“Wow!” is all I can say.
“A person like me has a pretty big appetite, but I’d figured you’d be hungry as well,” he tells me while pulling out a chair for me to join him.
“So,” I pause finally realizing I don’t know his name.
He volunteers it, “Brandon.”
“Right, Bentley,” I smile.
“I know,” he laughs.
It’s something on my list of things to ask him, but at the moment I’m curious about where we go from here.
“So, Brandon, what do you want us to do about the Rigsby family? Something the cops haven't thought of?”
He leans back, chomping down on a few bits of meat, “I think we can lure them out of hiding. Once we bring their criminal acts into the public eye, we should be able to get everyone involved. The District Attorney, PD, FBI if necessary. Whoever is about taking this family down, we need them on our side.”
“That’s all well and good, but how do we get that to happen? Don’t you think it’s going to take a little bit more effort and organization to bring down this family? They’re not years active, it’s generational. We need to… We should just…” I don’t have any idea what we should be doing.
“We should get inside,” he tells me with a look in his eyes that tells me he isn’t joking.
“What?”
“We need to get me inside of that family. We can take them down from the inside out. Feed the cops, feds, whoever we can trust information to bring them down and give this city back to the citizens,” he says with finality.
“That’s crazy and exactly how do we get you inside the family?”
He shrugs, “I don’t know, but you’ve seemed to find a way to get them to notice you.”
“That was unintentional! And they want to kill me!” I shout at him. It’s unbelievable what he’s talking about.
“Right!” he points at me with a pancake in his hand, “You pissed them off by taking out one of their low level drug dealers who’s closely associated with the family. Maybe I can figure out a way to help one of these lower level guys get a job done or get away from the cops or even someone else out to rob them. Save them, get inside, feed you information, take it to the cops, take them down.”
“Yeah, I’m not taking anything to the cops. I’ve had enough run ins with the law to last a lifetime. Besides I’m not the most credible source of information, and if I’m not on their radar, I don’t want to put myself there willingly,” I explain. He won’t understand. He doesn't live like I do. He didn’t grow up how I did.
“Okay so we can find an officer, a DA, someone you can get close to one on one and make that relationship work for all of us. This family won’t just give up finding you. They don’t let things go. They won’t give this city up without a fight. I’m willing to fight!”
“Why? What drives you to make the decision of which crime to intervene on> Who do you stop? Who do you let go? Why do any of it if you can’t help everybody?” I rattle off.
“Well I was 14 when this started happening,” he motions to his chest where he forces fur out and then retracts it.
My jaw drops, “You can control it? It’s not…”
He cuts me off, “No, it’s not a full moon kind of thing. Actually it’s taken years for me to learn myself, my anger levels , everything it takes to control the beast inside of me. For the longest time I was so angry. I wanted to be normal. I wanted to be like everybody else. I actually went out, starting shit with anybody who’d bite, just to see if I’d get punched in the face. To see if I’d bleed like any other guy. I couldn’t wrap my head around this being my life, for the rest of my life.”
“What did your parents, your family say?”
“Well my parent and my sister are the only ones in my family who know. They didn’t want me take away from them, experimented on or turned into some government type weapon. They love me as I am, but I moved away from our hometown a long time ago to keep them safe. They come out here to visit but I stay away for them,” he says with a noticeable sadness in his eyes.
“It must be lonely,” I shrug, poking around at some food on my plate.
“It can be, but organizations like the Rigsby’s keep me busy,” he says.
“So what happened to make you shift from picking fights to taking the law into your own hands?”
Running his fingers through his light brown hair, he sits up close to the table leaning in closer to me, “Well, I was out one day. It was late in the afternoon. I, um, I’d already moved into the city and I was still trying to find myself. I just knew that being home and doing what I was doing wasn’t going to reflect well on my family. Anyway, I’m skulking across rooftops and whatever when I see a rather young girl, a child, walking through a fairly dark alley. Then I see a group of larger girls approaching her.”
