Transparent

by Erin Noelle

  As if on cue, I hear her moving around in her sleep in the next room, the old couch squeaking its complaints as she shifts her weight. Then she begins to murmur something I can’t quite decipher, so I slide off of the rock-hard mattress to go check on her and make sure she’s actually asleep.

  Ever since our first night here, especially after she spit in my face and told me to fuck off, I’ve been trying my best to put some distance between us, her presence disarming in a way it shouldn’t be. It was easier that first day back at my place in L.A., when she stayed locked in her room and I had the whole rest of the house to do my thing. But here in these close quarters, it’s not that simple.

  Peering around the doorframe a second before I step into the living area, I freeze mid-stride at the mind-blowing sight laid out before my eyes and I hiss in a sharp breath. Ty che, b`lyad’?

  With her blanket in a heap on the floor, apparently having fallen off when she was moving around, she is completely uncovered as her oversized t-shirt is bunched up around her waist. Sheer, white lacy panties are on full display, revealing her soft, milky thighs, but that’s not even the worst of it. One of her hands is resting just on top of the elastic waistband, her fingers slowly stroking back and forth across the exposed skin of her lower stomach as a playful smirk tugs on the corners of her lips. My dick stirs to life at the erotic image.

  Apparently, my little captive is having quite the pleasant dream, and as much as I know I need to spin my ass around and return to the bed I was just in, I don’t. I can’t. It’s too much like watching my Darya again, the way she used to enjoy playing with herself for me, purposely driving me mad with lust. In my family, I am known for my exceptional self-control and unwavering willpower, but this is something I can’t deny myself. She may be my biggest threat yet.

  When the muffled whimpers pass through her lips and she arches her back like a sleepy kitten, pressing her taut nipples against the thin cotton of the shirt—my shirt—it takes every ounce of resolve I have not to stalk over to the couch and touch her. Just once. Just a reminder of what a woman’s smooth skin feels like beneath my hands.

  Somehow, I refrain. However, I find myself rubbing my thick shaft outside my black athletic pants as I leer at her, imagining how it’d feel if it were her hand on my dick instead of mine. Or better yet, her mouth. My entire body tenses at the visual, a feral growl rumbling inside of my chest.

  “Please . . . please . . . oh, please,” she begs repeatedly while squirming on the couch, clenching her upper thighs together.

  My hand moves inside my pants, my fingers wrapping securely around my shaft as I begin to slowly stroke. She lifts her arms above her head, causing her hands to fall over the side of the arm rest, wrists crossed like they’re bound together, and the memory of her tied to the bed the first night she was in my house flashes in my mind. I feared then she would ruin me. When I looked into her eyes the first time, I knew she would.

  Those fucking eyes. A blue with such depth that not even the most expensive sapphire in the world could compare. A blue that I’ve only seen once before. Moi Darya. My fucking kryptonite.

  A loud moan followed by a clear “Yes, Sir” demands my attention, and I begin to increase my tempo. I’ve jacked off hundreds of times in the last couple of years, been to so many strip joints that seeing a naked woman isn’t even exciting for me any longer, but this . . . watching her like this is one of the fucking sexiest things I’ve ever seen. She’s my best dream and worst nightmare all in one package. And I’m fucking powerless.

  Just as I feel my balls contract, my orgasm threatening, she winces and coughs out a scream, her expression instantly changing from one of pure ecstasy to that of complete horror. Immediately, I release the grip on my cock, confused.

  Her arms swing down and wrap around her midsection like a coat of armor. Then, drawing her knees up to a fetal position, she begins to tremble as she shakes her head repeatedly.

  “No! No! Get off me!”

  The panic in her voice slices through me, and straightaway, all of the sexual hunger in my body is instantly replaced by concern. Her neck twists violently from side to side as her body contracts, all while she continues to cry out her pleas for whoever to stop what they’re doing. My heart sinks as my stomach clenches, slamming into one another in a powerful explosion that hurls me toward her.

