“Ava?” His deep voice drags me from my fluttering thoughts, from the protective realms of a daydream.
His finger brushes a stray piece of hair from my cheek and the warmth of his hand sends a slight electric jolt fluttering through me. Maybe this is fate. My mind tries relentlessly to make sense of why all of this is happening, and right now it is grasping at straws.
“I just need you to do what we ask,” he says with such a sense of calm, my rapid heartbeat begins to slow. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. I really don’t, but you telling Earl to fuck off…” He stretches his neck. “Well, he’s got a bit of a temper. Killed people over shit like that, all right?”
I nod.
I nod.
I nod.
Because that’s all I can do.
“Please…” I don’t even realize I’m talking, and although I tell my mouth to stop, it doesn’t. “Please, just let me go. I promise I won’t tell anyone. I won’t say a word. Not to my father. No one. I’m only nineteen. Please.” And now tears are free-falling down my face. I’m choking on sobs. And I’m so tired, so disoriented that I find my face buried on Max’s shoulder. His shirt is drenched with the spicy scent of Dior’s Sauvage. Bronson wore that. And now I find myself weeping harder while he remains rigid.
His large hands grip my shoulders and he slowly pushes me away from him. His fingers trail down my arms and then he grabs onto me, bending me over my knees. “Goddamn it, Earl,” he mumbles beneath his breath as he takes my bound wrists in his hands. Leaning over, he reaches to the leg of his jeans. When he straightens up, there’s a hunting knife in his hand. Fear consumes me. That tingle from a sudden shot of adrenaline covers my skin, my head swims, and before I can really react, he’s cut my wrists free. “Not like you’re gonna go anywhere, now is it?” he asks.
I quickly bring my hands to my lap and stare at the purple marks. There’s some dried blood where the rough cord broke the skin. My fingers are swollen and blue. After a few seconds, I feel needles in my fingertips from the blood rushing back to them, and I find myself trying to shake the uncomfortable feeling away.
“What do you want with me?” I ask. “At least tell me that.”
A pitiful, soft smile twists over his lips. “You don’t want to know.” He rubs over the back of his neck. “I really hate this. I really do, but it’s kinda part of it, you know?”
“No, I don’t know.” And I don’t know why I’m talking to him.
A slight smirk plays over his lips. “‘These men turn from the right way to walk down dark paths. They take pleasure in doing wrong, and they enjoy the twisted ways of evil…’ You know, all that shit.”
I glare at him. “Don’t quote Jesus.”
“That wasn’t Jesus. It’s actually from Proverbs.”
I stare at him, almost dumbfounded. “Yeah…”
“Bad people need Jesus more than good people, you know?” he says as he drags in a hard breath. “I am sorry about this. Just don’t piss Earl off. And to be honest, I’ll be spending more time with you than him.”
“Please.” With my hands now free, I grab onto his, gripping them for dear life. “Please, just let me go. I’m a student at the University of Alabama. I’m majoring in premed microbiology. I want to get married one day, have kids. Please, please, don’t let this be the last thing I experience.” A sob bubbles up my throat. “Please!”
His chin is to his chest and he’s leaned over his knees, wringing his hands. “Just do what they ask,” he says.
The lock clicks and the hinges groan as Earl steps back into the room. He has several items in his arms, which he dumps onto the mattress.
“There you is. Some waters. Gat-or-ades. Pop-Tarts, cereal bars, Twinkies, a few Oatmeal Creme Pies, and then there’s some of ’em protein bars with nuts in ’em.”
“Fuck, Earl.” Max swats at the food. “You want her to go into a diabetic coma?”
Earl glares at Max. “You said to bring her them wrapped foods. Well, that’s them.”
Max shakes his head and pushes up from the bed. He shoves past Earl and waits in the doorway. Earl’s gaze keeps jumping from the pile of overly-processed foods to me. “Earl, come on!” Max shouts, causing Earl to jump. I keep my gaze fixed on the edge of the mattress. The door closes. Locks slide. And I’m alone once again.
Solitude. Like a prisoner serving a life sentence because I am fairly certain that is what this will be. Me, here in this room, until my life is finally taken from me.
