The Lair of Jack: Long Shot Love Duet (Book Two)

by Aven Jayce

  “Men who abuse women don’t have a place in this world, that’s why he’s dead,” Jack says.

  I sit up and kick the seat, hard, mumbling through the tape at what just came out of his mouth.

  “Chill out back there. You brought all this on yourself.”

  So typical. He’s abusive, too. Damn him. Hypocrite!

  “Mmm-mm-mmph!”

  “Glad you agree.”

  “Mmmph!”

  I stomp and kick, throwing a tantrum before lowering to Quinn’s lap, needing comfort and a buffer from Jack.

  Everything’s going to be okay, like Dylan said; he’s just playing with us. Let him have his fun and we’ll be back at Afterglow in no time.

  No time at all.

  Turn the car around and head back.

  Do it now.

  How about now?

  Aaaaaand now.

  Aaaaaaaaaaaaand now!

  Fuck. That never works.

  Quinn leans closer and nibbles my neck. He works his way to my ear and says in his faintest voice, “Go along with it.”

  After giving me a wink, he looks ahead and says, “So, Jack... is there any way to talk you out of killing us?”

  “Nope. If I don’t, my dad will.” His hand appears on the back of the passenger seat, picking at the stitching as he drives. “I need to be the one to do it so I don’t have to deal with him coming out here and smacking me around. Plus, I wouldn’t hear the end of it for weeks.”

  “Tell him we’re dead.”

  “Then what?” He laughs.

  “Let us work for you. He’ll never know.”

  “Are you forgetting that you lied to me? That you were going to hide out on my property without working? Why don’t you stick a cork in it before I tape your mouth next.”

  “You’re killing us for lying? That’s the only reason?”

  “And stealing from my business... and shooting your mouths off. Jesus, and how can I ignore The Doors remark? That’s just downright insulting. Maybe if Addie wasn’t so ignorant about my favorite song I’d have a change of heart, but that did her in.”

  Quinn bites his bottom lip, thinking for a moment before asking, “Do I get a last request?”

  The music’s lowered and a deliberate burst of laughter fills the car. “What, like in the movies?”

  “Yep.”

  “What do you want?”

  His face disappears, changing to a silhouette as a truck’s headlights shine on the back of his head. I listen to his shallow breathing and feel his leg tense. He has no idea what he wants. He asked me to go along with his plan, but I can tell he doesn’t really have one.

  “Well? Go on, speak up.”

  He hesitates, shifts in the seat, and says...

  “I want to make love to Addie.”

  Jack smacks Dylan’s arm and gestures with his thumb toward the back seat. “Take the tape off her mouth and unzip him. Let her suck him off.”

  I sit up straightaway. To hell if that’s going to happen. Not in front of them. Not during a time like this.

  “Dylan, get your hand away from my jeans, dumbass. Fuck you. Fuck both of you.” He hesitates then repeats his request. “Let me make love to her like a man. I want my hands free so I can touch her. I want to feel her gorgeous breasts. I want to—”

  “Do I have the word ‘chump’ tattooed on my forehead? The answer’s no, and stop sounding like a wuss. If you fuck her, take her from behind and pull her hair, bite her neck, and ride her hard.”

  “I have to agree with him on that one, bro.”

  “Here, take one of these instead.” Jack tosses a cigarette into the back.

  “I need my hands free for that, too,” he says, being drowned out by Jack and Dylan’s stoner laughs. “How about a last meal?”

  “Jesus, this isn’t prison, you’re not on death row.”

  “I am if you plan on killing me. I deserve a meal.” His voice lowers. “You’re not going to do it... I don’t think you’ll do it. You can’t kill Addie. What for, because she was going to sleep in your barn? Let her work in the kitchen or the front desk. And I’m fine being your masseur.”

  “Massage boy,” Jack says. “You’re no masseur. You’re one of my boys.”

  “Fuck, just stop! You’re wasting time and gas with these games. Turn around and let’s find a place to get breakfast. I’ll pay as a peace offering. It’s a new day. It’ll be a first meal, not a last.”

