by Lynch, H. G.
By the time he parked the bike outside the house and cut the growling engine, I was breathless, windblown and full of wild adrenaline. My bare legs were stubbled with goosebumps, and several times during the ride, I’d had to tuck the shirt down to keep from flashing my boxer-clad ass to the traffic behind us. Yet, it had been so much fun, I wanted to do it again.
I stepped off the bike, a little wobbly, and grinned at Brogan. “That was awesome!”
He laughed, his rare dimples coming out to play. “Your hair is crazy right now.”
I self-consciously smoothed it down, my fingers catching in the tugs, but I couldn’t stop grinning. At least not until Brogan swung off the bike and grabbed me around the waist, pulling me close, so he could bury his nose in my unruly hair. I stiffened in surprise, and then melted against him, feeling his nose run down the side of my face and along my jaw. Then he abruptly let me go, and jerked his chin toward the house.
“Come on. We can’t stand out here all day.”
Startled by his lightning hot-and-cold act, I just nodded and led the way up the path, overgrown with weeds, to the front door. When I got there, I saw the door was open a crack, but there was no sign of forced entry. Evie never would have left it open, and I remembered the bastard the night before had probably taken my keys. A breath of panic caught in my throat, and I turned wide eyes on Brogan.
He nodded sombrely, indicating he’d seen it too and had come to the same conclusion. He reached out and took my arm, gently dragging me behind him as he slid his other hand to the small of his back and pulled out a small, black gun.
I gasped. I’d never seen a gun in real life before—they weren’t really a common sight in Britain. “Whoa,” I breathed, and he glanced at me. “Do you always carry a gun around?”
He shook his head. “Normally I don’t need to. But I picked this baby up after Brent was killed, and I knew Red was on my ass. That guy that attacked you last night was lucky I didn’t have it on me, or I’d have shot him in the fucking kneecaps.”
It really wasn’t the time or place, but I felt a bubble of totally inappropriate giggles burst in my mouth, and my lips curled. There was just something adorable about how protective he was of me. I knew it was just because he felt responsible for getting me into the shit, but I could almost allow myself to believe it was more than that. Just for a second.
He caught my grin, and looked at me as if I was nuts.
I shook my head and said, “Are we going in then?”
He jerked his head, and pushed the front door open, revealing the hallway. It looked fine, but there was a deep churning in my stomach, a primitive creeping feeling that someone else had been in my house. They had invaded my territory. The thought pissed me off and creeped me out all at once, but I followed Brogan as he moved cautiously into the house, his gun held slyly at his side.
As soon as we entered the living room, I could see the house had been tossed. The sofa cushions were shredded, spilling their stuffing onto the floor, the TV was gone, and the coffee table was smashed. Through the open doorway, I could see into the kitchen, and there were shards of glass and porcelain plates scattered on the floor. The microwave was gone, too.
Rage boiled up inside me, so hot that I saw red around the edges of my vision, and I had the desperate urge to see my room. I had to see it. I had to know if they’d invaded, if they’d wrecked it. I had the terrible suspicion that they had.
I whipped around and pelted up the stairs, Brogan shouting after me. I heard him curse, and then his heavy footsteps trailing me. I made it to the top of the stairs, and again the hallway looked untouched, but when I pushed open Evie’s bedroom door, I saw her clothes were scattered everywhere, her pillows were spewing feathers, and the mattress had been tossed off the bed frame. Evie wasn’t usually particularly tidy, but that was beyond the level of mess even she could cook up.
Brogan caught up with me while I was standing there, gaping into Evie’s room. He took one glance at it, and sighed. “Glad you got Evie out of the house last night, huh?”
I nodded numbly and turned to walk down the hall to my room, dreading what was inside. Brogan stuck close behind me, and took my hand when we reached my door. I squeezed his fingers gratefully and took a deep breath, reaching out to turn the handle. The door swung inward easily, exposing darkness—the curtains and blinds were shut. I found the light switch on the wall and flipped it, steeling myself to see what they’d done to my private space.
I let out a cry of utter horror and disgust.