Ava-fucking-Donovan.
I stare slack-jawed at the Facebook profile picture on the computer screen, my hand hovering over the mouse. She is Frank Donovan’s daughter. Fucking hell, Earl! Anyone in this underworld would recognize that name. He is a fucking hitman. That man is violent and ruthless. And he’s a fucking genius. The CIA can’t touch him. As far as anyone outside of this world is concerned, Donovan is nothing more than a businessman because he is a chameleon. The most successfully evil people are the best at appearing to be normal, they are the people you want to have over for dinner because they are so charming.
Frank Donovan.
Funny, the way fate weaves its sick little web. Donovan—I hate him and his fucking family. I tap my fingers over the desk, sweat building on my brow as I recall the moment I accepted that there’s a sliver of darkness that lives in us all. I fight it. I grit my teeth, willing my mind to stop, but like a black hole that memory beckons me, drawing me inside the despondency the second I give in and close my eyes.
The hammer feels heavier than it should in my hands. My palms slick with sweat, my heart drumming into my throat. Each beat pulses in my eyes, my vision threatening to go black. I’ve never been this mad and can understand now how people have fucking heart attacks from sheer anger. I’m standing at the end of the couch watching this motherfucker breathe. In. Out. In. Out. I want to stop his goddamn chest from rising.
This fuckface works with my dad, and every so often he gets so sloppy ass drunk he passes out on the couch, just like he is now. I’ve never liked him. He’s an arrogant piece of shit, and there’s been plenty of times I’ve wanted to knock his teeth down his throat, but what I heard my sister telling her friend earlier today—I’m going to kill him for it. She was sobbing. Johnny Donovan—this piece of shit lying on my fucking couch—raped her. She’s fucking fourteen. I close my eyes, trying to tell myself to breathe. He jumps in his sleep and shifts on the couch, knocking several beer cans to the floor in the process.
My jaw tenses, and I take a step toward him. Then another, stopping when my shadow falls over him. This is not wrong. It’s not. I lift the hammer and slam it down over the back of his head. What a sound it makes. It’s not exactly a crack, maybe more of a pop or plop—a wet plop at that, like smashing a fucking pumpkin wide open. He shouts, grabbing the back of his head and turning on the couch. Too bad for him, the next blow lands on his face. Blood explodes from his nose. “You raped my sister, you sick fuck.”
“Stop,” he groans, spitting blood from his mouth.
I slam the hammer over his mouth, his teeth shatter. “Did you stop when she asked you to?” I scream. I’m fueled by rage, and a rage like this—it’s not something you can easily stop.
This little devil inside of me demands I keep hitting him, that I make him pay for what he did to her. He struggles, flailing around, but I continue to go at his face, whack after whack, until my muscles are actually too fatigued to raise the weapon one more time. I drop it to the floor and stare at the mess. Blood and bits of mangled flesh are everywhere. The wall, the lampshade, me—even a little splatter on the ceiling. I drag my hand down my face, wiping away some of the blood before I turn and walk to the kitchen. I sit there, drinking water and staring at what is left of Johnny D. Fuck him.
I come out of the lucid memory with a smile.
I never knew a single person could be so brutal to another human—that I could be that fucking violent. We all have an evil little beast that lies just below the surface, scra
tching to get out. That moment, killing a man when I was only sixteen, well, that was like having a blood-stained version of Pandora’s Box opened right in front of me.
My father came home an hour later. He asked only one question: why? I told him. He nodded and we cleaned up the shit, dumping Johnny’s body in the Coosa river. Two weeks later…Frank Donovan broke into my house and took my family as revenge, and now, Frank Donovan’s beloved daughter is locked up in that fucking cellar. Funny how life comes full circle.
Jesus H. Christ, Earl! My pulse bangs frantically in my temples, and I quickly reach for the pack of smokes on the edge of the desk, pull one out, and light it. Taking several puffs, my stare fixates on the family portrait set as Ava’s Facebook profile picture. I push up from the chair and pace the length of my room, smoking the cigarette down to the filter before stabbing it out in a tin ashtray. This is some shit. Some serious fucking shit.