I know this story. I replay it often.
He continues, “So I’m ready to get the hell out of there. I don’t want to break up a girl fight. My strength was still out of control, but I don’t want to see this little girl get crap beat out of her either. Just as I’m about to leave, I hear them start scuffling. The little girl, maybe 9 or 10 years old tops, is wearing a backpack and a hoodie. She takes the backpack and smacks one girl in the group to the ground. Then she attacks the leader, wrapping the straps around her throat, swinging her body around to get better leverage and choking her. The bigger girl crumbles, and the little girl lets her go. Before she walks away, this little ball of fire and feistiness tosses her hoodie to the older girl. After seeing that, I realized that even in defending herself, this little girl had more integrity and courage to be herself to do what she wanted and needed to do for survival. She didn’t need to be protected, and that’s when it dawned on me that other people wouldn’t have been so lucky. Other people aren’t that lucky. They get taken advantage of. They get robbed, mugged, attacked. And with my strength and abilities I can make a difference. It’s not that I can help everyone. It makes a difference when I help anyone.”
“So you know who I am. You’ve been following me since then?” questions were raging through my head and suddenly I’m not sure if I feel so safe with Brandon anymore. Not if this wolf thing, has been tracking me, hunting me since I was a kid. Now I sit here across from him and he’s telling me all of this and how we’re suppose to work together!
“I haven’t been tracking you, but I do keep tabs on a few familiar faces. Those that tend to get in trouble. But you’ve been pretty successful, especially with your career choice.”
“And you’ve never interfered with that? Why?”
“Because I think you can stop yourself and you’ve never hurt anyone in the process. I’m not out to stop every crime, just the serious ones. The life shattering ones. Stealing a twenty thousand dollar watch off of some millionaire’s wrist isn’t exactly life shattering. Besides, I think your resilience, given your situation is admirable. You’ve done a lot more for yourself than most adults have done their entire lives,” he says.
He was watching me then too. I can’t stay here. The look in those piercing blue eyes, as if they can see straight into my soul, telling me I can be better than what I am. I never let anyone get this close. To see me under my couture fashion and vulnerable? … It’s too much. This isn’t for me.
In a panic, I can’t stop my emotions from raging. I gather all of things and make my way toward his front door.
“Wait a minute!” he shouts, “What happened? What did I say? What did I do?”
“Don’t!” I snap, making sure he can hear the anger in my voice, “Don’t you dare set foot near me ever again. Stay away from me and stay out of my life. YOU DON’T KNOW ME! If you get near me ever again, I’m going to kill you!”
Chapter 5
My breaths are coming short. My chest is heaving. I can’t focus. My mind is all over the place as I storm away from Brandon’s building. Looking up to his apartment I can see the ledge of his balcony, but he’s nowhere in sight. Good!
Who
the hell does he think he is?! He doesn’t know me. Those words repeat themselves over and over again.
The girl he was talking about, Kelly? She had a whole lot more coming to her than being choked out by a rambunctious ten year old. A bully because of her size but with me running the streets as long as I had, I knew her story before she even told it to me. It wasn’t until after I turned her face blue that I got the much deserved respect necessary to survive. No one messed with me after that. But I got why she did it. She was cold.
As simplistic as it sounds, being cold and hungry drives a lot of people to do weird things. Kelly was a runaway, like the rest of us. We all ran from something, somewhere, someone. We all ended up on the street, but her? She was running from a Dad who enjoyed spending every dime of his family’s money on booze and a night in the bar. So I gave her the hoodie because I knew she didn’t have what it took to take it on her own.
I’d learned at an early age that it’s much easier to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission. I do what I want and deal with the consequences as they come. And then here comes Brandon, the wolf, the man who sees me. He’s seen me grow from that kid to the twenty year old thief and thinks he can change me, push me to do what’s right by taking down the Rigsby family?! Why is he trying to fix me?
