Forcing myself to turn away, I gently chew on the inside of my cheek. It’s a nervous habit. Clearing my throat, I lay my purse in front of me on the table. “I’m sorry,” I admit. “I’ve had a horrible day, and honestly, no one is that nice to just anyone. I really appreciate it…you don’t have to take pity on me for being broke.” Pausing, I watch him intently as I ramble on like a moron. His brows gather in the center of his forehead. He almost looks pained.
“What I don’t understand is what a young woman as pretty as you is doing here on a cold day like today, drinking coffee by herself?” he asks in a deep voice.
I study my hands while taking a reassuring breath, and I open up to a complete stranger. What are the chances I’m ever going to see him again, and I need an outlet, if we’re being honest. I tell him all about how I just left the nursing home after visiting my ill grandmother. “They just treat her like a room number, not an actual patient.” I continue with my rambling, not sparing any details about Grams, my financial situation, and the fact that I’m basically an orphan living alone, desperately hoping to find a way out–desperate enough that I’d do almost anything if it meant financial security.
“What if I could offer you a way out of this financial mess that seems to be swallowing you whole?” he asks. His eyebrows tighten, waiting for my answer.
Hesitating, I blink with bafflement before speaking. “I…I don’t understand.” Lowering my gaze, I try to make sense of his question, before I make an idiot of myself by fumbling over my own words. What could he offer that would get me out of this situation?
Jarod cunningly looks over his shoulder. “I can offer you twenty-five thousand dollars, right now, if you’d agree to a business relationship.” He watches me, gauging my reaction. My eyes widen, and I’m certain he can taste my curiosity.
“What sort of business relationship? Who has that kind of money lying around? Oh, Lord....” My voice comes quick and squeaks like summer lightening. I briefly look over my shoulder. My hands start to fidget. The sweaty palms come back in full force. I can tell that he senses my trepidation, his words confirming it.
“Don’t be frightened of me. I just want to help you. Honestly, it seems to me that you may need it. Calm down and hear me out. If what I have to offer isn’t something you’re interested in, you can walk away and never look back.”
He explains the arrangement that he is offering. “It’s no-strings-attached. My boss is very secretive and appreciates his,” he clears his throat, “employees…to abide by his rules at all times.”
If I had a mirror to look in, I’m sure I could find fear glittering in the eyes of the reflection staring back at me. All I hear is no-strings-attached-sex in exchange for money. I’m not a prostitute nor do I screw strangers just because they’re scared to leave the house, or whatever he said about his boss. I can hardly concentrate on what Jarod is saying. My ears are ringing. My stomach is doing somersaults.
A foul taste makes its presence in my mouth as I listen to him, a complete stranger, present this ridiculous job opportunity, trying to convince me that this type of thing is normal. Why on God’s green earth would someone proposition me for sex?
“With all due respect, Ja-Jar-Jarod,” I almost choke as my mouth opens, and I force myself to say his name, “you, and your so-called offer, repulse me. I’m not a piece of flesh that a man can just have his wicked way with, so if you’ll please excuse me, I’m leaving.”
Gathering my belongings, I stand up and am prepared to briskly march away, to get away from this creep and never look back, but he grabs my wrist, stopping me dead in my tracks. A small bout of panic riots within me as his grip tightens, overpowering me. Fear creeps its way around my entire body.
“How desperate are you to save your grandmother from that place? Listen. If you won’t hear me out, the least you can do for the cup of coffee I bought you is take my business card. Think about what I am offering you, what you can do with that kind of money. If you happen to change your mind, call me, text me, email me. We can discuss the finer details then.”
As if certain I’d reach out to him in the future, he loosens his grasp on my arm and places his card in the palm of my hand. When I turn back to steal another glance, a smug grin presents itself across his face. I don’t know what to think about what just happened and what he just offered, but I hightail it out of the café as fast as my feet allow.
WITH THE DAYLIGHT CLINGING to my estate, I feel as if my chest is collapsing. No meetings are scheduled today. Idle time isn’t good for someone like me. I sit in my office chair; my hand fidgets with the dial on my watch. Spinning it over and over, my sense of reality is ignored as my brain tempts me…provoking and dragging me further into a place I don’t like to visit…my memories. My mind is my worst enemy.
I am a victim. It pains me to say it aloud so I don’t. Although, I know that it’s true and I still feel hatred for my attackers. They stole something from me. Trying to forget the recollections of the past is like fighting a losing battle. I tilt my head back and rest it against the cool leather behind me.
It was late, but to me, stumbling out of the bar that early was good. There wasn’t a woman who sparked my interest and I was far past drunk. Leaving while I still had my dignity and not going home with a two-cent hooker was probably best. I called for a cab, deciding not to bother Neil for a ride, which would later become my biggest regret.
Nothing new or out of the ordinary happened while I waited outside of the bar that rainy night. People nodded their heads as they strolled drunkenly by me. I hummed a tune that I had heard over the bar’s speakers, and then finally, a cab pulled up. I remember, I took one step forward and then hit the pavement with force. My head instantly throbbed and a cry erupted from my lungs.
