Bump & Grind (Brewed Moon Book 1)

by J. Margot Critch

  She could still feel him, and despite her shower, his scent lingered, like his hands on her skin. She brought the wine to her lips, her hands shaking enough to slosh the red liquid up the sides of the glass. How could I have been so stupid?

  Her phone vibrated on the table next to her, and she picked it up. The caller ID showed Peter’s name and number. And I won’t be stupid ever again, she told herself, sliding her phone into her back pocket.

  There was a knock on the door, and Erica was torn between staying on the couch and shutting herself away from the world, and pulling herself back together. The latter won out, and she put down her wine glass and pushed herself up from the couch. The knocking continued. “Hold on, I’m coming,” she muttered at whoever was on the other side.

  Erica checked the peephole, and she was surprised to see that it was the same police officer that had driven her home, just an hour before. But he was no longer in his uniform. She frowned and opened the door, wondering what he could possibly want.

  “Hi -”

  That was the only word she said before he drew his gun and pointed it at her. “Shut up and do what I say.”

  Peter dialed Erica’s number two more times, and there was no response from her. “I’m going to Erica’s,” he told the group. “You get out and find that son of a bitch. When you do, bring him here.” He walked out the door and the bright sunlight made him squint. Running to his car, he pulled out his sunglasses and put them over his nose. He dialed her again. It went to voicemail. After the tone, he spoke. “Erica, I know you hate me, but I need to talk to you. I need to make sure you’re okay. Please call me.” He pulled away from the warehouse, peeling his tires, leaving dust and dirt in his wake.

  Erica went with the officer. The gun was no longer trained on her, lest they attract unwanted attention. He cuffed her hands at her front, and she got in the back of the car as she’d been instructed. It wasn’t the police cruiser she’d been in previously, but a luxury car of some type. The windows were tinted and the interior made of leather.

  “Where are we going?”

  He didn’t answer her, he just kept driving.

  “Why did you pull a gun on me? Am I in danger?”

  Silence.

  Erica was afraid, confused. She didn’t know what was going on, but she knew it wasn’t good. A vibration from her back pocket of her jeans surprised her, and she realized that she still had her cell phone. She couldn’t get to it at the moment, but her courage soared. She was still scared, but she was tough. This was her lifeline; she still had a chance.

  She watched her surroundings, remembering what she could about the car and the driver. Her hands were still cuffed behind her back, and she rose them as high as she could. Thankfully her fingers reached the bottom of her still-damp hair. She gripped and pulled hard. She tried not to wince as she ripped a small handful of strands from her scalp. She pushed her hair in the crevice of the back seat – a tip she’d learned from a Law & Order: SVU marathon. So that if the police needed proof she’d been there, or a clue to her whereabouts, they would find her hair in the car. Thank you, Olivia Benson.

  The car started to slow and she looked out the window. She wasn’t completely surprised to see that they had come to stop outside of Dylan O’Connell’s club. She’d known that he was somehow behind this.

  The driver exited the car, and he came around to the back. He opened her door, and he pulled her roughly outside. She was led inside through a back door down a dark hallway, they came to a room, and the cop shoved her inside. He was about to leave and close the door on her when she called out to him.

  “Wait!”

  He stopped. “What?”

  “Can you take the handcuffs off?”

  “I don’t think so. He’ll call for you soon.”

  “Look,” she tried to reason with him. “You’ve already got me here. What can I do? What harm would it do to take off these handcuffs? My hands are numb.”

  He thought about it, and sighed. He came towards her and pulled out the keys and unlocked her. Erica smiled, thankful to have regained her range of motion. She rubbed her wrists, sore from the confinement of the steel. He was out the door, and the room was shrouded in pitch blackness before she could look up from her hands.

  Peter arrived at Erica’s apartment within a couple of minutes. He ran inside her building and pounded his fist on her closed apartment door. He didn’t stop knocking until it flew open. It wasn’t Erica who answered it, however, it was Azura.

  “Where’s Erica?”

  Azura shrugged. “I don’t know. I just got in and she isn’t here.”

  Peter walked past Azura, not waiting for an invitation inside. He could smell Erica, her shampoo and the air still felt warm, steamy, and moist, as if she had recently taken a shower. She had been at her apartment. He looked to the living room and saw the full glass of wine sitting on the end table near the couch.

  He pointed to it. “Is this yours?”

  Azura shook her head. “No. What’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure.” He tried to tell himself that she could have just stepped out, needing to clear her head. But it didn’t feel like it.

  “Oh god,” he heard Azura say from the kitchen. He went to her. “Her purse is here. She never goes anywhere without it. Where is she?”

  There was definitely something wrong. He took a deep breath, and he turned to Azura. “You stay here. Call me immediately if she shows up or contacts you. Okay?”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  “And don’t open the door for anybody except for Erica, me, or a member of my team.”

  “Your team?”

  “My friends,” he amended, remembering that Azura didn’t know they were cops. “You’ve met them.”

  “Okay,” she nodded again. Her eyes were glazed over slightly, possibly stunned by the shock of the events of the past few minutes. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “I’ll explain later. Just do what I told you,” he commanded, walking out the door, Erica’s purse in hand.

