by Aubrey Irons
“Too late.” It’s a cheap, low shot, but I don’t care. I just need him away from me, and now.
Bryce mutters under his breath, shaking his head and looking back towards the room where his other brother lies recovering; where our family is struggling to hold on to one another even as I walk away from it all.
“Look, tonight, at my place. We'll all be there and we'll plan this thing.” He looks back at me; “Come to that.”
“Oh, nice olive branch.”
“Nice fucking attitude.”
I glare at him; “Fine, I’ll come.”
He turns and starts to walk towards the room before he stops and turns back over his shoulder; “You know, this doesn’t have to be like this; this whole thing between you and m-”
“There is no ‘you and me’, Bryce. I think I made that-” I stop and snort out a humorless laugh; “I think that’s been made perfectly clear by now.”
4
Bryce
“Jesus, how about some furniture, Bryce.” Reagan arches her brow as she steps out of the elevator into my penthouse. My very bare, very totally empty luxury New York City penthouse apartment.
“Yeah, seriously.” Peyton says, avoiding my eyes as she steps out after Reagan. I glare at her, even if she’s avoiding looking at me. She didn't have a problem with the lack of furniture before.
I bought the place for the view of Central Park; for trees. Honestly, with what we suddenly became worth after taking over William’s company, cost wasn’t really a concern at all. I’d have paid triple for it just for that view of something that resembled nature. Living here in this city is just…fuck, it’s a trapping feeling. It’s a cage of metal and stone and glass that I’m constantly stuck inside of, and for a guy who grew up with the open road, the wind in his face and the feel of a motor purring under his seat, it can be a Goddamn nightmare. The view and the trees remind me of home; the good parts at least.
So what, I've got a bed, a few stools, a table full of tools, and a partially rebuilt 69' Indian motorcycle sitting on a grease cloth in the corner I’ve been messing with for a few months. What the fuck else do I need?
Peyton breezes right past me after her little comment, and I can feel my temper flare inside. I’m still bristling after running into her; still buzzing like I’ve just gotten a shock of something through me. It’s like this every fucking time after talking to her. For a fucking year. Every single Goddamn day working with her, seeing her, and knowing it’s done.
It’s like a static charge; a lingering, nagging, tingling feeling. It’s an itch you can’t scratch, a cut inside your mouth you can’t stop tonguing; a hunger you can’t satiate. It was there, once. However fucking stupid it was, however illicit and wrong the whole thing was, it was there, briefly.
And then it was gone, right along with her; sayonara and adios.
The others are already here, standing mostly but also sitting on the three stools around the cluttered table in my living room-turned-bike shop; Javier, Chelsea, Major Lawson, and Quinn.
“Can I get anyone anything?” I mutter as I walk into the room.
Chelsea looks up at me; “What do you have?”
I can’t help but smirk despite the heaviness of our being here; “Water?”
“Uh, sure.”
“I’ll get it.” Peyton immediately starts to make a beeline for the third cabinet to the left of the kitchen sink where I keep my three or four glasses before I watch her forcibly stop herself short; “Um, where are your glasses?” She says hastily.
Right where they fucking were the last time you were here. Or the time before that. Or that, or- fuck it.
“Third cabinet to the left.”
She shoots me a quick look over her shoulder before she moves to the cupboard.
Major Lawson steps forward; “Preliminary intel has Benson and his crew in Istanbul.”
I frown at the Major, standing where I am behind everyone else; “I thought you weren't helping.”
He clears his throat; “The U.S. State Department does not officially recognize the missing person known as Logan Dempsey,” His face hardens and he turns to a very quiet Quinn; “But I Goddamn sure as hell do.”
Quinn looks at him and nods somberly. Her father was good to have this man as a friend. He’s saved our asses more than I can count at this point, and here he is probably putting his entire career on the line to feed us intel.
“So, guess I'm going to Turkey then.” I say, nodding curtly at the Major
“I can do you one better, actually.”
