by B L Mute
“Well, well,” a husky voice booms, grabbing me by my long brown hair as I try to crawl away.
I jerk my head trying to get free. “I swear I will fucking kill you!” I scream, but it doesn’t deter my assailant.
“Calm down now, Flower. We aren’t here to hurt you.”
We?
I halt my movements and turn my head enough to see the person behind me. Standing tall are the twins I saw last night. Both dressed in matching suits, they stare down on me.
“Who are you?” My lip quivers.
“We work for the man you carved up last night,” one says as he drops my hair, then leans to pick up my gun. “But don’t fret. We aren’t here to hurt you.” His words are laced with venom, telling me that’s far from the truth.
Confusion paints my face like the flow of watercolors on a canvas. The second one steps outside of my door, then grabs the flowers before coming back in and setting them on my table.
“Tell me,” the one says, grabbing my attention. “Do you always attack people who are doing nothing more than trying to talk to you?” He sits down at my dining room table, flipping his well-tailored suit jacket back, allowing a glimpse of his gun tucked neatly into a holster on his side.
“Only a psychopath grabs a woman at night. He wasn’t trying to just talk,” I spit back.
“He was,” he deadpans.
I look to the other twin, who is standing static beside the other, still staring down on me. “What do you want from me?”
“Our boss has an offer for you,” the one seated says. “We are here to bring you to him so he can present it himself.”
I let out a manic laugh. “Oh, you want me to just go with you both? Walk straight into my own death?”
“No. If we wanted you dead, you would have died last night. You know—” He holds up his hand, looking at his nails in a bored manner. “—of natural causes.”
My eyes practically bulge from my head as my stomach turns, and vomit threatens the lining of my esophagus. “No. You’re insane.”
“Look, Flower, either you come willingly, or my brother here will drag you out kicking and screaming. The choice is yours.” He leans back into the chair and crosses his legs.
“I will kill him and then you if you touch me.” I move to my knees, ready to pounce.
“No, you won’t.” He laughs. “You have ten minutes.”
Deciding I’d rather go out fighting, I play their game. “If I go with you, are you going to kill me?”
“No. I’ve already told you. You’d be dead if we wanted you dead.”
“Why should I believe you?”
He shakes his head and stands from the table, his tall muscular body towering above me. His voice deepens. “Believe what you want, I don’t care at this point. I’m only doing as I was told. Now—” He raises his chin and straightens his firmly pressed suit. “—go get dressed.”
I take a deep breath and allow the aroma of the flowers on my table to embody my nostrils before hurrying off to the bathroom.
My gun is gone, and I’ll be damned if I am going to leave my place with no way to protect myself. I throw on some dirty sweatpants and a T-shirt from the floor. I can smell the sweat incorporated into the clothing from a prior workout session. I begin to scramble around my linen-strewn bathroom, trying to find anything that can be a weapon.
I notice my razor atop a perch in my shower. I grasp at it in haste, almost hurling myself into the bathtub. I tuck it into the elastic of my pants that hug my ankles. Feeling confident it won’t move from its spot, I continue my search. I pile my hair into a messy bun and stick way too many bobby pins into it. I have lotions, face wash, and soap galore, but none of it can be easily concealed.
Worried I am taking too long, I grab my rat-tail comb, making sure its metal point is facing up, and shove it into the waist of my pants. I keep my eye on the door, convinced that at any minute Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum will bust in.
I exit the bathroom on high alert, watching them as I make my way to the front door. I push my feet into my dirty Nike runners, then stand, showing them I’m not scared even though the trembles racking my body and the flush in my cheeks probably show otherwise.
“Ready, Flower?” one asks.
I nod, biting my lip.
He looks to his brother, who hasn’t moved an inch, and juts his head toward the door. “Let’s roll, Jules. You know he doesn’t like waiting.”
