by K. Webster
“It died,” he murmurs while working to tighten the rope in quick, sharp movements. “I don’t have the charger with me.”
I want to challenge him on his words, but I don’t. Brandon always carries a portable phone charger in his truck. Why wouldn’t he have it with him? My mind whirls with reasons as to why he’d lie to me, coming up empty. Brandon has never lied to me. Not once. He’s always been the one person I could count on.
“What did he mean?” I question, my thoughts lingering on Gabe’s earlier words.
Brandon flits his gaze over to me and frowns. “About what?”
“About my dad. What did he mean about asking you? Is there something you know and aren’t telling me?”
He throws his hands in the air and immediately he becomes defensive. “W—What? You think I have something to do with all this? Come on, Baylee,” he says with a hiss of disbelief, his eyes darting back between me and Gabe’s unconscious form in a way that has me on edge. “I checked in on your dad while you were gone. He’d lost Lynn and I knew you would want me to make sure he was okay. Jesus Christ! And then one day he upped and vanished. Why do I feel like I’m the goddamned villain now?”
Guilt floods through me and I shake my head in argument. “I just…”
“Believed that monster over me.” He clenches his jaw and I can tell he’s trying not to cry.
My emotions take over and I reach a shaky hand over to touch his shoulder. I want to comfort him. Because of my own exhaustion and grief, I’m taking it out on Brandon. I’m believing that monster over him, just as he says. “I’m sorry, Brandon.”
With a big sigh, he reaches up and clutches my hand that covers his shoulder. “It’s okay, babe. We’ll get through this together. I promise.”
I LIED TO her.
Again.
How many times will I have to lie to her?
Leaning against the counter, I cross my arms over my chest and watch her leave the kitchen. As soon as she’s gone, I pull my phone from my pocket and turn it off so it won’t buzz or ring while she’s around. The last thing I need is for her to discover that I have it and that it is working just fine.
A dull throb begins to form behind my eyes and I sigh out in frustration, stuffing my phone back into my pocket. Stark had said Baylee was wanted for questioning in the attempted murder. When Baylee whimpered and moaned his name while she slept, I knew.
Gabe was right. She is, for some God-awful fucking reason, in love with him.
The thought enrages me.
It makes me want to lift the slat of the hole to the cellar and push Gabe to his death for being the cause of all of this.
But mostly, it hurts.
My mind can’t comprehend how she could feel anything for her captor. Except for intense hatred. Fuck, this guy is no different than Gabe. How could she not see that? I’d honestly assumed she was lying—possibly playing him in order to survive.
Once I saw her running down the street and then later had her in my arms, I almost laughed at myself for having entertained such a stupid notion even for a second. Of course my girl couldn’t love some monster who paid money to fuck her. Of course she still loved me with all of her heart, like I love her.
But now?
Now I know it wasn’t a fucking act.
She does love him. I see it in the way she won’t hold my gaze—the guilt pouring from her eyes giving her away. I feel it in the way she avoids my touch, instead pushing me away.
I have to fix this.
And if that means lying to her to keep her safe, so be it. It isn’t normal for her to have fallen for someone who paid money for her. Clearly, he fucked with her head. Soon, she’ll come to this realization and come back to me. I’ll get my girl back.
A few tiny lies mean nothing in the grand scheme of things. Those lies will protect her mind and her heart. As her boyfriend, the love of her life, I will make sure I do whatever it takes to protect my girl.
“I’m hungry.”
The voice from the kitchen is weak and shaky. Baylee, who sits curled up on one end of the couch, eating a sandwich meets my gaze with wide eyes.
“You don’t deserve to eat, asshole,” I call out, and then stuff a chip in my mouth.
Baylee’s lips press together in a firm line. Her eyes are darting back and forth from me to the food on her plate. Finally, she sets the plate on the coffee table and snatches up the uneaten other half of the sandwich.
“I’m going to talk to him,” she says as she stands.
