Blood to Dust (4 page)

The men flip radio channels. My lack of sight sharpens my other senses. I detect Beat’s husky, monotone voice. Growls are his favorite method of communication, and peace is the ambiance that pours from this huge man. He doesn’t speak much, never raises his voice and is unimpressed with his companion. Ink’s voice matches his body language: high, pitchy and articulate as an artichoke. He talks a lot, but says very little. A definite sign of stupidity.

“Can you believe this shit?” Ink spits. “Ain’t nobody got time to babysit this rich kid. She’s bangin’, though.”

Beat grunts in response. Maybe he doesn’t share the sentiment.

“We can’t tap that, but maybe we can get away with a BJ. Whaddaya’ think?”

“If I find out you as much as grazed one of her fingernails, I’m handing you to Godfrey by the balls.” Beat sounds so serene, you’d think he just offered Ink a pampering vacation in Bora Bora.

“Whoa, what do you care about this sorry ass chick?”

“I don’t.” He’s detached, composed, unreadable. . .and scary as hell. “But that doesn’t give us the green light to act like bitches.”

Is it a good time to tell him Prince William won’t be calling for etiquette tips anytime soon?

“Whatever.” Ink disregards Prince Asshole of the East Bay. “I just hope she ain’t gonna cry all day. The walls are thin, and you know how I need my morning naps.”

“Don’t worry,” I shoot from the backseat. “My emotions are rare and treasured. I won’t waste them on the likes of you.”

Beat grunts. “Where’s that quote from?”

“A little dark and twisted place called my head,” I rub my tied hands against my face. The cloth is itchy, and it smells like Beat. It’s not a bad smell. Spicy and fresh, with just a twinge of sex thrown in. Something male. Something dangerous.
Something musky
.

“Bangin’, we’ve got ourselves a smartass.” Ink snorts. I hear a smack Beat must’ve awarded him with.

“Your dark, twisted place might be worth visiting, kid.” The compliment is aimed at me.

“Thanks. That means a lot coming from the guy who just kidnapped me,” I deadpan.

“Shorty’s got a mouth on her,” Ink complains.

“Yeah, well, shorty’s in luck. Our walls don’t answer back,” Beat says, slamming a lid on the conversation.

They pull up to the curb and drag me into what I presume is their house. I resist, digging my heels into the ground. Kicking, screaming, making a scene. Praying that someone will hear. My body twists from side to side as they usher me in. Someone tries to clap a hand over my mouth when they realize my yells can draw attention, and I bite it hard until my teeth meet. A slap to my cheek whips my face, my head crushing against a stone-hard shoulder.

Even before I feel the small, damp palm, I know that it’s Ink and not Beat. I stop shouting because: 1. It stings like a thousand needles pricking my cheek, especially since Seb has already banged my head against every surface we came across earlier this evening. 2. The door behind my back shuts with an earsplitting bang, and hushed rage electrifies the air.

“What did I say about touching the girl?” Beat’s large body pins Ink to the nearest wall by the sound of bones hitting concrete. “I’m letting you off with a warning.” I hear something snapping. Not a bone, maybe a ligament. Ink cries in pain, howling like a dog who’d lost a fight. “Next time, your glowing career at flipping burgers is going to end on the grounds of two broken arms. No warning. No second chances. Understood?”

Ink is trying to swallow a scream, and I hear a slap that did not land on my face. I jump back anyway. Beat receives his answer in the form of a hard gulp I can actually hear.

“Words, idiot. Under-fucking-stood?”

“Yes.” Ink’s voice tells me he, too, is terrified of Beat’s commanding presence. The power in the room is distributed haphazardly: I have none, Ink has very little, and Beat. . .he rules this place.

“Don’t fucking touch her,” he warns. “Ever. Again.”

My burning cheek and I are relieved when I feel Beat’s calloused hand pushing me through what I believe is their hallway.

“Come on, Country Club. I’ll see you to your room.”

Just when I think I have a real shot at forming some sort of a dialogue with this bizarre man, he throws me in his basement—laced with a dingy scent and moldy temperature. The deadbolt snaps from the outside.

“No.” A small voice escapes my paper-dry throat. “No, no, no!” I’m throwing my bound fists against the door, begging.

Tied, blindfolded and in desperate need to pee, I start pacing in a pattern, trying to figure out how big the room is and what’s inside. I’m hungry and dirty from my own blood and having been touched by Sebastian and Godfrey. And it kills me, knowing that it should have been the other way around.
I
was supposed to target them, not them me. If things had gone according to my plan, I would have killed Godfrey and Sebastian by the end of August. By September, I would have been on a plane to Iowa, sipping overpriced Coke and munching on peanuts on my way to a new, better life. A life where it wouldn’t matter that my parents disowned me, that my lover ruined me, that my brother is still missing and that I became a savage who uses bold tricks to see the next day.

You just couldn’t let it slide. Yet again, you had to let your ego override your welfare.

But even as guilt brews within me, I know that I stayed here all this time not only because I wanted to slaughter Godfrey, Camden and Sebastian like wild beasts. I stayed in NorCal hoping I’d find my brother, Preston. MIA for the past four years, since right before my father’s political empire collapsed. I was twenty-one at the time, and he was only eighteen. I wanted to stick around, let him know there was still a place he could call home in case he came back.

That place was me.