Tweedle Dum, or Jules as his brother called him, nods and walks out the door, not giving me a second glance. I follow him out, walking slowly, trying to watch behind me out of the corner of my eye as the other follows.
The short walk down the stairs is torture, like walking down an upward-moving escalator. My mind races as my feet attempt to navigate the motion of the steps. They both move so swiftly and reserved while close to me, monitoring my every move. I can’t make a break for it. I try to focus on everything my dad has taught me and keep my guard up. As they watch me, I watch them. When they move, I move. They are both so similar yet individually different. It’s intriguing on so many levels.
Pausing on the sidewalk at the bottom of my stairs, the quiet one gestures in front of him to a shiny black SUV with an impeccable wax job. It is sitting perfectly lined with the curb. The contour of the vehicle flickers in the sun. Emerging from within the dark tinted windows is an older man with thinning white hair. His loafers are ragged and aged. He is wearing corduroy pants, and, on the air, there is a faint smell of Old Spice. He rises and stands by the back door, flashing a warm smile.
It’s odd to say the least. The man gives off serious grandpa vibes. Rosy cheeks, bushy brows, and his smile all say heart of gold. The lines and wrinkles on his face are tales of the life he has lived, yet only he knows that story. Honestly, you would look at him and expect him to smell like sugar cookies. Why he would be with the Bobbsey twins, who seem like they break knees for fun, is beyond me.
I stand staring at him longer than I should. “Get in. Now,” the one twin demands.
I glance over my shoulder and give him a dirty look but comply as the older man opens the door. I slide over the perfectly upholstered leather seats and plant myself next to the window on the opposite side. Crossing my ankle over my knee casually, I let my hand run over it, making sure my razor is still in place.
“Whatcha got there, Flower?” he asks as he slides in beside me.
I drop my leg, planting it to the floorboard. “What are you talking about?”
He smiles, showing me his perfectly white teeth. “I’m not stupid. Well, maybe I am. Because if I was smart, I would have searched you. I know you have something there.” He points to my ankle. “Give it to me.”
I curse myself in my head. The razor was probably the best weapon I had and could find in my bathroom, and somehow, I’ve given it away. I grind my teeth, then reach for it, popping the cap off with my thumb as I grab it.
I bring it between us and dare him to grab it. Once his hand is an inch from mine, I turn the blade and yank it toward me, catching his inked skin in the process. I drop it with a satisfied smile on my face as he jerks his hand back to inspect the damage.
“You’ll regret that,” he spits.
I shrug. If I’m going to die, I might as well go down fighting. Most people wouldn’t have gone with them, but knowing their boss knew my dad gives me a newfound hope. I need answers, and maybe he can help me get them. I don’t care what I have to do at this point.
The rest of the drive is quiet. The silence is long and increasingly disturbing as no one mutters a word. For one of them, it’s not surprising considering he hasn’t spoken at all throughout this entire endeavor, but the other is a mouthy asshole. Him keeping his mouth shut is suffocating me like a pillow over my face. It creates a vacuum, and the quiet alone is way worse than the noise.
As the tree line thickens, I begin to suspect where we’re going—the mansion on top of Asher Hill. It looks the exact same as it does every time I drive by, yet it po
ssesses a new and unique beauty each time you see it, but I’ve never broached the gates until today. The car slows to a crawl as we approach the small guard shack. A middle-aged man, dressed in a suit and strapped with a firearm, appears from within the stone building. The older gentleman up front in the SUV nods to him, and then, never breaking the silence, the iron gate swings open slowly, allowing us to creep in.
I look around in awe. The tenacious blossoms lining the drive create a prelude of beauty almost like nature’s graffiti as you travel down the drive. The different varieties of ivy and ferns grow vicariously through the cracks and crevices of the winding stone path. The house seems more vibrant up close, yet the dark shutters on the second floor loom over us the closer we get. Overall, it more than exceeds your expectations from the decadent marble fountain to the gargoyles perched at the highest peaks, dwelling in their own surrounding silence. History and folklore say that gargoyles were originally added to architecture to ward off bad spirits. Let’s hope they do their job.