Tears stream down my cheeks. They’re hot, blinding, distracting me. By the time I notice the van creeping slowly behind me, down the street, it’s too late. I feel their hands grab me by the arms. Another set grab my legs and I hit the floor of the vehicle with a hard thud after they toss me inside. My heart is racing, pounding against my chest as they roll me in some kind of foam. I can’t let this happen. I can’t let this dickwad get the better of me. I remember my blade in my bag.
Every breath I take is full of lint and fibers of whatever crap they have me in. I wriggle around only to roll around after one of the men kicks the wrap.
“Be still bitch! Walter doesn’t want you injured until he gets his hands on you,” I hear him snicker. I wish I can get a decent look at his face, but all I see is the bright yellow foam, which irritates my eyes to no end. But after a minute or two of fidgeting around, I finally feel my purse near my knees.
I scooch the bag up until I can grasp it firmly in my hands. The smoothness of my blade’s handle makes me feel safe. So I try to cut away at the thing, hoping to get some room to maneuver and kick whoever’s ass is in the back of this van with me.
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. That’s all I keep murmuring to myself as I saw a hole in the foam. It’s a mistake that I think will go at the top of my list of regrets. The hole isn’t on the ground. There isn’t any metal underneath it. My disorientation is my downfall.
“Hey, this bitch has got a knife!” the goon yells.
“Take her out!” another one shouts.
Unwrapping the foam, he’s quicker than I ever imagine as he swipes the blade from my hand and his fist connects to my temple.
Everything fades to black.
Dizziness washes over me as I sway and swing upside down in a dark place. The faces around me are blurry, but I can see the gleam of the sharp instruments not too far from me. Groaning, I try to reach for my face but my hands are bound to my side.
“Well look who’s finally waking up?” a raspy voice chuckles with delight. My body hurts. I’m still in Brandon’s Tshirt and shorts.
His face comes into focus and Walter Rigsby is beaming from ear to ear. His grin, that beard, those beady little eyes make me sick. It can be that the blood is rushing to my head, but either way, he’s no peach to look at.
I spit at him.
“Wrong,” he says backhanding me across the face.
The metallic taste of blood leaking from my lip, into my mouth, around my tongue is one I don’t enjoy. It’s not pleasant at all.
“You hit like a pussy,” I giggle spitting blood at him.
This time he hits me with a closed fist to the gut. I want to throw up but I don’t. Keeping myself together, especially in tense situations, is something I pride myself on. My craft is dependent upon my calm, cool, and collected behavior.
“I understand you like knives,” he hisses to me, returning to his tray of tools.
I’m fading in and out of consciousness but I never pass up an opportunity to talk shit, “I love knives but I didn’t need one to handle you.”
That comment elicits some chuckles from his associates. It pisses him off.
“That’s right. Just keep on talking. You’re going to talk yourself into the slowest grave you ever dug,” he mumbles with his fingers dancing over his tools like a child playing the piano.
“Oh please,” I sneer, “You needed three goons to get me here and I wasn’t paying attention. You were supposed to get the drop on me and got mad I hogtied you. Your friend Jimmy didn’t put up much of a fight either. I can’t think of anything more pathetic than getting dropped by a couture wearing, high heel clad woman in a club. Oh wait, getting wrapped up and zip tied in her apartment after you failed to surprise her fourteen flights in the air. That’s right up there.”
“Your mouth, that pretty little mouth is going to be the first thing I cut off,” he tells me angrily.
“Oh yeah, that’s so original,” I reply. “Just kill me and get this crap over with. This is pathetic of me to be here, like this, with you. Why don’t you let me down and give me a blade? We can go one on one and see who ends up strung up like a side of beef in a butcher shop.”
“Oh honey, but you’re already here. And I’m going to enjoy this so much!” he yells. “Turn the music on! I like to dance while I operate.”