I sling the door open, storming down the steps to the living room. Earl’s asleep in his recliner. There’s a burnt out cigarette dangling from his lips and beer in his hand.
“Earl!” I shout and he snorts, jumping and knocking the can of beer out of his lap.
“The fuck, Max?”
“Frank Donovan…”
He swipes a dirty hand down his face. “Yep,” he groans. “What ’bout him?”
“That girl down there”—I point to the floor above the holding room—“is his fucking daughter.”
His eyes narrow to mere slits as he scratches the stubble on his face. “Don’t say, huh? So I guess Brandon’s her brother?”
Tossing my hands up, I pace. “I don’t fucking know.”
“Well, he’s the little shit that wanted her killed.”
“Her brother?”
“Yep. Wants the insurance money. Guessin’ he’s gonna kill his folks, take the money. Greedy little bastard.” Earl laughs.
I shake my head and clench my fists. “I don’t care what the fuck he wanted. Her father is Frank-motherfucking-Donovan and when he hunts her down—because he will—the devil would be kinder in dealing out our deaths.”
Earl’s not even phased. He just leans back in the recliner and waves me off. “Ain’t gonna find her. We’ll get here fixed up and sold off to some poor fucker and that is who should concern himself with Donovan.”
Anger swells inside me and before I realize what I’ve done, I’ve punched a hole through the sheetrock by the doorway to the kitchen. I shake the sting from my hand on my way to the sink. The only thing I can think about is how fucked up all this is. I turn the faucet, and while I watch the blood and debris swirl down the drain, I get a sinking feeling that this is beyond my control. Some things aren’t coincidence. Some things, no matter how you try to intervene, the outcomes are already set in fucking stone.
I pace across the room. I’ve been pacing for hours—I think, in the silence.
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
I have no idea how long I’ve been in here. It feels like an eternity, but with no windows and little sleep, I have no way to tell. The pipe running across the ceiling keeps leaking water. The constant drip, drip, drip is driving me mad. I’m weak and disoriented. My body is exhausted.
I halt in my pacing. “Stop!” I shout, staring at the pipe above my head. “Just fucking stop it!” And now I resume walking circles around this fucking room.
I clear my throat to make noise, then stop walking momentarily to scratch my head. I scratch through my filthy, matted hair until it hurts, then I scratch my arms and legs. I itch everywhere. I’ve not had a bath since I’ve been here and I’m still wearing the same clothes—covered in Bronson’s dried blood. I pace a little while longer, and suddenly, I start to cry. Those cries turn into sobs and then, just like someone’s flipped a switch, anger takes over. I yell. I shout. I curse at the bastards holding me here until my throat burns and my voice goes hoarse. And then, well, then I just fall to the floor and sit in the silence, wondering if there actually is a world outside of this room anymore.
Even as exhausted as I am, my body is in a constant state of fight or flight.
I still have no idea what they want with me, but the fact that they’ve done nothing yet terrifies me. Every time Earl comes into this room, he says the exact same thing to me: “You try to leave, you try to do anything to get outta here, I’ll kill you. I’ll kill yer family. I’ll rape your mother before I kill her.” After that, Earl will walk to the corner of the room, lean against the wall and just stare at me. And it’s the way he looks at me that gets to me. His eyes are completely cold and void of emotion, but when he looks at me, the way his eyes drag over my body while he adjusts his dick—there’s this sick gleam in his eyes. I know what he wants to do, and I know he’ll do it. I just don’t know when. Out of all the things that can be done to you, I know that rape is the worst.
And you want to know why? Because you can overcome pain. Wounds of the flesh heal—but that sullied feeling that taints you once you’ve been used by a filthy man…that never washes off. When an act meant to express love and connection has been turned into one of hate and power and control—that changes you in ways not easily forgotten. Abuse cracks the mirror of self-perception, causing flaws in the way you view yourself and the way you accept how others view you. That sense of worthlessness, I can’t take it again. I cannot.