When I awoke, I was on the ground in a puddle of gathered rain. The concrete was ice cold, as my face lay pressed against it. Someone’s booted foot held my head down. Words, or more so rambles, were being tossed around. Grunts, the sounds of someone yelling, and a kick to my ribs jolted my body. Pain that I’d never experienced before radiated through my bones.
I tried to yell for help. I even begged my attackers to stop, offering money and trips, pleas that in the end didn’t matter. I tried to glance up, to get a glimpse at the people who were punishing me. They made sure not to disclose their identities. Black masks covered their faces. They spoke in broken English and another unfamiliar language.
They kept kicking my sides, back, and legs. The pain was so intense, I screamed out in pure agony. As hard as I tried to fight back, all of my strength was gone. Vanished alongside my once claimed dignity. I was the true definition of a bitch as I lay there, helpless, unable to move my limbs due to the impact of the steel boots that had been attacking me for what seemed like hours.
Finally, the kicking stopped and I felt warmth alongside my leg. At first, I welcomed the heat. It made me feel alive, less cold and alone. And then it burned through my pants, my flesh melting away. The smell was awful.
Before I could move to try to put the flame out, one of the men turned me over onto my back. His eyes were the only things visible, not hidden from the mask.
There was light reflecting off a shiny object. A knife. Without warning, it sliced through my shirt and pierced my side, directly below my ribcage. The other man kicked me in my fresh wound over and over again. Curling up in fetal position, I silently prayed to God for him to end my pain and suffering. There was no way I could fight back, not with ribs I was sure were broken. But I mustered up all the strength I had left in me and yelled, “Fuck you, bastards!”
It must have angered the men. One grabbed my head by my hair, jerking my neck back roughly. The other held up the knife, and pressed deeply across my cheek. Carving a mark that I would forever live with across my face.
Time stood still as I lay there, dying, blood flowing freely out of me. My gargled attempts to speak were pointless. The men left as soon as I cowered down.
I was ready to die.
The sound of me gritting my teeth brings me out of my awful stupor. Turning my head, I look up at the round clock hanging on the wall. “It’s too early to drink,” I say out loud as I roll my neck.
I was robbed of many things that night: my looks, dignity, and power. How could I run an empire when my overpowering way of persuading clients thrived on charm and masculine swagger? How could I be the face of my company if I resembled a monster?
Fuck it, I think to myself as I prepare to drown my demons with alcohol. Once the memories show their little ugly heads, I find it hard to stow them. My trusty sidekick, whiskey, is the only thing that seems to help. I take one swig, and another…but my thoughts don’t subside.
After the accident, shame washed over me, day in and day out, until finally I couldn’t stand the sight that stared back at me in the mirror. I was repulsed by my image. The only way to stay sane was avoidance and avoiding people like the plague. The dark became my closest ally, and I cherished it for keeping me concealed.
The world thought I was dead. I made that decision to protect myself. If word got out that I didn’t die, my attackers would surely come to finish the job. I couldn’t allow that to happen. I knew changes had to be made if I was going to keep the business afloat–the one that my father started from the ground up. So, since Jarod and I were around the same age, he stepped up, representing the company, and was able to manage everything. And I stayed in the shadows, pulling all the strings. And although some clients seemed leery of the business after my fake passing, their faith remained intact. I hear what people and the media are saying. But I can’t let it affect me, not when I’m unable to respond to their comments and theories in person. The few people who knew the truth about my sudden reclusive behavior are kept at arm’s distance. To everyone else my alleged death is an unsolved mystery.
My father, Wade Kincaid, started Kincaid Enterprises over twenty years ago and it morphed into an overnight sensation. He was an entrepreneur and on top of the world. He had gripped life by the balls. I remember the smug look he kept on his wrinkled face, he loved every minute of it–the money and power that he wore like a badge of honor.
Mildred Kincaid, my mother, was a drunk, a lousy wife, and an even worse mother. Despite all of that, she was there when an appearance needed to be made, wearing freshly applied bright red lipstick and an alluring smile. She was a looker and used it to her advantage. Knowing that my father needed her to play a part, she did it without hesitation, and as a reward for her forged behavior, he continued to spoil her with booze and pearls. Our family’s existence was picture perfect, one that articles were often written about.
The agony that our family dynamics were a giant lie concealed itself behind closed doors. We put on our smiles in the morning, knowing that they would fall into a flat line by mid-afternoon. I remember, even at my young age, I wasn’t blind to the lies and secrets hidden by my own flesh and blood. The truth remained unnoticeable to the average eye until I witnessed something no child should ever see. No one could have imagined the tragedy that soon became of my once seemingly ideal life.
No one saw it coming.
No one was prepared.
No one was there.
No one, but me.
I saw it firsthand–the pain in my father’s eyes as he silently begged me to go hide. Then there was the beating and the killing. All I remember hearing were the foul obscenities that flew through the air like starved pigeons, and the struggled gasps of air that my father took as he fought for one last breath. I will never forget the horrid image of my father’s beaten, bloody, and savaged face for as long as I’ll live.