  “Tape him.” Jack cranks the music to drown Quinn’s demands.

  He manages to bite his brother’s wrist before his mouth gets covered. Dylan tries to shake away the pain then turns his hand to examine the teeth marks, retaliating with a punch to Quinn’s shoulder.

  “You haven’t done that to me since you were two.”

  “Fmmph-umm.”

  That was definitely a fuck you from Quinn.

  This sucks.

  Jack sucks.

  Dylan... he sucks.

  This car is full of sucking, sucky, sucks.

  And I’m stumped as to what Quinn would’ve done if Jack had untied him. Doubt he knows either. Using his fists wouldn’t be the answer; he tried that in the barn. He knows Jack’s speedy with his hands, even when he’s stoned.

  There has to be another way.

  I make another effort to untie us, picking at his knot with my fingernail, making no headway at the lump of rope. Nevertheless, I continue, hoping to loosen it enough for him to twist free.

  God, we’re in deep shit.

  Everything happens for a reason.

  Ugh, how fucking cliché. I can’t believe I just thought that. If that’s my mom pushing that into my head... double ugh. It’s the worst expression ever. She used to say it all the time...

  Mom, my bike was stolen.

  Everything happens for a reason.

  Mom, my friend Marcia is spreading rumors about me.

  Everything happens for a reason.

  Mom, I think I’m about to die.

  Everything happens for—

  Did you hear me? I said I think I’m going to die!

  Have you accepted Jesus into your heart?

  Really?

  You’ll be in a better place.

  Fuck, I hate when I’m forced to be alone in my head. I need to be in a conversation with someone other than my inner voice.

  When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.

  Get this damn tape off me! It’s torture being trapped in my mind. Fuck lemonade, I need liquor to stop the madness.

  I bend over and put my head between my knees, exhaling deeply from my nose.

  My toes wiggle on the plush black mat. It feels like the soft fur of Nadine and Brian’s dog, Baxter. I stare down for some time, daydreaming I’m back in their home, rubbing my bare feet on their bedroom carpet, not in the back of Jack’s car. I had it easy with them. What was it that I said? That I wasn’t living? That I needed to find myself? Fuck, I wonder if I’ve found myself now.

  Count again.

  Don’t panic.

  One Mississippi...

  I move a toe.

  Two Mississippi...

  I wiggle another.

  I’m full of nervous energy while the guys up front are suddenly quiet, falling into a zone. The laughter has settled down and the music’s lowered. They reposition their seats, lean back and relax.

  So then, this is going to be a long drive?

  How far?

  Where are we going?

  Are you going to kill me?

  God has a plan.

  Well... where the hell is He?

  Chapter Three

  MIND GAMES

  “FLEA-FLICKER, it’s a trick play, the ultimate risk-reward play,” Dylan says. “Don’t you know anything about football?”

  I’ve been dozing on and off for hours. The long drive, the music, the hypnotizing lights fading in and out on the dark roads; all these things have made my eyel
ids heavy. And when I am awake, all I do is argue with my obstinate inner voice.

  “I was into soccer as a kid and I used to snowboard, took karate lessons, too, but that’s about it,” Jack says. “I don’t have the patience to sit and watch other people play.”

  “Bro, do you remember?”

  My head bounces on Quinn’s leg and I hear gravel crunching under the tires. I sit up, viewing a remote road wide enough for one car. The forest surrounds us—bushes to the left and right slide along the doors, and enormous trees form a canopy overhead—we’re caged.

  Shit, I’ve been here several times over the past year. Shit, shit. This leads to the trail where my mom was killed... he’s taking me to her death site.

  “Quinn loved that flea-flicker play. The two of us would practice our moves in the backyard, pretending we were famous players. You remember getting upset because I’d never let you be quarterback? Such good times.”

  “Innocent times,” Quinn says.

  I turn, surprised to hear him speak. How the fuck did he get the tape off?

  He notices my eagerness to talk, offering an explanation. “They held a cigarette in front of my face about an hour ago. I nodded and gave in.”

  “This must be it,” Jack says, approaching a small parking area at the end of the road.

