by Selena Kitt
He punctuated each word in his last sentence very slowly and clearly, as if she might be deaf, or dumb, or both.
Tilly was so hurt it was hard to breathe, even with the rush of fresh air against her cheeks from the open door. Someone pulled into the spot beside them—in the handicapped spot. She didn’t look over, but she felt eyes on them as the stranger got out of their car.
“I wish you’d never come home.” She looked down at where she still had a hand on his arm. She was gripping it even harder now, her nails—always neatly manicured, at her mother’s behest—digging into his skin. She hoped it hurt. She wanted to hurt him, as much as he hurt her.
“Yeah, well, I wish...”
She heard him swallow, a low click in his throat, and lifted her gaze to his. “What? What do you wish?”
“I wish you’d retract your claws and get out of my car.” He gave her a level look and Tilly let go of him, seeing little pink crescents where her nails had dug into his flesh.
“Why do you treat me like that?” She heard the quiver in her voice and hated it. “I’m not your annoying little sister.”
“Uh, yeah, you kind of are.” He sat back in his seat, hands on the steering wheel again, knuckles already turning white. It just accentuated the jagged scars there.
“That’s not all I am... was...” Tilly could barely get the words out. Fuck. The door was open, like a call to freedom. She could bolt. And she wanted to, some part of her wanted to, because it felt like she was falling into darkness. Into a place she shouldn’t go. “Goddamnit, you know me. You know me better than... anyone. And ever since you came home, you’ve been treating me like I’m nothing. Less than nothing. Why do you have to go around making me feel like I’m just something in your way?”
“Right now, you are in the way,” he said through gritted teeth. His fists were tight, as if he could snap the steering wheel with his bare hands. She wondered if he was imagining strangling her. She wouldn’t put it past him.
“You bring out the worst me,” she said softly, trying to make herself even smaller in the passenger seat. It had been a mistake, following him. It had all been one great, big mistake.
“Ditto.” He closed his eyes, leaned forward, forehead resting on the expanse of steering wheel between his hands.
“And the best,” she added, reaching out to touch him. She couldn’t help it. It was like her hand moved on its own. Her fingers whispered over the back of his neck, thick and corded with muscle, the hair there short and soft, like the bristles of a baby brush. She stroked it, amazed at how hard and soft he could be, all at the same time.
She heard him make a noise, something pained, low in his throat.
“Tilly, get out,” he choked, not looking at her. “Get out. Get out. Get the fuck out of my car!”
“I can’t.” It was true. Her limbs wouldn’t move. It was like she was frozen in her seat. If she got up, if she left, it felt like it would be the end of her. She didn’t know why, or what it meant, but walking away felt impossible. Like the entire parking lot had turned into lava and the only safe place was here, beside him.
“No, goddamnit, I can’t!” he yelled, lifting his head and shaking the steering wheel so hard the whole car moved. “I can’t do this! I can’t! I don’t—”
He threw his head back, eyes still closed, his breath ragged, like he was working hard. But he didn’t say anything. For the longest time, he didn’t say anything.
“Don’t what?” she asked in such a little voice, she barely heard herself.
“I don’t have time for this,” he said finally, sounding defeated, pointing at the open passenger door, refusing to meet her eyes. “Now get out.”
“Make me.” The words were out before she could even think—defiant, angry, challenging him. If he wanted her gone, he was going to have to make it happen.
Beast got that hard-jawed, steely-eyed look of his, one she remembered very well.
Then he said flatly, “Fine.”
He started the car and Tilly cried out when he hit the gas with a vengeance, the forward motion jerking the car door closed all on its own. It nearly shut on her hand, and she narrowly rescued her digits from being crushed as he peeled out of his parking spot, through the empty space in front of them, making a quick left turn down the aisle.
Tilly groped for her seatbelt and snapped it on as fast as she could, clinging to the thick, polyester strap like it was her lifeline. Beast was driving like a crazy man—but a smart, attentive one. His attention was completely on the road, his moves fast but tactical. He knew exactly where he was going, what he was doing. And she knew it was no use asking him. When he clammed up, there was no getting him to talk again. Not until he was good and ready.
So she hung on, half-expecting him to stop any minute and push her out into traffic. He wouldn’t do that. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t. Although when she glanced over at his glowering countenance, she was less sure of that fact. He maneuvered the car swiftly out of suburbia and into the warehouse district, where every building looked the same.
Tilly had no idea where they were and finally, she dared to ask him in a small voice where they were going, but got no answer.
She began to think maybe she should have gotten out when she had the chance.
Then Beast parked the car at the back of one of the warehouses that looked much the same as the others, except that it seemed somewhat older. Beast got out of the car, taking the bag with him. Tilly jumped out, too.
“Hey, man of mystery, where are we?” She thought she’d better lighten things up, given the grooves between his eyes that appeared when he glared at her.
Beast didn’t answer, locking the car doors with his key fob. He started around to her side of the car and she made to follow him, but, in one swift, effortless motion, he lowered a shoulder to the height of her navel and then swept Tilly off the ground.