The hum of the car comes to a halt, signaling we’ve gone as far as we need. The quiet twin opens his door and exits the car. The other one turns to me. “Come on, Flower.”
Before I know what is happening, his oversized, firm hand grabs me by my arm, yanking me from the car. I stumble out into the driveway but regain my balance quickly. “Fuck you,” I mumble under my breath.
He doesn’t react. It is almost like he doesn’t even hear me but more likely that he doesn’t care. He continues his plight of dragging me across the driveway. We approach the concrete steps giving access to a large wooden door. It is carefully etched and possibly even hand carved. Each side contains a faded stained glass with a wrought-iron cover that matches the fence line. The handles are painted with a thin a layer of bronze, and an old keyhole is located below. It has likely been here for generations yet remains mostly unregarded until today. I can’t help but wonder what it has seen or what it may see as I walk through its threshold. The silence is broken as the heavy door slams behind us. It sends a loud echo throughout the house. He drops my arm and ushers me in front of him.
I comply with no indication of where to go. The older man and quiet twin have faded away as we come inside, leaving me with the arrogant, mouthy one. We pass numerous doors, none of them as magnificent as the first. There’s a kitchen along the way, which houses what appears to be a five-star dining culinary collection of stainless steel. I even think I see a library out of the corner of my eye, before he finally pushes me to the right, directing me into a dim-lit room at the end of the hall.
This room is different from the others. It is empty and cold. Nothing fills the room other than a single metal table with a matching chair. The air is stagnant, and the pungent smell of dampness engulfs your nostrils like the smoke from a fire. There is no flooring other than the stained concrete, and I don’t think those stains were put there intentionally. The lack of windows keeps the room poorly lit, relying on only the dull glow of a lamp off in the corner.
“Wait here” is all he demands before walking out, leaving the door wide open.
I weigh my options. I can wait like a sitting duck, or I can run and hope like hell I can make it past the guard at the end of the drive. I figure trying is better than doing nothing.
Peeking my head out of the door and into the hall, I look around to see if anyone is watching. Once I’m confident I’m alone, I slip out. The glistening marble floor makes no noise as I pad across it. I try to go back the same way I came, only this time I take in all my surroundings.
Elegant gold picture frames house pictures of different men in suits, some appearing as if they’re from another time. Expensive-looking vases perched on end tables are scattered across the house, and each one contains an array of colors like the gardens along the drive. The thick crown molding bridges the small spaces from the wall to the ceiling. And the spiral staircase resembles a child’s slinky toy that has been stretched from one floor to another.
My eyes wander everywhere but in front of me. Rookie mistake. The beauty of the designs and flawless fixtures of the house suck you in like a vortex, and I become so in awe that for a moment, I forget about where I am.
“Going somewhere?” a voice booms.
I turn my head and there, standing in front of me, is the man in the red tie. Only this time, there is no red tie. He’s wearing tattered, generously worn jeans that hang low on his hips, a chaste black T-shirt, and slippers. He looks almost normal other than the stitches running down the right side of his face.
“I—” I clear my throat.
“Walk with me.” The way he says it demands my attention.
I test the waters and step closer to him. My body pauses, waiting to see if he will make a move to strangle me. When he doesn’t, I close the gap between us, and although my muscles slightly relax, my guard remains as strong as ever.
“Why am I here?”
He looks to me again, running his eyes down the entire length of my body and up again, paying special attention to my arm where Tweedle Dee grabbed me. His blood is almost dried on me in a messy pattern.
“Did they hurt you?” he questions with a raised brow.
I look to my arm and let out a laugh. “No.” I cross my arms over the front of me and attempt to conceal the motion of me grasping at the reassurance of my comb.