This sick son of a bitch begins two stepping and skipping around the room as War’s -Low Rider, begins blaring through speakers I can’t even see. The sound of trumpets playing come through and I half want to bop my head to the song but I know Walter is choosing his first tool.
I try desperately to shake myself loose, but it’s to no avail. He wags his finger at me with a pout on his face before showing me a scalpel. My heart feels like it’s in my throat as he walks closer and closer with the small blade in his hands. Bopping his head, letting his curly hair flop around, he grabs my forearm and yanks it loose from my restraints.
Right away I try to fight him off. With my hand free, I wish there is more I can do, but one of his goons grabs my arm to hold it steady. I’m happy I can’t see what’s going on, but I feel it.
The soft stinging, the searing pain as his blade slides under that top layer of skin on the top of my hand causes me to scream out in pain. Tears and blind rage burst through my eyes as I try with every ounce of strength inside of me to break free.
“Just kill me already you sick son of a bitch!” I finally cry out.
Walter sighs, “No. This is going to go nice and slow, like the ride I had to take in some asshole’s trunk! The ride I had to take before I was dumped onto my friend’s yard like I was some gift wrapped little bitch! You embarrassed me and now you have to pay!”
I can feel him peeling the layer back ready to cut into me again when the music cuts out. Everything and everyone stops.
“What the hell man?! Go fix my shit!” Walter yells.
The guy lets me go and I can see my hand. The layer isn’t as thin as I thought. My bones can feel the breeze of my arm swaying. It burns. It hurts. My heart is pumping so fast I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but then I hear him.
The growls and snarls. The sounds of bodies hitting the ground.
“What’s going on out there?!” Walter shouts. He heads back toward his tray, pulling out a gun and cocking it. “Honey, I wish I could have more time to play with you, but looks like you’re going to get your wish.”
Before he can squeeze the trigger. A shadow moves swiftly in front of me. The sound of Walter dropping his gun and then falling to the ground is music to my ears. Even though I said I was going to kill him, I’m glad to see Brandon. Wolf or not, those icy blue eyes are calming to me. I’m so glad he
doesn’t listen.
Chapter 6
I’m woozy and can’t even stand up straight after Brandon cuts me down with one swipe of his claws. He releases the ropes around me. I can feel the blood all over my body, but my hand especially.
“Thank you,” I whisper to him right before everything around me fades away.
When I wake up, the flames dancing in the fireplace are blurry. As my surroundings come in clearer, I see Brandon sitting on his coffee table with my hand in his lap. I’m watching him stitch me up, but I can’t feel a thing. I want to panic, but I’m too tired. So I close my eyes and go back to sleep.
Waking up, I turn my head only to see a head full of light brown hair next to me. He’s snoring. He’s exhausted. This handsome stranger did more for me in the last 48 hours than anyone I’d ever met.
His body turns and stirs in the bed. I can’t believe he has me in the same room as him. I go to flex my fist but the bandages are so tight I can barely bend my hand but I really don’t want to. There’s a bottle of pills, pain relievers with a glass of water on the night stand. I’m still filthy and swear I smell like Walter Rigsby. Yuck!
I drag myself out of bed and into his bathroom. It takes me a while but I'm able to wash up without getting his handy work wet. I unsnap the metal clasp just to see the damage. My hands are my lifeline. It’s hard to steal with a fucked up hand.
His stitches are small, symmetrical, clean. It looks like a physician did it. The entire top of my hand is black and blue and throbbing. By unwrapping the bandage, it feels like a dam is broken letting pain flood through my body. I try my best to wrap it like he did but the pain is almost unbearable.
Brandon’s wolf hearing must be superior as I thought I was whimpering silently. He didn’t care that I was sitting naked in the bathroom. He simply puts the bandages back as they were before helping me pop a few pills and lay back in bed.
He doesn’t say anything but simply wraps his arm around me, pulling me in close to him and we fall asleep in each other’s arms.
Forced To Kill The Prince Page 54