Anxiety floods through me as she stalks off to see Gabe who had unfortunately regained consciousness. If he doesn’t keep his mouth shut, he could ruin everything. Dropping my plate to the table, I jump up and stride after her.
“Where’s Dad?” she demands and dangles the sandwich in front of him.
He eyes it hungrily and meets her gaze. “I don’t know.”
“Liar,” she hisses.
His glare snaps to me and he smirks. I fist my hands at my sides. If I hit him again, she’ll definitely be suspicious.
“I’m not lying, sweet girl. I was with you the whole time. After your auction, I came back to check in with Tony, and he was gone. He hasn’t returned any of my calls. It’s like he’s disappeared.”
Baylee approaches him and holds the sandwich to his mouth. He takes a bite and flashes her a grateful smile as he chews. I hate the way he looks at her—as if they share something I’m not privy too. He’s probably thinking of how he popped her fucking cherry. Fucking bastard!
“Why did you need to check in with him?” she questions.
His dark eyebrows furrow together and I know he’s warring with whether or not he should tell her the truth. If he explains the fact that her father had something to do with it, it’ll only infuriate her, and the chance of him eating a bullet is likely. “I wanted to check on Lynn for you, baby,” he lies, his eyes finding mine.
Truth is, he never showed up to check on Tony. This, I know for a fact. I could out him on his lie, but then she’ll be back to demanding to know where her father is.
She can’t know.
Ever.
Her hand becomes shaky as she feeds him another bite of the sandwich. I’m not sure why she’s showing him kindness. He doesn’t deserve one second of her time unless it’s spent making him pay.
“Don’t cry,” he says softly after he swallows, his gaze turning soft. “She loved you. I’m sorry she was taken so soon.”
She shoves the rest of the sandwich in his mouth and then turns to face me. Tears stream down her red cheeks and she runs into my waiting arms where she belongs. As she sobs and I embrace her, Gabe and I maintain eye contact. He seems satisfied at toying with me. Almost as if the asshole thinks he holds the fate of my relationship with Baylee in his hands.
For some reason, he didn’t mention Tony’s involvement in her abduction. I’d like to think it’s because he’s a pussy and doesn’t want her to be angry with him. But deep down, I feel like he doesn’t want to break her already fractured heart further. Tony and Lynn were his friends.
He clearly has something up his sleeve. I’ll make sure he never gets the chance to pull out any of his tricks though.
This game is nearly over and I’m already calling victory.
“Can you take me to Walmart?” Her voice is a muffled whisper against my chest. “I need a few things and then we can get back to dragging answers from that prick before we go to the police.”
Her soft voice pulls me from pondering what Gabe’s motives are and I stare down at her. Despite her flushed wet cheeks, she lifts her chin and bravely gazes up at me.
The idea of her face plastered all over the Walmart security cameras while she’s wanted in connection of an attempted murder, sends panic skittering through me. Stark would have her team all over us before we even managed to fill the shopping cart. Fuck that. We’re not going anywhere. But just when I think I have the balls to tell her as much, she speaks again.
“Plus,” she says with a
shaky voice, “I’d like to see my mother’s grave.”
The very idea that Baylee didn’t get to say goodbye to Lynn is heartbreaking. If I could bring her mother back to her, I’d do it in a second without a moment’s hesitation. I would do anything for her. Anything.
Which is why I pull slightly away from her and run my fingers through my hair while I battle with indecision. All the reasons as to why this is a bad idea fly at me like baseballs barreling at me in a batting cage. I wish I could knock them all away from me and give her everything she asks for.
But I can’t.
I won’t make stupid mistakes like going into public knowing they’re looking for her. She’s already been through too much. I’ll protect her from this too.
I slip my palm to her neck and run my thumb along her jaw. “Sure, baby. We’ll go see your mom’s grave.” The Walmart trip will have to wait for another day. “Go get in the truck and I’ll finish him up.”
