by K. Webster
When I start to walk over the threshold, Stark stops me. “What’s with the bag, Mr. Thompson? Heading somewhere?”
I nod. “Talked to my mom. I was headed back home to stay with them. At least until I find a job and can get on my feet.”
Stark narrows her eyes at me. “I see. So, Mr. Thompson, you’re telling me you’ve been staying with Mr. Winston this whole time?”
My palms begin to sweat so I make a fist with them. “Yeah.”
“Check it out, Shilling. I’m going to chat with Mr. Thompson for a minute.”
Shilling shoulders past me and begins nosing around the house.
“I gotta tell you, son,” Stark says with a sigh, “I’m awfully curious how, just a few months ago, you acted like Anthony Winston was your enemy—that he was a part of some elaborate scheme to get rid of his daughter—and now you two are roomies? Can you explain that to me?”
I clench my teeth and glare at her. “My opinion of him hasn’t changed. We’d formed a sort of alliance to search for Baylee. Remember her? The missing girl you blew me off about? Plus, he’s been having a hard time since his wife died, and he is my girlfriend’s father. So, I’ve been here because obviously Baylee can’t be. Is that a crime, Detective?”
Her gaze softens and her lips press into a line. “Of course not, Brandon. Actually, that’s what we came here to talk about. Baylee and where she’s been—what she’s been up to. Have you had any contact with her?”
An ache forms in my chest. “No, I haven’t spoken to her.” It’s true. I haven’t heard her sweet voice. Her throaty giggle. The soft way she moans when I kiss her.
Stark lets out a sigh, almost seeming relieved at my words.
“The house appears to be lived in. No signs of a struggle or altercation. There’s nothing here,” Shilling says from behind me.
Stark nods and motions for me to follow her. “Mr. Thompson, we’d like you to come down to the station so we can ask you a few more questions.”
“So ask them now,” I bark out, trying not to seem so eager to get away from them.
Glancing down at my watch, I nearly cringe knowing these people are wasting my time.
“I’d rather do it up at the station. In my office. We can do this the hard way or the easy way. Just a few questions.”
“Questions about what?”
She frowns. “Gabriel Sharpe for one.”
I wince at hearing that asshole’s name. “I don’t know anything about that stupid fuck.” But my menacing growl does nothing to conceal my hatred for him.
“Well, that’s not all. I promise, we won’t keep you long. Like I said, the easy way.”
Our eyes meet and I challenge her. “And if I just leave?”
A soft chuckle leaves Shilling as Stark bristles at my question. “Then we do it the hard way. I have my partner here search your bag and if we find anything missing from this home, we’ll haul you in for trespassing and larceny. You could also be charged with aiding and abetting.”
“What?” I bellow out in disbelief. “Aiding and abetting with what?”
She crosses her arms over her chest and stares at me. “With aiding and abetting Baylee Winston in the attempted murder of Warren McPherson.”
I blink at her several times in shock. Surely this woman has lost her goddamned mind. “What the hell are you even talking about? Who the fuck is Warren McPherson? Baylee was kidnapped. Stolen. She’s not a murderer!”
Stark cocks a dark eyebrow and nods toward the squad car and my truck. “I know the story you’ve told me, and I’d like to believe you, Brandon. That’s why I want to get your statement at the station. We’ll need your help in bringing Baylee in. She’s a person of interest. Any information you might be able to provide will help us in our cause.”
Unfuckingbelievable.
“This is ridiculous.” I run my fingers through my hair again and curse.
“You can meet us there. How about that? We’ll talk, clear some things up, and then you can be on your way,” she tells me in a placating tone that reminds me of Lynn. Motherly and concerned. “I know you want her back. If she’s innocent, like you claim, we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
Rage bubbles inside of me.
Now that they think she tried to murder someone, they’re suddenly interested in where the fuck she went. Not for the near four months that I’ve been going crazy searching for her.
I want to strangle this woman and say, I fucking told you so.
I want to tell them everything I know about Tony Winston and his psycho best friend, Gabe Sharpe.
