Irresistible Attraction (Merciless World Book 2)

by W Winters

  That was the first night I met the man I would now call my enemy. Whatever fear I had for him as a child has turned to resentment and spite.

  That’s all he is. He’s only a man. A man with no face, a hefty bag of threats and a penchant for eliciting fear in all who dare to walk the streets he claims as his own.

  These aren’t his streets. He has no right to them, but I do.

  He treats this world like a game; the lives and deaths of those around us are only pieces on a board to be lost or taken, used however he’d like.

  But the mistake he made is simple: He dared to meddle and bring Bethany into this game.

  She’s mine. Only mine.

  Not a pawn for him to play with.

  It’s time for Marcus’s game to end.

  Bethany

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  A numb prickle of fear races up and down my body like a thousand needles keeping me still. All the while, my heart’s the only thing that’s moving. It’s frantic and unyielding as it thrashes inside of me.

  The floorboards creak again as someone moves toward the stairs while I keep my feet firmly planted in the kitchen. Someone. Who? I don’t know.

  No one has ever walked into my home unannounced and I know it’s not Laura; I know it’s not Jase. Just thinking his name sends another chill down my spine. The fear, the regret, the unknown from what I just read in The Coverless Book are all things I can’t dwell on right now. Blinking furiously, I shut the wayward trail of thoughts down.

  No, it’s not Jase.

  It’s someone else, someone with bad intentions. Deep down, I can feel it.

  If I'd just been back in the living room when the door opened, back there where I was a moment ago, reading The Coverless Book and using this notebook to jot down the underlined words… if I'd been there, whoever just opened the door would have seen me instantly. If I'd left the notebook in the living room, and not in the drawer in the kitchen, whoever it was, would have seen me. I wouldn't have had a chance to run.

  Fate spared me, but for how long?

  My fingers tremble as I silently set the notebook down on the counter, devising a plan.

  Get my phone. Run the hell out of here. Call the cops.

  It’s as simple as that. If I can’t get the phone, just run.

  Whoever it is, they’re heading upstairs and once I hear the creaking from the floorboards move from the stairs to one of the bedrooms, I’ll move as quickly and quietly as possible. I can barely keep it together while I’m waiting, listening, and feeling the numbing fear flowing over my skin.

  Hot and cold sensations overwhelm my body at once and I don’t know how I’m even capable of breathing with how tight and raw and dry my throat is. All I know is that I can’t fail. I can’t let him know where I am.

  My movements are measured as I release the notebook. The second I do, I hear another person open my front door. Thump, thump, thump. My heartbeat is louder than anything else. Another person’s here. I’m not in control as I instinctively back away from the threshold of the kitchen, closer toward the back of the house.

  One person and then another.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  Abandoning all reason, I turn my back to where they are, ready to hide somewhere as quickly as possible. Somewhere. Where? Where can I hide? My head whirls with panic. I need to hide.

  My body freezes when I hear my phone go off. It’s still where I left it in the next room over, the living room. Footsteps come closer, closer to me, closer to the threshold of the kitchen where they can see me. No, fuck, please no. Inwardly I beg; I plead.

  I’m trapped in the narrow kitchen with three people sneaking into my home. I can’t die here. Not like this. Not after everything that’s happened. It would be more than cruel to make me suffer in the last weeks of my life, like this.

  I know if whoever it is stops at the coffee table where my phone is, he won’t be able to see into the galley kitchen, but that won’t stop him from moving on once he picks up my cell. Even more, he’ll know for certain I’m here. I wouldn’t leave without my phone, so they’ll know. Fuck!

  Thump, thump, thump. I wish I could quiet the pulse that’s banging in my ears faster by the second.

  Forcing myself to calm down and think as I hear a murmur from only ten… maybe twelve feet away in the other room, I focus on anywhere I could conceal myself. The pantry is the obvious solution, but it’s so full, there’s no way. Plus the shelves come out too far.