A grumble echoes in the kitchen and my shoulders tense at the sound.
“What the fuck does that mean?” Gabe demands from behind her.
I flip him off. “Exactly what you think. You’re dead, asshole. Time’s up. You’ve ruined shit enough and I’m done with you fucking with my girl.”
He laughs at me. “Your girl?” he says with a tsk. “Brandon, Brandon, Brandon. We’ve been through this and—”
“SHUT UP!” she screeches. “Brandon, you’re not killing him.” She snaps her gaze to Gabe. “Yet.”
Gabe, seeming unaffected by her threat, smirks at me. “By all means, take your ‘girl’ to dinner. Go woo her. I’ll just hang out here. Bring me a doggie bag.”
She grabs my hand and drags me from the kitchen. “Why do you even challenge him?” she huffs as we make our way into the living room. “You can’t win with him.” Her tone is annoyed and impatient. It stings that she’d chastise me for wanting to protect her from his predator ass.
“Apparently I can’t win with you either,” I mutter under my breath. “I’ll wait outside.”
“Did you get what you needed?” I ask as she climbs into the truck with a bagful of shit. Earlier when we’d pulled into the parking lot of the aging drugstore in town, she’d seemed suspicious as to why I didn’t take her to Walmart. But I just shrugged my shoulders, feigning indifference, and told her this place was closer.
She nods and rummages in the sack until she pulls out a small plastic box. Tossing it into my lap, she narrows her eyes at me and says coolly, “A phone charger. You can charge it when we get back to the cabin.”
I give her a clipped nod as I try and figure out a way to avoid her using my phone. Once she sees her face on the news as a person of interest, she’s going to really lose her shit. I don’t need her completely breaking apart. Not when I’m finally here and attempting to put her back together again.
Putting the car into reverse, I reach over and push play on my Big Wreck CD. This was an album that we always listened to together. I’m hoping to help her remember better times—times when our relationship wasn’t strained. Times when we were free to love without worry.
From the corner of my eye, I see that she bought a small purse and is quickly shoving shit into it. It all appears to be girly makeup, a hair brush, and other stuff. I didn’t really think to grab those things in my haste to get to her. All I cared about was finding her and then never letting her go.
The cemetery is about forty-five minutes from the cabin and I dread having to drive in silence. She now stares out the window as if she longs to be anywhere but inside this truck with me.
“I’m sorry, babe. I shouldn’t have been an asshole earlier. I’m just totally at my max with stress about this whole situation. All I want is to help you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Her head turns to me and she offers me a small smile. It’s not much but I’ll take it.
“Do you remember that time Dax Stevens poured hand sanitizer into Mr. Duncan’s coffee while he stepped out of the classroom?”
She nods and looks out the window.
“God, the whole class was laughing so hard when he came back in. He was so eager to tell us about the Civil War that he downed practically half his cup before he realized it didn’t taste right. When he puked in the trash can, you almost threw up.” I flash her a grin. “Dax got in so much fucking trouble. His dad probably beat his ass for getting expelled over that shit.”
“Poor Mr. Duncan.” A small chuckle escapes her and it’s fucking musical. It breathes hope into a brittle part of my heart that had been recently darkened.
She leans forward and switches the song she always skips over to the next one we both love. My chest swells with happiness. We can fix this. I just need to breathe life back into my girl. Make her remember the good times.
Reaching over, I hold my hand out to her. And like a million other times we rode around in my truck together, she grasps my hand and our fingers thread together.
Everything is going to be okay.
WHITE AND THEN black.
White and then black.
White and then voices.
“Warren.”
A blur stands in my vision and I attempt to blink away the haze. When my eyes find their focus, my father comes into view. His dark hair is disheveled and his eyebrows are drawn together in concern. Lines that weren’t there before crinkle along his forehead. My dad looks older. And stressed as hell.
“Warren, do you remember what happened?” His voice shakes as he asks his question.