  Scooping her into my arms, I lower myself into the chair adjacent to the couch and hold her close to me, desperate to soothe her. I rock my upper body back and forth slightly while pressing my lips to the top of her head in a comforting kiss.

  “Quiet there, kotyonok. You’re gonna be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you,” I whisper, my brain still dealing with the whiplash of the previous couple minutes.

  Thankfully, she snuggles deeper into my chest, and her frantic breathing gradually begins to even out, the sobs subsiding. I have no idea what the fuck just happened, but I know all too well dreams like that aren’t the product of an active imagination. Whatever nightmare she just faced while asleep is one she knows all too well while awake. And it makes me want to fucking kill whoever did it to her. After I torture them for hours upon endless hours.

  The moment she shakes off the lingering slumber haze and realizes she’s tucked up against me, every muscle in her body pulls taut and she stops breathing. I can almost hear the war going on inside her brain. Part of her wants to push off of me, to scamper back to the couch and put some distance between us, but at the same time, she’s shaken and distraught over whatever she just remembered, and finds much-needed security and solace in my arms.

  My hold on her never wavers. I can’t forget what I just saw, and even though it was quick, there’s no denying the intensity of whatever she experienced. I have to know what happened. I have to make sure she’s okay. I don’t know why, but I have to.

  “Are you okay, girl?” I finally ask, my throat feeling thick.

  “Yeah.” Nodding, she hiccups back a sniffle.

  I’m pleased she makes no effort to break free from my lap, and I take it as my cue to keep talking. “Do you remember what you were dreaming about? I heard you calling out, so I came to check on you.” It wasn’t a total lie.

  She nods again. “Yeah.”

  “Vincent?”

  “No,” she mumbles. “Much worse.”

  I go with the natural second guess. “Ish?”

  She clings tighter to me at the sound of his name, answering my question without any words.

  For a few minutes, we sit there silently, each lost in our own thoughts. I wonder if it was Ish or Madden—who I now know is the guy she’s been seeing recently—that she was imagining during the first part of the dream. Then, I’m curious why she considers Ish much worse, since he’s obviously not a threat to her anymore. She made sure of that.

  “Why?” The word tumbles from my mouth before I can think.

  She tilts her head back to peer up at me through her wet, spiky eyelashes. “Why what?”

  Our eyes meet, a cerulean collision that momentarily steals my breath. Her resemblance to Darya is even greater cradled in my arms. I swallow hard before finding the words. “Why do you consider Ish ‘much worse’ than his father?”

  She doesn’t even blink. “Because those you love always have the power to hurt you the most.”

  “Smart girl,” I reply. There’s a hint of surprise in my voice, but it’s not because of her answer; it’s due to this sudden shift in the atmosphere between us. I’m not sure what it is, or quite how to describe it, but it’s different. We’re different. For some reason, I find myself hoping we stay this way. I meant it when I told her I won’t let anything happen to her. She’s not only under my watch, but she’s my responsibility, and that makes my chest swell a little.

  Using my hand to cradle the back of her neck, I gently guide her head back down to lie on my chest and rest my chin on her forehead. “Get some more sleep, kotyonok. I promise I’ll keep you safe.”

  THE EARLY MORNING SUN FILTERS
through the sheer curtains drawn across the window, providing a warm glow in the downtown Chicago hotel room. Unfortunately, as I sit on the plush king-sized bed, drinking a cup of coffee while reading old newspaper articles online, I feel anything but warm inside. After reading the details of Blake’s life as Bryleigh, the blood running through my veins is as cold as an arctic glacier. Colder even.

  Thinking about what she was forced to endure—the things she must’ve witnessed, and even worse, experienced—makes me downright murderous. Maybe it was a good thing I didn’t find Vincent Ricci yesterday on my initial recon mission here in the Windy City. I probably would’ve woken up in a sterile prison cell this morning, instead of the Hilton.