“Oh?”
He nods slowly; “There’s a contact there, someone the State Department has- well, we've been in contact before. They’re a disenfranchised Blackriver operative, apparently, and they’re looking to turn informant.” He shrugs; “Honestly, I don’t know how much I trust it, but she’s your contact and she wants to help.”
She? I frown; Jesus it better not be-
“So when do we leave?”
I look up sharply at Peyton, seeing that ever-present defiant look in her eyes as she purposefully narrows them at me, as if daring me to say something here in front of everyone.
Thankfully, Lawson steps in; “I’m afraid there’s no way I could condone that, Peyton. Bryce simply has training and experience you don’t have. It’s far too dangerous.”
I mean, I’m hardly in the place to do this. I’m not mentally where I was before and I’ve been in a fucking city behind a Goddamn desk for five years, not in the jungle, not in the desert, and not in the MC before that back in California. But I’m the only shot. And Peyton might be way more equipped to do something like this than any of them know, but I’m sure as hell not going to be the one that says something.
“He’s my brother.” Again, she’s directing her words at me, like I’m the one saying no here.
“And we're going to get him back.”
Her eyes blaze at me, that same fiery passion that drew me in before. She’s stubborn, and strong, and really, a lot like me. That fire inside is born of pain and healing; it’s earned through being broken by the world and putting yourself back together piece by fucking piece.
It’s also infuriating when it’s directed at say, me, right now.
I mean, I get it. Of course she wants to go help Logan; fuck, we all do. But if there wasn’t enough of a reason for that guy to want me dead what with me sleeping with his damn sister, bringing that same girl into the crosshairs of danger sure as hell would do it. And again, she’s stronger than any of them know, and she’s seen more than anyone in this room but me knows, but now’s certainly not the time to bring that up.
“Peyton, they’re right, you’re not ready for something like this.”
She glares at me, shaking her head at me with that fierce look on her face, and it stings worse because I know she probably could handle herself just fine. But I’m sure a shit not bringing her into this.
I set my jaw and meet her angry stare with my own even look. She hisses and whirls, storming towards the kitchen like some sort of rogue tornado. I swallow the lump in my throat before turning back to Lawson and hoping no one was paying attention enough to get the subtext of that exchange; “So, Istanbul.”
“Your Blackriver contact will be able to give you better specifics about where he’s being held and what we’re up against.” He shakes his head; “I’m sorry I can’t do more here, son.”
I nod; yeah, me too.
I turn to see Quinn, standing silently by the window watching the rain trickle down; “We’re going to get him ba-”
“I thought my Dad was going around sowing seeds of peace?” Her eyes are red as she turns towards us, her mouth a hard line.
“He was.”
She starts to break then; “Then why do things like this keep happening to us?” She crumbles, and her sisters are right there to catch her, stroking her back and holding her close, and I can feel the rage roaring inside of me at the karmic injustice of this all.
I grit my teeth; “
Because you've gotta tend those seeds, and sometimes you need to rip out the weeds. I am going to bring him back, Quinn.”
She looks up and nods at me through tear-streaked eyes.
“Uh, guys?” Javier clears his throat behind me, and I turn; “She’s gone.”
Oh shit.
Chelsea frowns, “What? Who?”
“Peyton,” I say, shaking my head; Goddamnit.
5
Peyton
P A S T
I'm two minutes late for curfew.
And I'm terrified.
Two minutes late for anything, with anyone besides Bill, my mom's latest drunk asshole boyfriend of the month isn't anything. Two minutes late is stopping for gas, or timing the traffic lights back through town wrong. It's slowing down to not get busted at the speed-trap you know Sheriff Evans always nabs people at.
Two minutes late is just being eighteen years old and a senior in high school. It just comes with the territory.
But not to Bill it's not.
