her bearings quickly. To the left, she could see a few more doors before the hallway stopped in a dead end. To the right, she saw a stairwell and an empty chair. Where the gunman is supposed to be. Above the chair was a window. She could see it was dark outside, but the window was crossed with metal security bars.

  She ran down the hallway toward the stairwell, which branched off to the left. She hurtled down the stairs, her bare feet making almost no noise against the cold cement. She saw a door marked with a large “2”—should she go through it? She paused briefly and turned to continue down the stairs.

  She stopped in her tracks. On the landing below her was one of the Russians, holding a gun trained at her heart. She stepped back, turning to run back up the stairs.

  “There is no point,” he said, in a heavy Russian accent. “The only exit is down these stairs.”

  She sank to her knees, now completely exhausted by her burst of energy and adrenaline.

  “Up,” he ordered.

  She stood, her legs shaking. She heard running footsteps, and Owen’s voice.

  “What’s the fuck’s going on?” he called, as he appeared from below on the landing next to the Russian. She didn’t turn to see him, but could feel his eyes boring into her. He walked up the stairs to her and grabbed her arm, pulling her up the stairs with him. The Russian followed, his gun still drawn.

  Addison limped next to him, her ankle humming with pain whenever she put weight on it. They entered the hallway again, and Owen dragged her back to the room. He frowned at the shards of glass on the floor and pulled a key out of his pocket. He unlocked the door and pushed Addison in. She bit her lip in pain as the glass bit into her feet as she stumbled back into the room.

  Owen turned to the Russian. “Give me your gun,” he demanded, holding out his right hand. The Russian complied. “Now leave us.”

  The Russian nodded and set off down the hallway. Owen entered the room and shut the door, or what was left of it, behind him.

  “Very troublesome, Addison,” Owen hissed as he tucked the gun into his belt and crossed his hands behind him. “Though I suppose I would be disappointed if you had completely lost your spirit. Much less fun for me.”

  Addison backed into the center of the room. She stood up straight and squared her shoulders. She wouldn’t let him see her fear.

  “So you’re acting brave now? I like that,” he said, pulling a knife out of his holster. He grabbed her hands and roughly cut the ropes from her wrists.

  Addison’s body cl
enched in fear, and her finger started throbbing again. She instinctively pulled her arms behind her back.

  “Oh, I’m not going to do that again. Now, let’s see, how about a game of tag?”

  Addison frowned. What the fuck was this sociopath talking about? Owen walked forward with the knife, and before she knew what was happening, he raised it and sliced her shoulder. Addison gasped, and backed up to the wall, holding the wound with her opposite hand as blood spilled through her fingers.

  Owen giggled, then came toward her again. Addison’s eyes widened, and she darted along the wall across the room.

  “Ooo, it’s more fun when you’re loose. Adds a little challenge. Here, I’ll even hold the knife in my left hand so that you have more of a chance,” Owen said, turning and crouching a little lower into a fighting stance as he switched the knife to his left hand. He stalked her across the room, the knife gleaming with blood.

  Addison’s breath was shallow, her arm throbbing with pain now. She feinted to her left, forgetting about her ankle, and Owen cut deeply into her left thigh. Addison screamed as she felt the metal dig into her. She dragged her leg behind her across the room, stumbling against the wall furthest from the door.

  Owen’s eyes never left her. He was breathing hard too, enjoying the chase. She watched him approach her. She had nothing left, her body was a waste now. She felt dizzy with the loss of blood. He pointed the knife at her, smiling. This was the end, she knew it. She closed her eyes.

  The door slammed open with a bang. Viktor stood in the doorway, his gun raised at Owen. Owen froze, his back toward him.

  “Owen. I cannot continue to stand by while you play games with this girl. Drop the knife,” Viktor ordered calmly.

  Addison watched Owen’s eyes blaze with hate.

  “You peasant,” Owen spit out, still not looking at him, “you continue to overstep your station. You think because my father gave you a little bit of power you can talk to me like you’re better than me? You think that you know me? You have no idea what I’m capable of.”