  A knock at the door temporarily interrupts my homicidal thoughts, and I slide off the mattress to let the room service attendant in, throwing a t-shirt on with my pajama pants before opening the door. I’m not even sure why I ordered food in the first place. It holds no appeal; my appetite vanished with Blake. Sleep evades me as well. I either dream of my sweet girl being with me, only to wake to the nightmare she’s not, or I dream of the horrifying events she suffered through that brought her to California to begin with.

  “Good morning, Mr. Decker,” a young man dressed in a standard hotel polo and slacks greets me cheerily. “Where would you like me to set your breakfast?”

  I motion him inside with my hand and shrug. “Wherever. The bed is fine.”

  He lowers the tray on top of the comforter then turns around and hands me the charge slip to sign. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  Scribbling my name along the bottom line after I add in the tip, I shake my head and mutter under my breath, “Not unless you can tell me where I can find Vincent Ricci.”

  I don’t intend for him to hear the remark, and I especially don’t expect him to answer me, but as I hand over the leather bill folder, he tilts his chin with curiosity and looks me straight in the eye. “Are you serious? Do you really want to know where to find him?”

  “E-e-excuse me?” I stutter, feeling my eyes grow wide with disbelief. “Do you really know where he is?”

  The kid, who’s probably in his early twenties, nods nervously. “Well, I don’t know exactly where he is, but a friend of mine used to work at this shop over on the south side of town, a place that sells aftermarket car stuff, and he said Vincent and his boys hang out there a lot. I’m not sure if he owns it or what, but Nick mentioned him a few times. Maybe you could try . . .”

  “Yes!” I exclaim, mentally berating myself for not thinking of this before. Of course the guy would have other businesses, probably to launder mafia money through. I was so caught up in retracing Blake’s life yesterday—running into dead end after dead end—that I failed to take a step back and look at the bigger picture. “What’s the name of the place?”

  “Capo Car Creations. It’s on Northcutt Avenue, but be careful, man,” he warns. “Those aren’t the kinds of people you want to go looking for trouble with.”

  Waving him off, I pad across the carpet to the nightstand and pull a hundred dollar bill out of my wallet. “Yeah, no worries. I know exactly who they are,” I reply, shoving the additional tip in his hand. “Thanks for the info. I really appreciate it.”

  For a split second, he stares hesitantly down at the cash then smartly shoves it into his pocket. “Anytime, Mr. Decker. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  He gives me a quick nod before turning around to leave the room. Thirty minutes later, after I’ve picked at my breakfast, showered, and dressed for the day, I’m climbing into the backseat of a taxi with a ball of nervous energy bouncing around in my gut. I’ve got only one destination in mind.

  “Capo Car Creations. 819 Northcutt Avenue.”

  A bell tied to the glass door leading into the shop chimes loudly as I step inside, announcing my presence. A group of three guys dressed in navy mechanic coveralls are huddled around the register area in what seems like a deep conversation, and after a quick glance in my direction, they all turn right back around, assuming I’m just a regular customer.

  To not build suspicions right off the bat, I meander up and down the aisles for a little while, pretending to check out the various car stereo accessories on display. I try a couple of times to eavesdrop on their discussion that seems to be growing more intense by the moment, but each time I draw near the front of the store, they lower their voices to a whisper.

  After the only other customer in the store pays for his purchases and leaves, I decide to make my move before anyone else comes in. As I approach the men, I ball my hands into tight fists by my sides then release them, over and over, as I attempt to reign in the frenzied adrenaline surging through me.

  “Can I help you find something you’re looking for?” the tallest of the trio asks casually while the other two step off to the side, still engrossed in their heated conversation. According to the patch sewn on his shirt, his name is Tony.

  Clearing my throat, I nod. “Yeah, actually, I think you can. I’m looking for Vincent Ricci. Is he here today?”

  The moment I say his name, an eerie silence falls over the place, and three sets of cagey brown eyes are fixed directly on me. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear there’s a red laser beam pointed directly in the center of my forehead.