I'm shaking as I turn the car off and step out. The house is quiet, but the light in the kitchen is on, and I can see the flickering blueish glow of the television in the living room that tells me he's still up, drunk, and probably mad as hell.
It's fine; it's going to be fine, I try and reassure myself, sweating in the Texas heat as I climb the three creaky stairs to the trailer door.
My mother is the first one I see when I open the screen-door, and the fact that her face looks as terrified as I feel is not a good sign.
“Mom?” I say, biting my lip and trying to give her my most pleading look, as if that'll change anything about the storm I know that's about to erupt inside the small trailer.
“Where the fuck have you been?” My mother quickly looks away at the sound of Bill's voice from the back bedroom. The curtain is ripped back as he stumbles out, cigarette dangling from his lips, a bottle in his hand, and his bloodshot eyes narrowed and gleaming wickedly at me. This isn't going to be the first time he's hit me, and I steel myself for the slap or the shove into the wall I know is probably coming.
“You even know his name?” Bill leers at me, shaking his head as he brings the whiskey up to take a swig.
Questions like these are loaded from the start; I have no idea what he's talking about, and any answer I give is going to trigger some sort of wrath. The trick is to find the less bad answer.
“Who's, Bill?”
His fist crashes against the trailer wall loud enough to make both my mother and I jump; “Whoever it was you was out fuckin and bein late with, you little slut!”
I can feel the anger flash hot inside of me, but I push it back down. He knows I was at the evening accounting class I signed up for through the high school vocational program, but it's not like that matters anyways.
“Bill, I wasn't-”
“Don't you dare talk back to me you fuckin whore!”
I flinch as he slams the whiskey bottle down onto the TV stand as he storms closer to me. Talking back to Bill, however warranted, is like throwing meat to the wolves.
“OK, fine.”
“The fuck did you say to me, girl?” He's on me in a second, and I barely have time to gasp as he shoves me back hard against the wall of the trailer. There's an extra glint in his eyes tonight, and the fear I tried hard to suffocate deep inside comes gasping back out.
Bill's hand comes stinging across my cheek, making me cry out sharply as the slap echoes through me. Tears spring to my eyes, even though I hate to show him any sort of weakness. Weakness is something cowardly, bullying assholes like Bill devour.
I could try and apologize for whatever it is he thinks I did, but there's no way to tell which way he wants me to go here, and the wrong way will hurt more.
“Bill, I-” I scream as the back of his hand comes down hard across my face, splitting my lip and making me taste copper as I go sprawling across the floor. I'm shaking now, and I look up towards my mother, who only gives me a small shake of the head and looks away; as if I'm on my own here.
And I am.
“I ain't gonna have no girl under my roof goin’ around spreading her whore legs for the whole fuckin town, you understand me, girl!”
Bill's boot connects with my ribs, making me scream again as I grit my teeth and nod through the tears. I've had one boyfriend, like that even matters, but something tells me we're past discussing the semantics of “slut” with Bill at this point. He's drunker and madder than I can remember him being; so much so that I'm even more scared of this new wildly unpredictable man raging through the trailer.
“Bill, honey-”
“I tell you to open yer fuckin mouth?” Bill whirls on my mother and slaps her hard across the face.
And something in me snaps.
I screech as I launch myself off the floor at Bill's back, clawing at his face and hammering at him with my fists; anything to get him away from my mother, as useless and as passive as she's been letting the man she shares her bed with, beat on her only kid.
Bill roars as he tosses me off his back and whirls on me, and if he was mad before, he looks like a demon now. Blood drips from the fingernail marks I've left across his face, and I find myself scrunching into a ball as he quickly storms across the room towards me.
My scream cuts off as his hand clasps around my neck, and I'm choking and gasping for air as he squeezes tightly.
“Whoever yer daddy was never taught you proper manners, but I swear to fucking God I'm gonna put some respect into you if I gotta burn it into yer skin!”