The room was almost untouched, except for the bed. Right in the middle of my mattress, there was a severed hand seeping blood onto my duvet cover, and a bloody knife next to it. Under the knife, there was a piece of clean, white paper.
Beside me, Brogan swore. Pulling me back, he strode into the room with long, angry strides and snatched up the note from the bed. He ran his eyes over it, and his jaw clenched hard as stone, his eyes turning stormy and dark. He swore again, more viciously, and I forced myself to step into my defiled bedroom.
“What does it say?” I croaked.
Shaking his head, as if his disgust was too much to verbalise, he handed me the note. I took it in trembling hands and looked down at the single line scribbled on the slip of paper.
RED SAYS HELLO.
Just three little words, but they sent ice-cold shivers down my spine and settled ice-cubes in my gut. The guy was seriously sick. I lifted my eyes to Brogan, who was glaring at the pale hand on the bed, his face almost the same colour as the dead flesh.
I swallowed the bile burning my throat and asked, “Whose hand do you think that is?”
“I don’t think. I know,” he rasped, his voice quiet and thick. “It’s my uncle’s hand. I recognise the smell of his blood. Those goons I battered in his hotel room must have cut it off and run before the cops arrived at the hotel.”
My stomach turned over, and my chest ached at the sight of the pain on his face. He made a low growling sound in his throat, then with blinding speed snatched up the knife and whirled, throwing it hard in my direction.
“Fuckers!” he snarled.
My lungs locked on a scream, my heart froze for an instant, and I heard the thunk of the knife hitting the wall several inches away from me. Shaken by his abrupt fit of violence, I turned my head and saw the knife buried point-down in the wall, half-way to the handle.
“Christ!” I breathed, feeling like my heart was going to escape from my chest. “A little warning next time! You gave me a fucking heart attack!”
He just glared at me. “Pack some clothes and let’s get out of here. Call your buddy Leighton and tell him someone broke into your house. At the very least, the cops will get the hand taken away.” He stormed to the door and pulled the knife out of the wall next to it. Then he snatched the note from my hand and crumpled it in his fist, and walked out the door like a thundercloud.
I looked at the hand lying limp on the bed, and I shuddered. Brogan was right. We needed to leave. I didn’t want to stay there any longer than I needed to. So I grabbed the first large bag I found—which happened to be one of Evie’s enormous handbags that I’d borrowed once for god-knows-what reason—and started shoving clothes into it. Since most of my clothes were black, I didn’t have to worry about colour coordination, so I just snatched random things and stuffed them in, along with underwear, my hairbrush, and my favourite black eyeliner. There was no way I was leaving without it.
After a second of thought, I also added the bottle of foundation and palette of concealer powder that I rarely had to use. I’d need something to cover the horrible bruise on my face. Then I tossed in my box of pills. I didn’t know if I’d need it, but I was sort of hoping, grabbed my toothbrush from the bathroom, and clomped down the stairs to see where Brogan had gotten to.
I found him standing by the front door with a black plastic bag knotted around his fist. I didn’t ask what was in it. I was guessing it was the knife and the crumpled note. He was smart to take them, sinc
e they had his fingerprints on them, and if the cops had found them, he’d have been in deep shit. Stopping on the stairs, I pulled out my mobile and called Leighton on his direct number, which he’d given me for times I really needed help from a friend with a badge. I made the call quick and blunt, and Leighton assured me he’d have some guys swing by to check things out.
Then I called Evie and told her about the break-in. I left out the part about the hand and the note and assured her I was fine, but she would have to stay at Zack’s for a few more days. Zack stole the phone and started firing worried questions at me, so I told him I was safe, I was with Brogan and he was taking care of me.
Finally, I hung up on my friends before they could ask any more questions, and shoved my phone back into my pocket. I met Brogan at the door.
He flicked me a curious glance. “So…I’m taking care of you, huh?”
I caught a hint of a smile, the first I’d seen since we went inside. I gave him a wry look in return. “You’re doing okay.”