  Tony slams his hands down on the counter and leans toward me, his brow pinched together with clear suspicion. “Who’s asking?”

  “I am,” I answer, stepping closer to him. My heart is beating wildly in my chest, but I refuse to let this guy intimidate me. “Madden Decker.”

  In a blur of action, the next thing I know, one of the other men is behind me with one brawny arm wrapped around my neck and the other holding a switchblade to my throat. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he growls in my ear. “You must be as stupid as that little cunt of a girlfriend you got.”

  The hold he’s got on my neck is so tight I’m unable to speak, but I don’t think he really wants an answer anyway. With a shit-eating grin on his face, Tony strolls around from behind the counter and gets right up in my face, while their other friend flanks his right side.

  “Madden Fucking Decker,” he sneers. “I’ve heard a lot about you in the last few days. Seems we may owe you a thank you for bringing our attention to where our little American Princess has been hanging out lately. You know, we’ve been looking for that little bitch for quite a while now, and to think, the whole time she’s been playing house with you in your fancy California home, living the fuckin’ life, all while one of our brothers rots in the ground.”

  The cold metal of the knife disappears, but before my brain can register the movement, Tony punches me in the stomach. Harder than I’ve ever been hit before. “All.” He swings again, and I grunt at the white-hot pain burning in my gut. “Because.” Another blow. “Of.” And again. “Her.” With the final strike, the man behind me releases my neck and violently shoves me down to the ground.

  On my hands and knees, my chest heaves up and down rapidly as my lungs absorb every ounce of oxygen they can get. The throbbing in my midsection is excruciating, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to stand on my own, but that doesn’t keep me from trying. The physical pain is nothing compared to the anguish I’ve felt since Blake disappeared.

  Using all my might, I push off the tiled floor so I’m on my knees, and just as I’m about to attempt to rise to my feet, the bottom of Tony’s shoe meets the side of my face, knocking me back down. All I can taste is blood.

  “Don’t you worry, pretty boy.” He squats next to me, grabbing the back of my hair and jerking my neck sideways so I’m looking at him. I fight the urge to spit in his face, to tell him what a piece of shit he is. Taking in everything about these people could be the key to finding her. “I know you think you’re about to die, but that’s not gonna happen just yet. First, I want you to witness what we do to her once we bring her home. It’ll make anything Ish ever did look like child’s play. I hope you don’t have a weak stomach.”
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br />   With an evil laugh, he rams my face back into the ground, my nose crunching on impact. “Take him to the back,” he orders, but before anyone picks up my limp body, the sound of the bell echoes through the room just before I hear someone shout, “Nobody move or I’ll shoot! FBI!”

  “WHAT DO YOU LIKE TO eat?”

  Peering up from the adult comic book—the one completely in Russian with a lot of scantily-dressed cartoon women that I’ve been making up my own story to—I stare blankly at Raze, who’s leaning against the doorframe between the living room and the bedroom, not sure I heard him correctly. “What did you say?”

  Chuckling, he shakes his head and strides over to ‘his’ chair, carrying a pad of paper and a pen. “I asked what you like to eat. One of my men will be dropping off food and supplies this afternoon, and I wanted to make sure I got some things you like. It appears we’re going to be here a while longer than I originally expected.”

  Groaning, I toss the book onto the coffee table, choosing to ignore his polite gesture of asking for my input. All I hear is the bad news. “How much longer? Why can’t we just do this and get it over with? I want to go home.”

  Despite my previous vow to not help these people, I’ve now accepted that killing Vincent is my only hope for ever having a chance of freedom. I’m not sure what will happen afterward¸ or how it’ll all be handled, but I do know if I don’t do it, I’ll be dead for sure. And the more I think about, the more getting vengeance on the bastard who murdered my mom and brother appeals to me. I’m not sure if that makes me just as despicable as these people I hate, but if that’s the case, then so fucking be it.