  My stomach rumbles and my sides cramp up. I have to pee so badly, and my belly... oh, my belly. I’m overwhelmed with a woozy feeling. I’m going to be sick—from both ends—an anxiety reaction from being terrified. I’m burning up, too. My face is on fire. My fingers are tingling. “Ummpfh!”

  “Must be what? This must be what?” Quinn looks around, taking shorter, harder, faster breaths.

  “Anyway, the flea-flicker. See, as quarterback, I would hand the ball off to my halfback, which was always Quinn, and he’d sprint with his skinny little legs down the yard while I fell back.”

  “I don’t give a shit,” Jack says.

  “He’d throw the football back once he reached our pretend line, then I would—”

  “When I say I don’t give a shit, I mean I don’t fucking give a shit, alright? We’re here, now stop talking about football and get the fuck out of the car.”

  Dylan takes his time opening the door while Jack reaches back and pulls the tape off my mouth.

  He pats my cheek and says, “You two got a minute to say goodbye to each other. No whining about stupid shit, like wanting to live.”

  “Quinn, this is where my mom was killed. Why? Why here?”

  Jack grips my jaw between his thumb and forefinger, drawing me forward. He’s so rough he could break a bone. “Scream again and the tape’s going back on. I’m being nice by letting you suck face or whatever you need to do in your final moments, but no screaming or acting like little shits. Use your time wisely. Capiche?”

  I nod and he pushes me back, then gets out and walks to the trunk.

  “We have to do something. This isn’t a joke, like Dylan seems to think,” I whisper, turning to see what he’s taking out of the back. “He didn’t drive hours to this spot just for fun.”

  “I know, I know,” Quinn says, worried and on edge. “If you can, kick either one of them in the nuts when we’re pulled out, then run. You know the area? Can you find a place to go?”

  “What about you?”

  Jack leans against the driver’s side door, holding a rope and a gun... Trent’s gun.

  “Let’s talk for a sec,” he says to Dylan. “You understand what happened tonight?” He reaches over his shoulder and pulls his tee over his head, showing off a back full of tats.

  It’s the most ink I’ve ever seen on anyone in person. The most prominent is a large skull with black roses. Smaller versions surround it in a clock-like pattern, each one with a rose over an eye and a date inscribed on the forehead. The tats on his arms are elaborate and colorful, but the artless display on his back is flat-out chilling.

  “If you have to think about it that much...”

  “I get it. You set me up like I killed my dad.”

  “It’s a bit more complicated than that.” Jack taps the car for Dylan to move closer, folding his arms as he waits. Dylan moves in and leans against the car, cloning his stance. “For one, I’m sure you’re wanted for violation of your probation. And you were at the river with the whore. She’s dead. Stabbed. Plus your friend’s dead in a ditch and your piss is a foot away from him. Your dad’s throat was slit, the same as Trent’s, and your fingerprints are on the knife which was left by his body.”

  “Fuck.” Quinn looks around, frantic for an escape. “Can you feel anything under the seat with your feet? A knife? Anything? I’m not giving up yet... and remember to run. Do what you can to get away from them and I’ll do the same. Just run. Don’t look back. Don’t think about me. Just keep running.”

  Jack looks down at us then says to Dylan, “After the game, the king and the pawn go into the same box. Ever hear that before? It’s some Italian proverb.”

  Dylan picks at his fingernails.

  “Am I boring you?” He circles the long rope behind his elbow and across his palm, continually looping it while Dylan drops his hands and straightens to listen. “That’s better,” Jack says, content when he’s in the spotlight. “The king and the pawn... you and I aren’t in the box, we’re still pieces standing in our little squares. But I need to make sure you’re locked in on my side of the board.” He takes the coiled rope off his arm and sets it on the hood, then gets the gun out of his jeans. “If you’re going to be this close to me, on my team, then I need to make sure you have no way out. You can’t abandon the chessboard and skip town for Candy Land. This is it, forever.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  He racks the slide and plants the gun in Dylan’s hand. “I love guys like you. You’re not even upset that I ruined your life.”