The scream comes ragged from my throat as I feel the scorching sting of the lit end of Bill's cigarette bite into the skin of my arm. I'm squirming and jerking and rasping out screams as he laughs and burns me again and again. Tears flow down my cheeks as I look wildly at my mother.
She's watching TV.
Her only child is being tortured in front of her face and she's not just doing nothing, she's actively ignoring it. And as in-character as that is for her, it almost hurts worse than the burns and the choking hand around my neck.
Almost.
Bill is screaming at me, his face purple with rage and his hand growing tighter and tighter around my neck. Spots dance across my eyes, my vision bending a little in the corners as the air begins to leave my brain. I'm reeling, reaching my hand out and clawing towards my mother; clawing for anything.
Like the kitchen knife lying on the counter above my head.
“Oh, what,” Bill sneers at me, his eyes crazy and his whiskey breath hot on my face; “You gonna stab me, you little slu-”
The only thing I can remember after that is my mother screaming “how could you” over and over again. I'm still choking later, still lying on the floor with my arm on fire, my breath still ragged, and Bill's blood pooling around me, when Sheriff Evans comes in and swears softly before pulling me up and leading me out of the trailer.
I have no idea what happens when you stab someone, but I know it's usually not good. And I know I should be scared, but in that moment, when they push my head down and guide me into the back of the police car with the neighbors watching and my mother screaming obscenities at me…
I’m really just numb. Because anything is better than that.
Out of the frying pan, and into the fire, as they say.
P R E S E N T
The main offices of Archer Holdings in midtown are quiet this hour of the night. Roger, the head of security just gives me a cursory smile and nod as I swipe in with my key-pass.
I really hope he doesn't get in trouble for this. I mean, it's not like he knows what I'm doing, but still.
Logan's office is locked of course, but I could remember the key combo in a coma for the time I've spent here working late or just helping him out.
I know the rest of them all understand, but they don't; not really. They've all lost, I wouldn't ever say anything against that, but the Archer family has each other. They're still a family.
Me? I've just got Logan. Of course that does
n't mean they all don't want him back; I get it. But I have to do this. Bryce can do his thing, but I'm not stalling and I'm not fucking around back here worrying myself to death and wondering what I could have done.
Because there's no “could have” here; there's only “do.”
The wall-safe in Logan's office sits behind a large framed picture of one of his hospitals in Guatemala; all smiling kids faces with my brother and Quinn grinning arm-in-arm behind them all. I feel the anger rise in me again, thinking of them putting the bag over his head and dragging him away from me. No one deserves something like that, but least of all a man like Logan who just gives so much to the world.
They're going to pay.
I know they all see me as Logan's kid sister. They see me as the financial analyst, the office worker, the pencil-pusher, and the book-nerd. They don't see the other side of me; the dark side. Which is good, because I've gone to huge lengths to keep that side and that past hidden from everyone.
Well, everyone except Bryce. Him, I showed it all to.
My brother is predictable, and even if I've never had to go into this safe without him here, I already know the password is his birthday before it even ends up working.
C'mon, bro.
The spare corporate credit card will come in handy, but the hundred-thousand in cash will work pretty well too. It's not- well, ok, it is theft, but I hope it's one they'll forgive me for.
I'm dialing the company's transportation department from his private line and scheduling the flight before I can stop and let my brain catch up with the wild plan I've already decided I'm going to go through with. I've got ten minutes before the car picks me up downstairs, and I run into my own office and grab some spare clothes I keep there.
Three years later and I'm still keeping spare clothes and packed bags ready to go all over the damn place. I briefly wonder if the small bag I kept at Bryce's place is still there or if he's ditched it by now.
Shirtless, I catch my reflection in the mirror of the private bathroom off my office. My eyes follow the delicate tendrils of ink that curve down the whole of my right arm. The sleeve that covers and hides the cigarette scars; the sleeve I've carefully and deliberately added to over the years since that night when Logan came for me.