  With numb fingers, I pry open the cabinet door for the recycling. The bin is still outside where I left it for pickup yesterday. It’ll be cramped, but I think I can squeeze myself into the small space. I don’t know the chances they’d open every cabinet of the kitchen, but I don’t have anywhere else to hide.

  My feet are heavy and my limbs rigid. I’m not as quiet as I wish I was. But I’m quick. I’m damn quick as I cram myself inside of the cabinet, the faint scent of spilled wine that’s leaked from empty bottles hitting me at full force, along with other less than desirable odors.

  I couldn’t give two shits about what it smells like. All I care about is if they heard. Please, please. The telltale sound of shoes on the tile lets me know someone’s here.

  The weight of the steps is heavy; they have to be from a man. Both hands cover my mouth out of an instinct to be quiet, just as my eyes slam shut tight and refuse to look. I pray he didn’t hear. If he heard the sound of a cabinet… fuck. Please, no.

  I swear whoever it is can hear my ragged breaths and the ringing in my ears that’s so fucking loud I can barely hear them walk into the kitchen. Them. Multiple footsteps.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

  I can’t think about it. I can’t be here right now. Not my mind. The stress and fear wrap around my body like barbed wire, tightening by the second and forcing me to fight it, to move, to react. I can’t be here. This can’t be happening.

  Go somewhere else. My own words, words I’ve told patients many times slip into my consciousness. Go somewhere else.

  “Have you ever thought about what it would be like to be pregnant?” my mother asks me with a devious grin. Her knee rocks back and forth as she sits in the chair, playing with her long hair that’s draped over one shoulder. “Like, to be Talia right now? Could you imagine?”

  I was hoping she’d remember today, but at least she’s talking. That’s good, I tell myself. It’s good that she’s happy today, in whatever time she’s living in, it was a happy one for her.

  “Who’s Talia?” I ask her, feigning the curiosity I think she’d expect from whoever it is she thinks she’s talking to. It’s never me. She never knows it’s me.

  “You know, the blonde in Mr. Spears’s class. She’s almost six months along now,” my mother says, enjoying the gossip.

  “Mr. Spears?”

  “Tenth grade English. The really tall one and kind of young? I think he’s hot.”

  My mother’s comment makes me smile. I wish I were back in high school. She didn’t have Alzheimer’s then.

  “So have you thought about it?” she questions again and I shake my head honestly.

  “I can’t imagine having kids right now.”

  “I can. I want a boy. A boy with James Peters’s eyes and smile.”

  “James Peters.” I repeat the boy’s name and set two cups of water down on the end table.

  “One day I’m going to ask him out.”

  “What if you have a girl?” I ask her.

  “Oh no,” she says and shakes her head. “Girls are too much trouble.” I have to remind myself that she’s only a teenager today. I’m sure all teenagers think that. They have perceptions before having kids.

  I remind myself of it but still, I have to get up and get away. Just for a minute.

  “Where are you going? Is class starting soon? I thought we had another half hour of lunch?”

  “We do,” I answer her, forcing a smile. “I just have to do something.”

  “You forgot your book
s, didn’t you, Maggie?” She taunts me. “You’re so forgetful.”

  I can feel it when I hit my breaking point. It’s not getting easier like I thought it would.

  Resting against the wall in the kitchen, all I can do is breathe. All I can do is hide from my mother and hide from the truth.

  “Does Mom remember?” Jenny’s question comes from the threshold of the kitchen. She leans against it with a mug in her hand although I can smell the whiskey from here. I’m not sure if it’s in her mug or just a leftover stench from wherever she was last night.

  “No,” I answer her.

  She takes a sip in response and with it, I’m given an answer to my own unspoken question. It’s nine in the morning and the whiskey is in the cup she’s currently clinging to.

  “She’s talking about having kids right now. Back in high school.”

  “Kids,” my sister repeats, rolling her eyes and taking another sip.

  “Yeah, she said she wants daughters.” I don’t know why the lie slipped out. I think I just wanted to comfort my sister.