He nods, not questioning any further. “I have a proposition for you,” he states as he begins walking down the long hallway. Not sure if it is fear or curiosity, but I follow.
I stay quiet, wanting him to elaborate on this proposition before I ask any questions. One thing that my father always taught me was that when an offer was on the table, the first one to speak loses.
“I need someone to be my right hand, someone people won’t suspect. Women don’t generally fit in this lifestyle, and I’m betting on that to figure some things out.”
Lifestyle? What the fuck does that even mean?
“Why me? You don’t even know me.” I stop walking and stand behind him more confused than ever.
He turns to me. His face appears a little softer. “I know your name is Charlotte Welsh. You’re twenty-five years old, quick on your feet, and lethal, if need be. I know more about you than you think.” He turns back toward the hall and starts walking again, urging me with his eyes to follow. After a few steps, he stops and turns back around.
“How do you know all of that?” I take a few steps in his direction, wanting to be close so I don’t miss a word he says.
“I knew your father, and I made him a promise.” He speaks with a new conviction I haven’t heard before.
Everything surrounding my father’s death is a mystery. There are no leads, no suspects, no nothing. He kept his circle small and close-knit, and I knew everyone he knew, so how do I not know this man, yet he still seems familiar? “You’re lying.”
“I may be a lot of things, but a liar is not one, Monkshood.” He turns into the kitchen.
Both twins are sitting at the counter with a large manila envelope in front of them, but I don’t pay them any attention as my head spins with what he just called me, and chills run down my spine at the thought of him knowing my dad. My dad was a good man, but this guy… Something about him tells me to be careful. It isn’t like the feeling I get around Cameron, but it’s close.
My skin tingles, my ears ring, and my hands shake. All of the signs you’re in danger.
“Don’t call me that, Teddy.” I remember Sloan told me his name was Theodore, but I’m not sure where the nickname came from. It slipped out of my mouth with ease. It feels right to call him that, and at this point, I want him to think I have some sort of upper hand too.
He chuckles, turning to me in a less threatening manner. His eyes meet mine, and I’m suddenly torn between the spectacle of the gray specks upon the sea of blue and the confusion now surrounding me in the form of three men I barely know. “If you’re going to call me by the name your father used, I will continue to do the same.” He motions
his hand toward the twins in a final gesture, then disappears, leaving me behind with only the twins.
My mind whirls around everything he just said. He gave me so little, yet it was still enough to make me want to stay and learn more. He’s obviously a king of persuasion.
“Here you go, Flower.” Tweedle Dee tosses the envelope in my direction.
I make no move to catch it and let it fall with a thud onto the granite countertop. It’s almost as if my brain is unable to send signals to the rest of my body because it’s too busy attempting to make sense of what is transpiring. My mouth can’t even formulate the words to question the events even if I wanted to.
I attempt to pull myself together and reach for the envelope. The seal is still damp, letting me know it wasn’t closed until a few moments ago. I gently slide my finger along the seam, feeling the adhesive give way, exposing the contents. Inside, there is a stack of papers carefully put together and detailed like they’ve been written by a lawyer. I scan through them, quickly summarizing and paraphrasing their do’s and don’ts. Everything points to what he already told me. He wants me to be his bodyguard essentially.
There is no mention of what he does for a living, but I’m sure it can’t be anything good. What normal person needs paid protection? I shake my head lightly and try to tell myself if I do this, I can maybe find out what happened to my dad. If I keep him in mind, I can do anything. I’m determined.
I look at the twins. “I don’t need training,” I remark, after reading where it says I will be training with a professional. “And if you two are here, why does he need me?”
“You do,” the mouthy one replies. “And there are some cases it’s more discreet for a woman to be in our place. At a restaurant eating, in his bed at night—”
I cut him off by raising my hand, not interested in anything else he has to say. I can already tell he and I won’t get along. Not only is he mouthy and arrogant, he also seems to have an air around him that screams “I don’t take anything seriously.”