  Erica sat in the cold, dark room for a brief moment before she pulled out her cell phone, which was thankfully still in her back pocket. She considered calling 911, but stopped herself. 911 would send police, and it was a police officer who had kidnapped her. There was definitely something bad happening at St. John’s PD. She knew who she should call, and she opened the contacts on her phone, quickly finding Peter’s number. She didn’t hesitate dialing him, knowing that he would come to her rescue.

  She saw that he had already called her phone several times, the source of the vibration that had alerted her to the presence of her phone in the first place. She dashed out a quick message to him and pushed send. The small circle spun around and around, indication the message was attempting to send, but was unable. Erica gasped, and for the first time noticed that her phone had no reception. It asked her if she wanted it to keep trying. She almost smashed the screen with the force behind her pushing the okay button.

  Turning off her phone to preserve the battery, Erica almost put it back in her pocket. But she stopped and instead put it down her shirt, nestled between her larger than average breasts. She thanked god for giving her a few extra curves and she hoped that whatever was coming her way, would wait until Peter received her message. But in the meantime, all she could do then in the empty, darkened room was wait.

  Peter’s phone vibrated on the seat beside him, as he made his way back to the warehouse. Ignoring of the rules of the road that he was charged to enforce, he answered it. It was Mitch. Peter relayed the events of his visit to Erica’s, let him know that he believed her to be missing.

  Mitch listened and then gave him own update. “We’ve got Officer Boyle,” he said referring to the cop they’d discovered to be under O’Connell’s thumb, the one who’d driven Erica home.

  Peter was quiet for a second. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on the guy. Not only was he a most likely a dirty cop, but he might also have some idea
about Erica’s current whereabouts. Wherever she was, Peter knew that she was in trouble. “At the warehouse?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Chapter 21

  Peter walked into the warehouse and saw Mitch and Steve standing side-by-side in front of a bound and gagged Officer Boyle. Boyle’s eyes were large and they shifted from one man to another.

  Mitch met Peter before he was able to join in. “Joe picked him up about fifteen minutes ago, driving a very nice BMW that wasn’t registered to him. Any guesses who owns the car?”

  “Do I need to guess?”

  “You don’t. It belongs to O’Connell. Joe’s combing over it now. Hopefully he’ll find something.”

  The brothers walked back to and folded his arms, smirking coolly at the shackled man who took large, loud, and quick breaths. If he wasn’t careful, he would hyperventilate and pass out. He stepped forward, and turned around to look at his team. “May I?”

  “Go right ahead,” Mitch said. His voice was quiet, but Peter could tell that Mitch was livid. He hated dirty cops. Ironic, really, considering that they were currently illegally holding a man, about to perform some questionable methods of interrogation.

  “Thanks,” Peter crouched, putting himself at eye level with Boyle. “I’m going to remove the gag before you pass out, okay? But when I do, you’d better not scream or yell or do anything that will make us angry. Okay?”

  The man nodded vigorously, and Peter pulled the duct tape from his lips. He grunted, but didn’t scream as Peter was certain that some of his skin still remained on the piece of tape. He took deep breaths through his mouth, and Peter’s eyes remained locked on his.

  “Where is she?”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t play stupid,” Mitch interjected behind Peter. “Erica, the woman I asked you to escort home.”

  Boyle didn’t waver. “I dropped her off. She must be still at home.”

  “I don’t like being lied to,” Peter’s voice was calm, but menacing.

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Alright,” Peter sighed dramatically, standing. “You’re going to make me do this the hard way, aren’t you?”

  Boyle chuckled. “What? Are you going to good cop/bad cop me? I know who you guys are. I know you’re all cops. I’ll have your badges when I get out of here. Tell everyone what you did.”

  “So you’re not only a dirty cop, but you’re a rat, as well?” Peter challenged him.

  “And what are you going to say when we come forward with evidence that you were caught driving a car registered to a reputed mafia boss?” Mitch stepped forward, picking through their captive’s wallet. “Care to explain that one, Paddy?”

  Boyle was silent in his chair.

  “So I’m going to ask you again, Boyle. Where is Erica?”

  Patrick remained silent, but the cocky grin remained. He still thought that he was in control. Peter was about to disabuse him of that notion.

  “There’s no way out of here for you, Patrick. You cooperate or you never get to go home to your sweet wife again. Carol, is her name?”

  Patrick nodded.

  “You see, something bad has happened to the woman I love. And I think you’re involved. Can you imagine how something like that would feel? To know that you can’t protect her? What would happen to sweet, sweet Carol if you were no longer around…?”

  Boyle’s grin slipped as the gravity of the situation sunk in.

  Peter let the threat linger in the air. He knew it was empty, there was no way in hell that he would ever lay his hands on a woman, but it worked to his advantage that Patrick didn’t know that.

  Joe walked into the warehouse, but Peter didn’t move. In his periphery, he saw him confer with Mitch and Steve, but Peter didn’t want to move from Boyle. The son of a bitch knew where Erica was.

  “Hey Peter,” Mitch called him, his voice disturbingly grave. “Come over here.”