  My sister throws the mug back, downing its contents before tossing it into the sink.

  “Really? She told me the other day she’d hate to have daughters.”

  A bang close by brings me back to now. Back to the present. Away from my sister and away from my mother.

  My eyes open unhurriedly, not wanting to see but forcing myself to take in anything I can in the dark space. Tremors run through my legs and up my spine to my shoulders, leaving goosebumps in their wake. With a single unsteady exhale, I stare through the bright slit in the cabinet door as faded, broken-in blue jeans show themselves. I can see the seams and the stitching even. He’s that close to me. Just behind the door. I nearly whimper when the creak of the pantry closet proves he’s searching for me.

  He heard me moving around in the kitchen. I feel lightheaded for a moment, maybe from fear, maybe from holding my breath.

  A buzzing from the other room makes him turn on his heels and I watch all the while with both hands over my mouth, my palms sweaty and clammy. He stands still as the other person walks out of the kitchen. They’re louder now, reckless and bold as they open doors and search for something or someone.

  It doesn’t have to be me. Please, don’t let what they’re looking for be me. Be looking for something Jenny left here. Please, for the love of God, be that. Find it. Find it and get out.

  The thoughts don’t go unanswered. Fate lets me know the worst-case scenario is in fact my reality.

  “Her car is still in the driveway. You think she heard us and ran?” A muted voice I don’t recognize is coming from the living room. Another voice, one from farther away, maybe in the foyer answers, “Nah, she has to be here still. She wouldn’t leave her phone.”

  The man just beyond the cabinet door walks away swiftly and moves toward the voice – that’s when I catch a glimpse of the red stripes on his white sneakers. A single horizontal stripe runs along the length of each shoe midway up the side. White shoes with red stripes. I can hear him smack the man after a gruff response from his throat and then it’s quiet again.

  The man who was so close to me knows better than to talk and give away their thoughts.

  Thump, thump, thump. They don’t say another word as I inhale the musty smells from the cabinetry, willing my body to obey me and not betray my position.

  Every time a loud bang or the crash of something being overturned startles me, my shoulders push harder against the rough wood behind my back and I bite down on the inside of my cheek to silence the instinctive scream.

  My nails dig deeper into my skin on my thighs as the bangs get closer and louder. It’s obvious they’re trashing the place. All the while, I pray. Please don’t find me. Please leave.

  For a moment, I think they might.

  The recognizable noise of the front door opening is suddenly clear. As are the sounds of them leaving, one by one, but I don’t believe they’re truly gone. It’s too obvious. It’s a trick and a trap; one I won’t be caught in. Time passes, each second seeming longer and longer, gauged by the steady ticking of the clock above the kitchen sink.

  All I can think about is every time a girl is in the middle of the woods running from someone in the movies. She hides behind a tree or bush – something that offers her a hidden spot – and she waits until she thinks they’ve run by and can’t hear them anymore. She thinks they’ve moved on, as if they’ve kept running through the tall trees and didn’t see her. She doesn’t hear them, so she takes off.

  That’s when they catch her. They know she’s hiding and they’re just waiting until she comes out to snatch her up.

  Not me. They won’t catch me that way. For the first time since I heard someone come in, strength and conviction outweigh the fear. I’ll stay here until I know for certain it’s safe.

  I don’t know what these men wanted with me, but I know they were looking for me and that’s all the reason I need to stay right where I fucking am.

  My body stays tense for I don’t even know how long. It feels like maybe ten minutes. Only ten minutes or so, maybe twenty? I can’t track the sound of the clock; it’s going too fast and then too slow and then it blurs together and I can’t focus on it. It feels hotter and hotter in this small space, but I don’t waver. Never daring to move. Not even after it’s silent. With stiff legs and an aching back, I finally lower my hands and that’s when I realize how my neck is bent. It hurts; everything hurts from being shoved in this small space and hunched over, crouched down. My ankle dares to stretch forward, causing my toes to brush against the cabinet door.