I want to tell them how Baylee wouldn’t hurt a soul. She’s an innocent. A motherfucking victim.
My phone buzzes in my pocket alerting me to a notification from the GPS app that’s tracking Gabe’s movement. I’ve already wasted too much time with these dumbass detectives when I should be stalking where Gabe’s taking her.
But I know they won’t get off my ass until I talk to them. Stark’s firm stare tells me so. I need to shake these guys off me so I can get to her. For a brief moment I consider telling her that I’m going after Gabe, but then I remember how much help she was before.
I don’t have time for their bureaucratic bullshit and red tape.
I need to get to her. And soon.
“Fine,” I concede with a huff. “I can’t stay more than an hour though. I promised my mother I’d be home for dinner.” My stomach grumbles as if to punish me for teasing it with a mention of my mother’s home cooking when I know I won’t be getting that shit anytime soon.
Stark nods and flashes me a warm smile. “You’re doing the right thing, kid. Thank you.”
Four hours.
For four goddamned hours I’ve sat here answering their questions.
When was the last time you saw Baylee Winston?
Do you know the current whereabouts of Gabriel Sharpe?
How would you describe Baylee? Was she ever violent?
Were Gabriel Sharpe and Baylee Winston collaborating to con the reclusive billionaire out of his life and money?
Where is Anthony Winston and why would he hide the fact that his daughter had gone missing?
On and fucking on.
I evaded. Anything to get them off my back and hurry the hell up.
“Are we done here?” I demand for the millionth time, my patience wearing incredibly thin.
Stark, ever the calm one, raises a dark eyebrow at me. “Shilling just called your parents to let them know you’ve been located and are safe,” she says with a hint of smugness. “He also told them you’d be late for dinner. Although, they sounded a bit surprised to hear that you’d be joining them at all.”
Fuck.
“There’s also no reason for you to lie about going to your parents, unless you really don’t want anyone to know where you were actually headed. Where were you really going in such a hurry, Mr. Thompson?” she questions, suspicion evident in her voice.
“This is stupid. I was going to see a friend.” A growl rumbles in my chest. “Besides, I’m eighteen, Stark. There’s no reason for you to have called them. It’s none of their business.”
I flick my gaze to the clock above her head, wanting to slam my fist into the table. Another three hours or so and he’ll be back at the cabin. I think about the gun in my bag in the truck. How it will feel to shove the barrel into that asshole’s mouth and pull the trig—
“Detective,” a mousy woman with a greying mop of hair interrupts, peeking into the interrogation room. “Mr. Thompson is here to see his son.”
Rubbing a palm over my face, I groan at the feeling of dread spreading through my body. The last thing I want to do is be forced to face my father now, after all this time.
“He can wait until we finish up here,” Stark snaps.
“No,” the woman squeaks, “actually it can’t wait. He’s here with an attorney and is demanding to see him right away.”
Jesus fucking Christ. My father just has to go to the extreme. I could have
handled this. I was almost done and on my way to find Baylee.
But now?
Now I’m going to look even guiltier. Spend even more time here. And possibly lose track of them.
Shit!
“Fine,” Stark grumbles, “send them in.”
Seconds later the door swings open and my father storms in with a scowl painted on his face. I stand abruptly and glower at him.
“I had this handled,” I grit through my teeth. “They were just asking questions about Baylee. I was about to leave. I didn’t need a lawyer or my dad to come save me.”
My father approaches and looks down his nose at me. “You look like hell, Brandon. Are you on drugs?”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. Fucking typical. “Leave,” I seethe at him, fisting my hands at my sides.
He laughs at me before grabbing a fistful of my T-shirt. I know he’s pissed at my disappearing but he no longer has any influence or control over me.
“Okay, Mr. Thompson, that’s enough,” Stark snaps as she stands.