At the young age of thirteen, my adolescence as I knew it was over. I was the sole proprietor of my father’s inheritance. My mother drank herself to death shortly after my father’s passing, and I was left to pick up the pieces of my once textbook perfect life.
I relied on my father’s colleagues to help raise me, and they did with smiles on their faces and compassion in their hearts. I felt exceptionally close to my father’s bodyguard, Neil. He was older, much older than my father was, but for as long as I can remember, Neil protected my father. They were more like best friends than boss and employee. Naturally, with no other immediate family around, he became my legal guardian. After all, Neil was the only other person who knew all of the ins and outs of their trade, including the illegal stuff that my father tried to keep hidden. The stuff that he tried so hard to keep from me, but I ended up finding out anyway.
I sigh, remembering how my life unfolded and landed me in the position I am now. Drinking whiskey from the bottle before noon. I’m now twenty-six and have the wrath of my own attack in my mind at all times. I’ve tried to move the company forward, but like always, there is an internal battle whether to get to the bottom of the attacks, or to truly lock them in the past. The guilt that justice was not served for my father kills me. I know deep down that I have to uncover the reason behind his death.
The company is all I have left.
In the weeks after my own beating, I racked my memory and jotted down anyone and everyone that might have wanted me dead. It just didn’t add up. I’ve been a stand-up businessman in all aspects, including the ones behind closed doors. Still, the only thing I can imagine someone hating the Kincaid’s for is the gun business; the one that only the most important people in my company know about. That fact alone leads me to think that the two go hand-in-hand. The illegal gun smuggling is what had to have killed my father. Certainly someone wouldn’t stab him, burn him, and leave him for dead over an office space gone awry, and then years later do the same thing to me. Someone had wanted us both dead, I’m just not sure who or why.
Neil is on a mission to find out, and seeing as how he is an ex-Navy SEAL, I have no doubt that he will uncover some clue that will eventually lead us right into my enemy’s arms.
“What the fuck!” Obscenities echo off the walls as I shout, close my eyes, and tilt my head back in defeat. I sit unmoving, wondering what I’m going to do, the only sounds coming from the tiny humans in the apartment above me running back and forth on the floor. Little hellions.
After the coffee incident two days ago, I learned that the nursing home had attempted to run my credit card through multiple times. Only to find that the bank had frozen the account to prevent them from declining it so many times and incurring numerous overdraft fees.
I’m dirt poor, with no groceries, no family to give a damn, and no way out of this situation.
My grandmother is about to be homeless if I can’t figure out how to pay off the nursing home. There is no way I can take care of her here in this run-down apartment. Half the time there is barely enough hot water for me to shower, let alone draw a bath for Grams. I clear my throat. “Okay, pull yourself together. You will find a way out of this, you always do,” I say aloud, pepping myself up.
Racing around my apartment, I gather up all of the loose change I can find. $4.23. That won’t do jack to make a dent in the debt that Grams owes, and my messily wages aren’t enough to support both of us. She’s been delinquent for a few months and they’ve been hounding me like hungry vultures. Maybe if I speak to someone in the billing office, I can ask for an extension. I’ll beg if I have to. With hope in mind, I pick up the phone and dial the number to the facility with shaky hands.
“Hello,” a voice answers cheerfully, classical music plays in the background.
“Hi, my name is Cambree Evans, I’m Joyce Evans’s granddaughter. I just got a notice that my grandmother’s health insurance is no longer covering a portion of her stay,” I ramble on without taking a breath.
“Miss Evans, with all due respect, you’ve known about this for a long time. We’ve been expecting your grandmother’s carrier to do this with the new health care reform. We know you’ve mad a solid effort to help keep things afloat, but right now, it’s out of my hands. I really apologize, but our facility…. Look darling, I know this is tough. Please understand this isn’t a decision made
lightly. We’d be more than happy to arrange for Joyce to be transferred elsewhere.”
Emotion overwhelms me, as if the dark cloud that’s been hovering over my head finally decided to leak. Weariness threatens and my knees buckle, and I stumble, dropping my phone in the process. I don’t even care that it crashes to the floor, the back flying across the room. An ache that I didn’t know existed forms a lump of sorrow in my chest. How could I allow this to happen? I’ve failed Grams. Tears well in my eyes, and I realize that I’ve cried more lately than in my entire life. Even after my parents died. I’ve never felt as crushed as I do right now.
My conversation with Jarod creeps its way into my mind. At a time like this, the last thing I should be thinking about is the man who bought me coffee. It isn’t the man my memory clings to, though; it’s the money that he offered.
Reaching for my phone, I slide the back piece over the battery, securing it in place. I reach into my purse and dig around for his card before I power up the phone and dial his number. Fretfully waiting for him to answer, I chew on my bottom lip. If this is what I have to do to make sure Grams is safe, I’ll do it.
“Hello?”
I sigh into the phone. “Hi. It’s Bree.”
“I’m glad you’ve decided to call.” His tone is ominous.
An apprehensive chill rushes down my spine. Ignoring the pleas in my head, I know exactly what I have to do. It’s the only way to save my Grams, even if it destroys me in the process.
“Meet me at the coffee shop in an hour. You’re buying.”
Savaged Page 2