“Hey!” she protested, but she was already being carried. He’d thrown her over his shoulder like she was a gym bag. “Hey! You bastard!”
Tilly kicked and protested, tried to punch his back from her awkward position, but her little blows had no effect. Like hitting a goddamned wall, as usual.
“What the hell are you doing? Put me down!”
Tilly yelped when he smacked her hard on the ass. It was a sensation that shocked her, in every possible sense, all the way down to her toes.
“Shut up,” he snapped. “There’s more where that came from if you don’t settle down.”
She settled. Her bottom sang with feeling, the memory of that sharp, stinging pain. Besides, Tilly knew there was no sense in resisting, so she tried to figure out where they were going, but was disoriented upside down. They entered the warehouse by an obscure little door Beast unlocked and went immediately up a dark, mean flight of stairs. From Tilly’s perspective, things were terrifying as she looked down the steep way they were coming from, but Beast carried her without effort. He wasn’t even breathing hard.
Beast unlocked another door at the top of the stairs, stepped in, and turned on a light. He dropped Tilly on a luxurious, black, buttery leather sofa like a sack of potatoes.
The contrast was amazing—from warehouse grunge to sudden opulence.
There wasn’t a lot of furniture—a chair, a desk, a couch, no windows. But the room was a stark contrast to the evil looking hallway and bland exterior of the warehouse. Tilly thought immediately of some kind of gangster hideaway, but didn’t think that would quite be her brother’s style.
Though the office wasn’t large, it was simply but luxuriously furnished. The couch Tilly was now sitting on looked like something they didn’t make any more, like furniture from a hotel lobby in some old 1940s movie. The desk was something else—the Jetson’s gone wild—a kind of 60s “ultra mod” style, very large, with lots of glass and black. The chair was in a similar style—a very expensive office chair, and Tilly couldn’t tell whether it was from the 60s or merely some kind of replica.
On the wall were se
veral movie and pop cult posters, well framed. There was a poster of Honor Blackman in leather as Mrs. Peel from The Avengers, and a poster of Patrick Macnee as Steed from the same. Tilly noticed in particular a blow-up, autographed black and white of Julie Newmar as Catwoman.
Tilly tilted her head at the Catwoman poster. “Is this the hideaway of your secret girlfriend?”
“Nice try.”
“Well, I know it isn’t him.” She pointed at Steed. “How about Mrs. Peel? That’s more your speed. The Marines are working with MI5 now, right? Don’t worry. I won’t give away any important secrets. What is this place?”
“You don’t need to know.” He leveled her with a cold stare. “I have things to do. You stay here. I’ll deal with you later.”
She shot up off the sofa. “And what am I supposed to do here?”
“That’s up to you.” He shrugged, giving a nod to the book case. “Read a book, maybe.”
Tilly went to the bookcase and looked at. It was all receipt books. She regretted right away, leaving her purse with her Kindle in it in the car. At least her phone was tucked into her bra—a hiding spot her mother disapproved of, for so many reasons, not the least of which was something about cell phone waves causing breast cancer. But Tilly was so chesty, no one could even tell it was there!
“Well, if this is a waiting room, I’m not impressed with the magazine selection,” she teased, trying to lighten him up. He was still really mad, she could tell. “Makes me yearn for five-year-old copies of People or Field and Stream.”
“Then sit and meditate.” His gaze moved over her as she bent to look further down on the shelves. “You’re wearing yoga pants, right?”
“Very funny. Meditate?” She stood, cocking one hip and putting her hands on both. “For crying out loud. How long are you going to be?”
“That’s my business.”
“That’s my business,” she said, imitating him, loving the way it made his ears red. She couldn’t resist. “You with your serious business and your tight lips.”
“Don’t blame me, I didn’t want to bring you here,” he reminded her, barely moving those full, tight lips as he talked. “But here you are. Make the best of it.”
Tilly sighed. “And then what?”
“Nothing. I take you home.” With that, Beast stepped out the door and closed it. Tilly heard a key turning in the lock before she could even move.
“Hey!” she cried.
Tilly banged on the door, calling after him. But no one answered.
That son of a bitch!
She stopped and listened for a while, very carefully. She couldn’t hear anything at all except, maybe, the vague and continuous hissing of plumbing far away. What should she do?
She stood at the door and fumed, considering her options.
She could call Frankie to be rescued. But that would only alarm her, and there was no way she could find Tilly anyway. Tilly didn’t even know where she was!
Call her mother? No, for the same reason, and Tilly would never hear the end of it. Beast would end up absolved of all wrongdoing and Tilly would be blamed for her own kidnapping.
Kidnapping. Was she really being kidnapped? What in the hell was he doing here? What nefarious thing was he involved in? Her overactive imagination was going crazy, and she took her phone out, considering.
Call 911? That seemed a bit extreme, but Tilly was getting afraid, and it was not out of the question.