He looked pleased by that, though he tried to hide it, and his mood seemed to lift as we got back on his bike. After tying the black bag securely to the handlebar, he reached back to take my hands and bring them around his waist, locking me to him.
“Hold on tight,” he murmured.
I felt his abs flex as he leaned forward, kicked the bike off its stand, and revved the engine. Then we were flying through the streets again, my hair whipping back, my eyes watering, my heart pounding. I clutched onto his belt, pressing the side of my face into his back, and held on for the ride as best I could.
Chapter Twenty
** Brogan **
Back at the flat, I left Kester with Jet and made him swear on Odin that he wouldn’t let her leave, no matter what. He seemed amused by my over protectiveness, but shit, I’d seen the state of her house. What if she’d been there last night? What if I’d let her leave when she’d wanted to? What would Red’s guys have done to her? Just thinking about it made me sick to my stomach. No, she had to stay where I could keep an eye on her, keep her safe. Not only did the beast inside me demand it, but so did my own fucking instincts, and if I had a conscience, it was demanding it too. I had to protect that girl.
Which meant I had to go and take care of something, and she couldn’t come along. She’d be fine with Jet. Safer than if I took her with me. If I found what I was looking for, it was going to get very ugly and very violent, very fast.
I left my bike behind and hit the street by foot, knowing that, sooner or later, the one I was looking for would find me. It was fairly chilly, the sky leaden grey, and I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets. There were a few people out and about; a group of teenagers loitering outside the Spar, a young, tired-looking woman pushing a buggy, a thin man walking a heavy, ugly Rottweiler. It was still light enough that the drug dealers and muggers were hiding in the shadows like insects, waiting for the sun to go down, so they could crawl out from under their rocks and scuttle out of their slimy holes.
As I walked with no particular destination in mind, I thought about my uncle’s bloody hand on Kester’s bed, with the knife and the note. Rage bubbled in my gut like a boiling cauldron, making my fists clench in my pockets. It was a warning, clear as day. Red was going to make my life miserable until I paid him the money Brent had owed him, and he wasn’t above going after my girl. Not that she was really my girl. I didn’t know what the hell Kester was to me. I just knew I couldn’t let her get hurt because of me.
It didn’t take long before I got the sense I was being followed. It was just a pinching on the back of my neck, but I didn’t dare look back. Instead, I kept up my casual pace and took the next corner, pressing myself against the wall. A shadow rounded quickly after me, and my hand shot out, gripping my stalker’s neck. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the man who’d attacked Kester. I’d gotten a good look at that guy’s face as I pummelled it into the pavement, but the one who’d been following me was bulky, with short grey-brown hair and a goatee, sort of plain-looking. Not someone I’d normally notice walking down the street. The perfect man for Red to send looking for me.
I whirled around and slammed the guy face-first into the wall. He grunted in pain and fought my hold, but despite the size of his muscles, I was feeling fresh and strong—partly from the amount of Lust I’d taken from Kez that morning, and partly from pure, adrenaline-pushing rage. I twisted his thick arm behind his back, cranking it up until he gritted his teeth, spitting a curse at me.
Grinning nastily, I pushed my face close to his and hissed, “I want you to take a message to Red for me.”
He barked a harsh laugh. “Oh, yeah? I ain’t no fucking messenger boy, dickwad.”
I twisted his arm a little more, feeling the wrist bones grind under my fingers, and he swore. “Well, today, you’re either a messenger to Red, or you’re a dead man. Make your choice fast, ‘cause I’ve got other things to do.”
He replied with a curt, “Fuck you.”
I sighed and put my hand on the back of his head, grinding his face into the rough stone wall. “Try that again.”
“Suck my dick.”
I shrugged. “Fine, we’ll do this the hard way.” I flipped him round, and before he could get his bearings, I crunched a fist into his face. Blood spewed from his broken nose, and my knuckles stung, but damn it felt good to just punch someone.
“You fucking cock-sucking little prick!” Goatee yelled, clutching his broken, bloody nose with one hand and swinging at me with the other.