  Peter reluctantly walked away. “What’d you find?” He asked Joe.

  He held out a large, latex-covered hand. Grasped in his fist were strands of red hair. “I found these in the back seat.”

  Peter felt sick. The room started spinning and he needed to reach out and grab his brother’s shoulder to steady himself.

  “Woah,” Mitch grabbed him, helping keep him upright. “This doesn’t mean anything. Only that she was in the car and Boyle knows where she is now.”

  Hearing Boyle’s name snapped Peter out of his trance. Disorientation was quickly replaced by blinding rage and he pushed away from Mitch and stalked to the man still bound to a chair. Peter pulled back his fist and it connected with Boyle’s jaw with so much force that it knocked the chair, with Boyle shackled, to the floor. Peter kicked him hard once in the ribs before pulling him, using his shirt lapels, back to a sitting position.

  “Where the fuck is she?” He didn’t wait for a response, before he punched him again, and blood flowed freely from his nose and mouth. “What did you do to her?”

  “She’s… she’s at the club,” Boyle gurgled through blood and what looked like a dislocated jaw and a broken nose.

  “What club?”

  “O’Connell’s club. Lucky Clover. He ordered that I drop her off there.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, really, but…” He trailed off. “I need to go to a hospital.”

  “We’ll get you to one. But not before you tell me what I need to know.”

  “He saw that you guys took her in during the raid of the club. He wanted to see what she told the cops.”

  Peter knew his time was limited. He had to get to Erica before it was too late. “Guys, we have to get to the Lucky Clover.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “I told him we’d get him to the hospital.”

  “I’ll take him,” Joe volunteered. “And I’ll make sure he doesn’t say a word to anybody.”

  “Thanks,” Peter had little doubt that the hulk would make sure Patrick Boyle’s soon-to-be-wired-shut jaw stayed closed. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out. It was a text from Erica. He froze as he read the words.

  I’m trapped in a room at the Lucky Clover. I’m okay. But I need your help.

  He held his phone aloft for his teammates to see. He took a breath, relieved that was okay. But he knew that time was of the essence. He needed to get to her.

  “Alright, let’s move out. We’ll devise a plan on the way,” Mitch clapped his hands together, and looked at Peter. “Let’s go get your girl.”

  Chapter 22

  Erica’s eyes had become somewhat acclimated to the darkness of the room. But using the light from her cell phone, she was able to get a sense of the size of the room was. It was small, square, and the lack of windows and cell reception led her to believe that she was underground. She’d found the door, locked. Trapped in the basement. She wasn’t sure how she was going to get out, and she hoped that her message to Peter would send.

  She felt her phone vibrate in its hiding spot between her breasts, and she pulled it out. She could have cried in relief to see it was a message from Peter.

  I’m coming for you.

  Somehow, some god or deity had come through with a modern day miracle. As she sat in disbelief, looking at the illuminated screen of her phone, the door opened, and light from the hallway filled the room. She squinted into it, hopeful that it was Peter, but she soon realized that it wasn’t. It was the man she had come to learn was Dylan O’Connell’s brother, Colin.

  Erica tried to hide her cell phone before he saw it. But it was too late. “You making some calls there, lass?” He grabbed it from her hands.

  “Of course not,” she told them. “There’s no service down here.”

  “We can never be too careful,” he warned, before knocking her phone to the ground and stomping a heavy foot over it. She could hear the glass of her screen shatter, as did her one lifeline. One thought kept her going, however. She knew that Peter was coming. She just hoped he got
there in time.

  “Come with me,” he pulled her arm to a standing position.

  Wherever he was bringing her, Erica knew that it wasn’t going to be good. She had to stall until Peter could get there. “Where are we going?”

  “Dylan wants you.”

  “I think I’d rather stay here,” Erica stuck out her chin in defiance. She was terrified, but she wasn’t going to show fear to her captors. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

  “I’m afraid you don’t get a choice,” he told her, drawing a gun from the small of his back. “Come on.”

  For the third time that afternoon, Erica had stared down the barrel of a gun. “What a day,” she muttered to herself. “Fine. What happens then?”

  A cold shiver rode up her spine when his eyes travelled up and down her figure. “Whatever Dylan wants.”

  Colin held on to Erica’s arm while walking, dragging, her through the long hallway to Dylan’s office, his grip was so tight on her that she thought she might be left with five finger-shaped bruises on her upper arm. “You don’t have to pull me, I can walk on my own,” she tried to shrug out of his grip.

  “We’re almost there, lass,” Colin’s quiet platitude did nothing to make her feel better.

  They made it to the end of the hallway, to the office where she’d been just that afternoon, when she’d been arrested by Peter, right before her life had turned completely upside-down. Colin pulled open the door and almost threw Erica inside. She stumbled to regain her balance, before he slammed the door again, and she came face to face with Dylan O’Connell.

  Erica took a quick look around his office. What had earlier been an immaculate space, was now strewn with loose papers and broken décor. It seemed that the police had done a little damage during their raid. “Well,” Erica looked back at the man in front of her, and smiled. “Looks like a tornado whipped through this place. Is that why I’m here? Is helping you clean my first official duty as you entertainment manager?”