I’ve tried to think about what I could offer these bastards to let me go, but the thing that sucks the most is that I’m too educated about the criminal lifestyle because I’ve grown up in it. And the one thing I have learned, the one thing I am more certain of than death, is that until these men get what they want, I won’t get out of here. And even then—the chances are slim. They’ve never attempted to disguise themselves, which means they don’t think I’ll ever be a witness. Dead girls aren’t witnesses.
Clink. The subtle sound of that lock slides out of place, and I know the possibility of death is a very real thing. When the rusted hinges creak, my heart rate goes into overdrive.
I keep my gaze focused on my hands, waiting on Earl to drop a few bottles of water on the bed and walk to the side of the room to stare at me before he leaves. Please let him leave…
“Have you had a bath?” The deep, southern drawl drags my eyes away from my lap.
Max is standing in front of me, his stare locked on my face. Days of nothing but solitude and Earl have me nearly gasping at Max’s presence. His features are so much softer than Earl’s. And the only thought circling my head right now is that I want to touch him. I want to feel some form of human contact even though I realize how ridiculous it sounds to want to touch someone who is keeping you hostage.
Max steps closer, until he’s so close I can feel the heat from his body on my skin, and then he squats, resting his elbows on his knees. He looks up at me. His cologne smells so good. So clean. So familiar. I close my eyes and drag that scent deep into my lungs, pretending I’m not really here.
“Ava.” I open my eyes. “Would you like a bath?”
I nod, and he stands, holding his hand out to me. I take it. His palm is smooth, so soft and warm. So human. That simple touch nearly breaks me. Tears build in my eyes. My vision blurs. My throat tightens. What is wrong with me?
“Now”—he tugs for me to face him—“you gotta promise me you won’t try to get away?”
I nod.
“Because if you do that,” he says. “I’ll have to hurt you. And I don’t want to hurt you, okay?” Another nod. “I’m gonna tie your arms up, not that I don’t trust you, understand, but I know the temptation once you see anything outside of this room may get the better of you.” I nod again because that’s all I can seem to do. Max reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a cord. “Cross your hands in front of you.” I do as told, and he goes to work, binding my wrists. “That doesn’t hurt, does it?” he asks, looking up from his bowed head.
Jesus, his eyes…
“No,” I whisper.
“All right
then.” Taking me by my bound wrists, he leads me out through the doorway.
Through the basement we go, up the wooden steps, and into the kitchen. The late afternoon sun trickles in through the windows, casting a warm glow over the grimy linoleum floor. I glance around, looking for Earl or Bubba, but no one’s here.
“They’re gone,” Max says, like he knows what I’m thinking. The thought forces chill bumps over my skin.
There’s a door. It’s bolted. A window. A knife block on the counter… I take in every detail I can, attempting to make a blueprint of this place in the event I ever get a chance to run for it. Max’s grip on my arm tightens—again like he’s in my head.
The walls are stained, dust and trash litter each room we walk into. As he leads me through this disgusting house, my heart slams against my ribs because I have no idea what is actually about to happen to me. All I can hear are my labored breaths and Max’s work boots crossing the worn wooden floor of the foyer.
He guides me to the bottom of a stairwell elegantly twisting up the two-story foyer. “Watch your step, dear,” he says.
I keep my eyes trained on the steps, on the cream carpet in desperate need of a cleaning. Once at the top, Max turns me to the right and leads me into a large, outdated bathroom. There’s an old pedestal sink beneath a gold plated mirror. The wallpaper is cream with roses encaged by brown fleur-de-lis, and it’s peeling at the seams. Against the far wall is a claw-foot tub with a large, gray crack running the length of the edge.
Max locks the door with a key, twisting the metal knob to make sure it’s secure. His eyes lock with mine as he shoves the key deep inside his jean pocket, silently telling me to not even think about it. He nods toward the tub. “Go run the water.” And then he releases his hold on me.
I slowly walk toward the tub, my pulse hammering violently in my temples with each step. I swallow. The rope, although tied loosely around my wrists, digs into my injured skin when I twist the ornately engraved golden handles to the tub. There’s a loud knocking noise as water rushes through the pipes, and when it comes pouring out, it’s tinged with rust and smells awful.
Darkest Before Dawn Page 4