I dodged easily and landed a fist in his gut, making him grunt and double up. From there, he charged at me and tackled me to the ground, my back slamming into the pavement hard enough to knock my breath out of me. I was stunned for long enough to let him get in a couple punches to my face, neither of which I really felt except as brief, bright sparks of pain.
Regaining my breath, I hauled my legs up and kicked him in the ribs. He screamed, and I practically felt a rib snap under my boot. Next, I swiftly jammed one knee into his balls. With a howl of pain, he dropped to his knees, grabbing his crotch. While he was incapacitated, I rolled to my feet and yanked a knife out of my boot—the same knife we’d found at Kester’s. I hadn’t told her I’d kept it because I didn’t want to scare her. But hell, if I was going to do some damage, I was going to use the same knife the bastards had turned on my uncle.
Yanking Goatee’s head back, I pressed the edge of the knife to his throat and leaned down to snarl in his ear, “Ready to be a messenger yet?”
He spit blood onto the concrete and gurgled, “Bite me, you little shit.”
I grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.” Pulling his head back further until he could see my face, I let my canines grow into savage inch-long fangs and my vision brightened as my eyes took on a fierce glow.
Goatee turned pale and he spluttered, his eyes bugging out. “F-fuck. Shit, man, shit, what the fuck are you?”
I leaned down until my nose almost touched his and whispered, “I’m the guy who’s going to fucking eat you alive if you don’t do exactly what I say.”
** Kester **
Brogan had been gone for nearly two hours, and I was getting worried. He hadn’t said where he was going, just that I was no to leave the flat, under any circumstances. I’d expected him to be back by already. I sat on the kitchen counter, tapping my heel against the wall impatiently, while Jet sprawled on the sofa, watching TV with his eyes half-closed. I tried to tell myself I shouldn’t be worried about Brogan if Jet wasn’t, and anyway, I’d seen Brogan fight. He was a monster in more ways than one. I was pretty sure he could handle himself.
But then again Red had had his uncle murdered. He’d had one of his goons try to rape me just because they’d seen me with Brogan somewhere. Red was bad, bad news, and I was starting to wonder if even Brogan could hold himself against a cold-blooded killer.
I wanted to call the cops and tell them everything I knew about Red, but Brogan had made me swear not to. I also knew better than to
think that, if the police got wind of the shit going down around there, Brogan wouldn’t get locked up right along with the bad guys——if they could even catch the bad guys. If not, Brogan would undoubtedly go down alone, no matter what I said. I couldn’t let that happen. I at least owed Brogan that much.
There was a rattle at the door, and my head snapped around. Jet, whom I was sure had been half-asleep a second before, sprang up from the sofa and snatched me bodily off the kitchen counter, shielding me with his body as the front door swung open.
Brogan appeared in the doorway, and called out, “Honey, I’m home!”
I ducked under Jet’s thick arm and threw myself at Brogan, rocking him back on his heels as I wrapped my arms around his waist in relief. He patted me on the back uncertainly.
“Whoa. Someone’s happy to see me. Did Jet torture you while I was gone? I told him nobody wants to listen to his music. Ever.”
Jet said nothing, and when I pulled back, slightly embarrassed by my reaction, I saw why. Half of Brogan’s beautiful face was swollen, black and blue. His lip was split, and there was a small cut above his eye, right next to his eyebrow bar. He looked like he’d picked a fight with a yeti…or one of Red’s goons.
Oh, hell.
I stepped back, digging my nails into his chest, and looked him straight in the eye. “Tell me you didn’t do what I think you did.”
He gave me a lopsided, nonchalant grin, which was ruined by the trickle of blood that escaped from the split in his lower lip. “Depends on what you think I did.”
I punched him in the chest. “Don’t fuck with me, Brogan—”
“Thought I already had, but if you want to go for another round—”
I hit him again. “Shut up! Tell me you didn’t go and pick a fight with the asshole that attacked me. Tell me you weren’t that stupid.”
He rolled his eyes, one of which was swollen half-shut. “I can honestly say I didn’t pick a fight with the guy who attacked you.”