“Son,” he says, shaking his head, “you clearly can’t be left to deal with matters on your own. You only ever end up doing something stupid. You went and got yourself mixed up with that girl. You’re throwing your entire life away for her. Her hot-headed asshole father doesn’t even like you. She’s not worth—”
“SHE’S WORTH EVERYFUCKINGTHING!”
I snap. Blame it on the day of being poked at and forced into shit that I didn’t want to do after months of being ignored by the very people in this room. Rage overwhelms me and I nearly go blind with it. I can’t stop the rush of anger. Can’t stop where it takes my fist. I can’t evaluate the repercussions of my action until it’s too late.
Crack!
The rest is a blur of chaos.
A blur of shouts.
A blur of force as I’m wrangled into cuffs by a fucking woman.
A blur of threats by my father. Warnings by his attorney. And my Miranda rights being read to me by Stark.
A blur that doesn’t fade until I’m sitting on a cold bench behind bars, beside a bunch of other criminals.
I’m so sorry, Baylee.
I’m so fucking sorry.
I SIT ON the shower floor with my chin on my kneecap as I hold my legs to my chest. The heat of the water does nothing to warm my frigid soul. I’m dying from the inside out. The past few hours have been permanently blocked from my mind. I won’t allow myself to dwell on what happened.
Because it will kill me…
My thoughts focus on War and hot, angry tears fill my eyes. I was his—all his—and Gabe took that away from me. A shudder ripples through me and I let out a sob. My wrists still burn from the rope and I lift them up to inspect them.
When I do, the dark veil lifts in my mind and the memories of only moments ago assault me worse than the act itself.
I’d fought against those ropes.
Squirmed and wriggled.
Thrashed and spit and snarled.
But in the end, he took me anyway.
And once it was done, I broke. Gabe snatched onto my already bruised and bleeding spirit—and snapped it in half. He stole the last thing I had for War. Greedily robbed it all for himself.
The motherfucker even had the audacity to tell me he loved me.
I stand on shaky legs and scrub that vile man from my body. I can’t help but think of War and our time together, as I fervently scour away every particle from my flesh, to the point of pain. Every smear of his saliva. Every drop of his cum. Any lingering scent of the devil himself. All of it burned from my body by my vicious scrubbing and drained away into the depths of hell, where it belongs.
“Baylee…”
I flinch at hearing his voice, low and menacing, and I drop the rag onto the floor. Gritting my teeth, I prepare to shred his face if he so much as thinks about entering this shower with me.
“What?” I snap.
He chuckles, the darkness in it a threat itself. “There’s my girl. Thought I’d lost you there for a spell when you went all catatonic.”
His shadow behind the curtain moves over to the mirror and I hear him turn on the sink. He sets to brushing his teeth as if we’re some stupid married couple getting ready for bed.
I hate how comfortable he is with what he’s done.
Absolutely hate him.
“You developed feelings for him.” His words aren’t a question but instead an accusation. Silent tears roll down my cheeks as I think about War. “Baby, they have a name for that. It’s called Stockholm syndrome. It’s a psychological disorder. You only think you have feelings for him because he was your captor. It’s not uncommon.”
My blood boils and I want to charge through the curtain and beat his face against the mirror. To smash his flesh against the glass and revel in the way his blood smears the reflection.
If only I knew for sure that I could take him. In my angered state, I imagine I almost could.
“I’ll never feel anything for you but hate. I’ll never fall in love with you,” I hiss back at him.
The shower curtain is suddenly yanked open and I shriek in surprise. His gaze drags over my naked flesh before those evil eyes bore into mine. “You won’t have to fall in love, sweetheart, because I’ll drag your ass into it with me.”
We glare at one another for several long seconds. When he reaches for me, I go wild. I claw at him and scream. He manages to grab onto one of my arms and jerks me out of the shower into his firm grasp.
His bare skin against mine nauseates me and I wiggle to free myself.
“Let go of me, you asshole!”
I’ve lost it. I can’t remain calm for the sake of my maybe baby. I can’t even get myself under control and use my head long enough to determine an escape plan. All I can do is think about murdering this man with my bare hands.