Okay, just what freaky shit was her stepbrother up to? Her imagination was running away with her, as her mother often said. It usually did. It couldn’t be a crime—he was too cop that way, though he certainly wasn’t a goody two-shoes by any means. But maybe he had changed. Really changed.
She shuddered.
He’d certainly been cold and stand-offish—more than usual—in the short time he’d been home. Maybe the stepbrother she’d once known was no more. Maybe an alien had taken over his body, like in that old body snatchers movie—she liked the old 70s one, with Donald Sutherland, way better than the awful remake with Nicole Kidman—and then, of course, she knew she was being ridiculous.
But he was up to something. She knew that much. Maybe it wasn’t aliens, but...
Was he hiding a woman? Well, he had his own apartment. Why would he need a warehouse? Unless he was hiding a whole harem of women. That thought made her grit her teeth and narrow her eyes at the closed and locked door.
But no. Besides, there was no bed in this office. Unless the couch pulled out into one. No, it wasn’t a woman, she decided. He hadn’t shaved, he was wearing an old pair of boots, and he wasn’t wearing any cologne. Not a date.
Could it be military police business? She couldn’t see how. Besides, as far as she knew, he was now officially “retired” from service, much to Liv’s delight. Weird to think of a twenty-six year old being retired from anything.
Tilly decided to text Frankie and lie. She claimed she wasn’t feeling well and had decided to go home. She promised they’d see the movie tomorrow. She caught Frankie under the dryer, and she said it was just as well, because everything was behind schedule at the hairdresser.
Tilly sat on the couch. So she’d obviously made a decision—she would wait for her stepbrother to cool off and come get her. Maybe he’d start feeling guilty about leaving her and come sooner rather than later. She hoped. Maybe he’d even let her in on whatever mystery was unraveling behind that locked door. Not knowing was killing her.
Then, thinking herself brilliant, she texted Beast to come and get her.
He texted back, “I’ll come for you. Trust me. Stay put.”
“Like I have a choice?” she texted.
No answer.
Dickhead. She didn’t text that, but she wanted to.
Tilly decided her characteristic nosiness, which her mother had always reproved her for, was certainly justified under the circumstances. What hostage doesn’t have the right to explore the bars of her cage? She poked through the drawers of the desk, half expecting to find a gun or something, maybe a bottle of Scotch. Was her brother moonlighting as a private eye, maybe? What a cool, romantic idea. Beast as Philip Marlowe. And he would get the babes of course. Yes, this would be a great private eye office, except its location was too intimidating. It would scare off customers. But was this his office or someone else’s?
No gun. No Scotch. It was a pity, because a drink would have been nice, though Scotch was not really her first choice if she had one. She found the usual pens and pencils, Post-it notes, paper clips and other boring stuff. Maybe this wasn’t a real office. Maybe it was just a front for something. There was a manila envelope marked “waivers,” but she didn’t bother looking inside. It even occurred to Tilly there might be a “secret passageway” or “secret panel” somewhere. But that seemed a bit much. This office was all style and no substance. If Beast actually worked here, she thought there must be a way to know what it was he was working on, somehow.
She began looking through the receipt books. Receipts for glasses and liquor, with the logo of “The Block” on them, along with an address. So she knew where she was now, and if the 911 option became viable, she could say her location. She congratulated herself on her foresight.
But her curiosity was piqued even more than before. So this was a nightclub?
Why would her stepbrother have the keys to a nightclub? What was his connection? There was no telling, as far as Tilly was concerned, what sorts of places he might go, but she couldn’t imagine him owning a nightclub. He didn’t have the patience for business, or the desire. His father had wanted him to take over his software company, but by the time Beast had graduated high school, there had been nothing left of it.
A fact that had brought about Conrad II’s ultimate demise. A chain reaction, really, she remembered with an overwhelming sense of sadness. Beast’s father had killed himself, and they had lost Beast, too. He’d enlisted right out of high school. Her stepbrother had come in and out of her life since then, like a whirlwind, a Tasmani
an Devil bent on destruction every single goddamned time.
You’d think I’d learn my lesson.
But Beast had never had a head for business. Not that he wasn’t smart—he just didn’t have the patience to sit still that long. Tilly ended up looking like the more practical one, although she probably wasn’t. While her imagination had a tendency to run wild, she could easily focus on whatever task was at hand. Liv had pushed Tilly into getting her business degree, and while Tilly’s mother had always wanted to steer her stepson in that direction, too—the oil business inherited from her side of the family, after Conrad’s software business had gone belly-up—she’d never held much sway.
Beast left for the Marines so fast it felt like it had happened overnight. This had been such a disappointment and a bone of contention for Liv. She thought of enlisting as beneath him—beneath their whole family. Enlisting was something kids who either didn’t know better or have better did, according to Tilly’s mother. It was an attitude most of Liv’s friends shared, although Tilly thought, as a viewpoint, it was myopic at best, and downright appalling at worst.