  “This is the first time I’ve had a life.”

  “Jesus, Dylan,” Quinn says as Jack leans into the car and flips through his music.

  “Gotten enough tongue action? You two ready?” he asks, finding a song on his system and cranking it. “Secluded areas like this are perfect for a suicide. Who feels like hanging themselves from a tree?” He leans into the back and kisses my cheek. “By the way, this song’s called ‘Here Comes the Sun,’ in case you didn’t already know.”

  “Leave her alone,” Quinn asserts. “Stop him, Dylan, do something to help us.”

  “This is a great Beatles song,” Dylan says, ignoring Quinn while admiring the gun.

  “Shoot the fucker!” I beg him to use it on Jack and not us.

  Jack stands and clutches Dylan’s shoulders, making sure he’s paying close attention as he delivers his instructions.

  “I’ve done all the work so far, now you have to prove your worth. You may be trapped, but that doesn’t mean you’re loyal. Show me.” He motions to the backseat. “These two are baggage. Shoot him, and I’ll take care of her.”

  “Don’t do this,” I call out. “Listen to these lyrics. Be calm. Be peaceful. Think about life, not death!”

  “I heard water when we first pulled up... there must be a creek close to one of those trailheads. Find it and take him there; shoot so the blood splatters into the water, then put him in the trunk on top of the trash bag that Trent was on. Don’t let the blood pooling from his head get all over my car.”

  “Jesus, Dylan, what are you doing? Shoot him. Shoot him!” Quinn pleads. “Don’t be a fucking tool.”

  “If you need any help, I’ll be back in ten minutes.” Jack takes the rope from the hood and heads for my side of the car. I fall to the seat and kick like a madwoman the moment the door swings open.

  “Kick his nuts, Addie. Kick!”

  “Get the fuck away from me!”

  Jack ducks and grabs my ankles, dragging me toward him until my ass hits the ground.

  “Addie!” Quinn shifts to my side, getting blocked by Dylan. “Leave her alone. Kick him. Ge
t free.” Dylan hauls him kicking and hollering from the car.

  “Help!” I shout.

  Jack re-tapes my mouth, his large fingers warm and sweaty when they touch my face. I kick and twist on the hard soil, but my muffled cries, tears, and terror are written off. I’m worthless to him. Like my mom once said... a nobody.

  I never got the chance to become a somebody.

  I’m tossed over Jack’s shoulder like a bag of laundry. With my knees on his chest and my head to his back, he carries me away, headed for the trail my mom was found on.

  “Addie!”

  I watch in horror as Quinn’s taken to another trail, the trees and ground becoming a blur once he’s out of sight.

  “Qummmph!” My muffled shouts to him end in tears.

  “Here comes the sun,” Jack repeats the song title then sings, “doo-doo-mmm-mmm.”

  Oh my God! Oh my God!

  I become a tornado, spiraling on his shoulder, jolting up and down, left, right, doing my best to damage him in some way. I pray he loses his grip and drops me.

  What am I thinking about? Escape? Running? Being alive? These are my final thoughts? Is this what happens when you die? What about my life flashing before my eyes? When does that happen? What are my final thoughts supposed to be? What do I do? What am I feeling? How do I think? What the hell? Is this it?

  Words become chaotic, trapped in my head. Confusion. Turmoil. There’s nothing significant, only meaningless blabber.

  “Enjoy the lush scenery, these are your final moments in the sun.”

  I’m deposited on my back under a tree, forced to watch him cast the rope toward a thick branch that’s eerily silhouetted by the rising sun. He misses the first toss, gathers it, twirls the end, then flings it upward again.

  It makes it this time.

  It makes it.

  My heart’s engaging in an assault on my ribcage. It’s in rapid flight. I’m going to have a heart attack before he has a chance to kill me.

  “Adlyn Moore,” he says in a calm voice. “Do you have anything to tell me about your mom before we do this?”

  The tape’s ripped from my mouth and I cry out for Quinn, but the moment I say his name a shot rings out.

  “No!” I clench my eyes and scream, “Quinn!”