  Did they really leave?

  Not a sound is heard when the cabinet pushes open, ever so slightly. I didn’t do it on purpose, I just needed to move.

  Nothing happens. There’s no sign they’re still here and I could see myself sneaking out slowly, risking a look.

  I still don’t trust it though. What happens if they’re right outside and they see through the windows that I’m here? A black vision passes before my eyes and my head falls back, feeling the anxiety rush through me.

  Staying as still and as silent as I can be, I wait, praying for a sign that I’m safe.

  All I’m given is silence. God didn’t answer my prayers for my sister. Why would he answer me now?

  For the longest time, there’s nothing but silence. The tick of the clock goes on and on, and I endure it. Not daring to move.

  And then everything happens all at once.

  The slam of the front door, and then the back door to the garage. My hands whip up to my mouth to cover the silent scream as my entire body tenses and my skin scrapes against the wooden walls of my hiding spot.

  The crash of glass breaking, I think a window in the back room, makes my shoulders hunch and I wish I could hide even further back. All of it is followed by the sound of tires squealing from outside my house. At least two cars. At least three men. And one with a pair of white shoes with red stripes.

  I don’t think I inhale the entire time. It doesn’t seem like they came back in. They merely broke something from the outside. Did they throw something inside the house? A bomb? That’s the first place my head goes. They threw a bomb in here and I’m going to die anyway. Still, I can’t move and nothing happens.

  There’s no noise, no explosion. Just silence again.

  Possibilities run furiously through my mind as I try to calm down. The back of my head rests against the wood as my thoughts turn dark. I think about how desperate I was to move, and how they were right there waiting. How close I was to playing into their trap.

  I don’t have long to drown in gratitude and the horror of what could have been. Maybe five or ten minutes go by before I hear another car. That’s all the time that passes from the squeal of one set of tires leaving and then the shriek of another set slamming to a halt in front of my house.

  I nearly upheave at the prospect of what they came back to do.

  The front door opens, loud with intention, ban
ging off the wall. Then I faintly hear a gun cock, followed by his voice.

  Jase.

  “Bethany!” Although he screams my name with a demand, his cadence is laced with panic. “Bethany, where are you?” he calls out as I hear the crunch of glass beneath his feet. “Fuck! Bethany!” He screams my name louder and still I don’t move.

  There’s a moment where I feel relief. Where I want to run to him and get out of here, climbing into his arms and begging him to take me away from here and spilling everything.

  But then I remember. The black words on cream paper with the blue underlined ink left from Jenny. All I can think about is how CROSS was in The Coverless Book. A hidden message from my sister.

  The unknowing fear is crippling and the pain in my chest makes me grip my shirt, right where it’s hurting.

  I hear the faint sound of a phone dialing – muted and barely heard, followed by my cell vibrating on the coffee table. They left it?

  “Fuck!” Jase screams and then hurls something across my living room that makes my entire body jostle.

  My thoughts scramble, my emotions stay at war with one another, but one thing is for certain: He’ll protect me. The selfish thought forces me to lurch from where I am.

  I push the cabinet door open, the creaking a companion to the aching pain of my muscles screaming from being cramped up for so long. “Jase.” I try to call out his name, but it comes out jagged and hoarse from my dry throat. I fall on my ass and right thigh as I make my way out of the cabinet, wincing from a cramp sending a sharp pain shooting up my side just as Jase sees me.

  “Bethany,” he says, and my name is wretched on his lips. Slipping out with relief and his own fears ringing through.

  I’m stiff as he drops to his knees beside me, pulling me into his hard chest. Both of his arms wrap around me and he tucks my head under his chin, rocking me and kissing my hair. I can’t focus on him though; my body is screaming in pain. I just want to breathe and stand up. Why do I hurt so much? I don’t know what to think or what to say or what to do. It’s all too much. I’m breaking down.

  All I can focus on is keeping my eyes open and staying aware. He’s still shushing me when I finally push a logical thought out.