“Baylee,” he snarls, squeezing me hard enough to nearly break my ribs, “calm your shit or I’ll knock your ass out.”
Ignoring him, I lean back before slamming my forehead against his chin—hoping to hurt him more than myself.
“Fuck!”
We continue to scuffle—me like a live wire in his arms—back into the bedroom. My body is slippery and wet, but he still manages to hold on to me. When I get a glimpse of blood dripping from his lip, I’m overcome with joy. So much so that I cackle with glee.
“Calm the fuck down, woman!”
Only when he wrenches my arm behind me and twists it painfully do I stop my movement, giving in to loud, defeated sobs. The adrenaline seeps out of my body with every passing breath and all strength leaves with it.
“Take this,” he orders, prying open my mouth. “It’ll calm your ass down.”
I gag as his fingers force the acrid pill past my tongue and into my throat. My teeth clamp down but he manages to free his hand before I can do any real harm. His strong palm presses my chin up to keep me from trying to spit it out. I can feel the mysterious pill slowly make its way down my dry throat.
“Baylee, I’m sorry.”
I stiffen in his arms as his palm rubs innocently over my belly. Recoiling away from it would only give him suspicion to what I’m protecting, so instead, I bite my lip and breathe as normally as I can. My stomach roils as the pill settles and begins to do its job. I pray to God that if I am pregnant, it won’t harm the fetus. “You’re not sorry. You killed him. I loved him.”
He stays silent for a long time and I wonder if he was even listening. Or if he’s planning his retaliation for what I’m sure he interpreted as defiance. His grip on me finally loosens, but I’m too exhausted to fight and I’m already feeling numb from whatever it is he gave me. “Shhh, let’s talk about it tomorrow. I’ve been too rough with you, I think. Expected too much, too soon. You’re a good little girl, and I don’t want to treat you like a prisoner.”
He manages to climb into bed with me in his arms. When he drags the warm blanket up over us, I nearly moan in relief. His heavy arm holds my body against his—my back to
his front. Even though my hair is soaked, he buries his nose in it and kisses my skull.
Every muscle in my body is on fire. My brain is fried. And my heart is gone.
I’m helpless to his forced cuddling.
So instead, I close my eyes and pretend his body belongs to another. That I’m receiving warmth from a man who is as pure as freshly fallen snow.
“I love you,” he murmurs.
The voice is wrong but the sentiment comforts me.
I love you too, War.
I’m not sure if the words are spoken aloud or in my head, but soon I’m drifting off to a place where I’m free. Free to love and kiss and adore a complicated man.
At peace with War.
“What are you doing?” I ask, sucking in a gasp of air as his finger dances along my shoulder blade, pushing my hair away in a gentle move.
War smiles. I don’t have to see it because I feel it. And I smile too.
“Counting your freckles. There are so many,” he says in a quiet, almost shy tone.
I laugh and turn to look at him over my shoulder. He’s propped up on one elbow and inspecting me as if he’s trying to memorize every single square inch of my flesh. Everything about him is beautiful. The way his dark blue eyes twinkle when he’s counting. How his full lips move in just the slightest way. And the way his brown hair hangs over his right eyebrow in a messy yet sexy way.
“How many are there?”
“Four hundred and thirteen,” he tells me. His voice is resolute. Convinced. Completely sure. “So far.”
Closing my eyes, I bask in his gentle touch. He calms me just as much as I seem to calm him. The world is no longer a threatening place when we’re together like this. We’re in our own world—one which is safe and filled with love.
As I drift off to sleep, he counts my freckles while I count every happy beat of my own heart.
Birds chirping.
They don’t sound like the seagulls I’m used to waking up to.
Maybe they’re sick.
My body is heavy and sore to the point that I almost feel drugged. I can’t even manage to get my eyelids to lift.
Still too exhausted to face the day, I bury my face against the warm, firm chest in front of me and hug him closer to me. War always warms me. All the way down to the innermost parts of me. For some reason, I’m incredibly achy today and don’t want to move.