I try to speak but it’s then that I realize something is in my throat. A tube maybe. Shaking my head, I attempt to conjure up my memories.
Something niggles at me.
Something heavy.
As if my heart is aching.
“Son, you were shot. Do you remember that?”
Again, I shake my head no.
His frown is immediate. “Do you remember Baylee?”
Baylee. Baylee. Baylee.
My heart rate speeds up and I can hear it on the monitor. The sound is comforting and I find myself needing to count the beats. How many of those rapid beats would resound on the monitor in a minute’s time? My eyes dart all around the room in search of a clock. Finding nothing, I decide to count them. One, two, three, four, five, six—nearly two beats per second. Two beats per second means one hundred twenty in one minute. Is that normal? Is it abnormal? Is it the reason I’m in the hospital after being shot like Dad claims?
I forget to count when I’m with you.
The voice, my voice, echoes in my head over and over again. That phrase seems to be a mantra I’ve created for myself. Because of her.
I close my eyes and I see her bright blue eyes. Kind and compassionate. Hungry and loving.
She loves me.
And I love her.
Reopening my eyes, I plead with them to my father. To ask him where she is. Everything is confusing and hazy but when it comes to thinking about her, I can recall every tiny detail of her beautiful face.
“I’m sorry but…” Dad trails off and reaches for my hand. I jerk it away before he can touch me.
My heart rate thunders in my achy chest and the beats are out of control. The machine is dinging noisily at my side. Why is he sorry? What happened to her?
“We’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. McPherson,” a woman says from somewhere else in the room. “Or should I call you Mr. Atlantic?”
The panic in my chest doesn’t subside and I’m at the point where I feel as if it might rip right down the middle at any second. My skin would tear while the bones would crack as my heart makes its escape. Blood would spurt and spray the dingy, yellow ceiling tiles, making them a brilliant red instead.
An attractive older woman steps into view, her brown eyes narrowing at me. I don’t know her, yet she appears to know me. Before she gets too close, Dad stops her with his arm.
“That’s close enough, Detective Stark.”
Stark?
Why does that name ring a
ll sorts of bells in my head?
She nods her acquiescence. “We’d like to talk to you about Baylee Winston and Gabriel Sharpe. She’s wanted for questioning right now for her involvement in your attempted murder. We have reason to believe she was Mr. Sharpe’s accomplice. Is it correct that you were sending funds to help her mother?”
The room spins and I snap my eyes closed to keep from throwing up. With this tube down my throat, who knows what would happen. I could drown on my own vomit. It would spew and spew but would have nowhere to go. Gobs of stomach acid would find their way into my lungs, burn through the tissue, and eventually suffocate me. Then who would help Baylee?
I reopen my eyes and affix my gaze to my father. With furrowed brows I plead for him to explain to her that Baylee is my love, not some criminal. He frowns and nods, a knowing look on his face.
“Parking is a nightmare around here,” another voice complains, interrupting our exchange when he enters the room.
A middle-aged man with a receding hairline strolls in with his hands on his hips. I become fixated on his unusually long fingernails—too long for a man—on each hand. Black. Dirty and filthy underneath. And crawling with bacteria. Who the fuck doesn’t clean under their fingernails?
My dad is saying something to Stark about Baylee, but I can’t take my horrified stare from the man who takes those same disgusting fingers and retrieves a discolored toothpick from his front pocket. He pops it into his mouth between his teeth and starts gnawing on the thing like he’s a goddamned beaver.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
The sound grates on me but the sight is much worse.
Moisture forms on his lips and I shudder to think of how many millions of disgusting microbes are infesting that mouth of his.
He pinches the end of the toothpick to whittle between two of his teeth. I want to look away from this sick show but I’m completely glued to his revolting behavior.
When he slips the toothpick from his mouth, inspecting the end of it, I gag.
A small chunk of something mushy sits on the tip. His tongue darts out and he slurps it off causing my stomach to clench in protest.