Mom. . .she paid infrequent visits in our lives, rolling in and out with her Louis Vuitton suitcase. He and Dad never got along. My father was too proud and too stupid to accept his gay spawn. Preston was deemed unworthy as a human being and unwanted as a son. I guess he decided to take off and leave the place where he wasn’t welcome.

But Preston hasn’t shown up tonight
.
Beat and Ink did.

Knowing I’ll be stuck in this place for at least a few days, I need to keep tabs on the time and date. Camden arrives in a month, and no matter what—he won’t get to me alive, well and willing.

I bite the tip of my index finger. The skin cracks and when I feel the thick, warm blood dripping down, I smear a long streak on the nearest wall.

The countdown begins.

Some hours later, the door whines and my head flies up. I’m sitting in the corner of the room, my knees drawn and my chin resting upon them. My fingernails are bent and broken, a bitter reminder of my futile attempt to break free. Shrinking into myself, breathing as quietly as possible, I wait.

I think I hear Beat’s footsteps. They’re slower in pace, wider in stride. He’s very tall. Very calm, too.
Peaceful
. My lungs wheeze and I loll my head back. It’d take me weeks to get all the dried blood cleaned up.

“Food.” He kicks the sole of my boot. So it is him. Somehow, it makes me feel a little less scared. He didn’t want me here, and didn’t slap me across the face. Unfortunately, in my world, this qualifies him as some sort of a black knight.

I hear the clank of a plastic plate being thrown in my direction on the floor, but don’t make a move for it.

“You deaf?” he asks.

“You stupid?” I smart off. “I’m blindfolded and tied. How the hell am I supposed to get to this food? The power of telepathy?”

He offers me another grunt, and I immediately regret snapping at him. I feel his fingers working the black cloth that’s tying my hands together, that peachy breath on my face again.

Once I’m free, he bends down, his warmth engulfing me, and places the plate in my hands.

“What’s for dinner?” I lick my injured lips.

“Whiskey-glazed steak with a side of wine-tossed asparagus.” He lets out a sniffle before adding flatly, “Wait, my bad. It’s just a peanut butter sandwich.”

“That’s better. I’m vegetarian.”

“I’ll let our chef know.” He offers me his own brand of sarcasm, his voice already descending. I realize that he’s about to climb back up. I can’t let that happen. Who knows when he’ll check on me again? The prospect of holding my pee a minute longer is nothing short of tormenting.

“Wait!” I launch forward, crawling on the floor toward his voice. I don’t hear anything, so I continue.

“I really need to take a shower, wash off all this blood. And I really, really need to pee.” I shuffle my way back to the corner, taking a small bite off my sandwich, my teeth brushing against my fingers. “Please?”

I feel his palm pressing flat against the wall I’m leaning on. I swear it moves a little from the impact.

“Finish your sandwich. Make it quick.”

I wolf down my dinner before he grabs my hand and leads me up the stairs. He stalks closely behind, and even though it’s taking me forever to climb up the narrow staircase, he keeps his grunt-count to a respectable minimum.

Leading me to the bathroom by the arm, he throws the door open and we both walk into the tiny room. Still blindfolded, I feel the cold sink stabbing at my lower back, but the warmth of his proximity keeps me from shivering.

“I need my privacy.” I lick my lips, feeling him everywhere. Not only is Beat physically big, he is also somewhat of a human furnace. I swear he radiates enough heat to photosynthesize a whole forest. I guess it’s good, because I always know when he’s around. But also bad, because why would it matter? It’s not like I can fight him in any way.

“Dream on, Country Club.” Another grunt.

“Please.” My voice breaks. Usually, I’m counting on my caramel blonde hair and big Disney-animal eyes—which he unfortunately can’t see right now—to get me out of trouble. I have a feeling this guy is harder to crack. “Just lock me in and stand guard outside. What can I do? Arm myself with a bar of soap? Try and break free through the sink’s hole?”

Is he going to buy it?

Is he sensitive?

Is he hard-nosed?

Maybe he’s both. He’s got some serious codes going on—no beating women, no manhandling your victim—yet he essentially agreed to lock me in here. Then there’s his tone and body language.
Peaceful
. Like he hasn’t got a care in the world, which couldn’t be further from the truth. I’ve known him for a few short hours and I’m already privy to the fact that he was an inmate in San Dimas, has killed, owes Godfrey a favor and has the Aryan Brotherhood on his tail.

“Be warned,”—his peachy breath tickles my nose—“when people are bad to me, I’m worse. Don’t tempt my demons.”

Beat takes off my blindfold, but he’s not thoughtless enough to show me his face. His black tee is pulled over his head, revealing a tattooed six-pack. Even his fingertips are full of blues and blacks. Yet, one side of his body is completely ink-free. Massive, menacing. . .and as much as I hate to admit it,
attractive
.

Sweet Statute of Liberty, if I need to screw one of them in the name of freedom, please let it be him and not the chunky tattooist.

Beat can still see me through the fabric of his shirt, but before I get the chance to make out his face, he dashes out of the bathroom and locks the door from the outside with a key.

“You’ve got fifteen minutes to do everything. Pee, shit, shower, get dressed. Starting now.”

I don’t argue or waste a second. I jump into the shower and pee as the stream of gurgling water splashes over my body. My bladder is burning with release, and so are the blistering fresh wounds Seb decorated me with. Slowly, I’m starting to feel a little better, think a little clearer.

The water is hot and violent against my strained muscles. There’s only one bar of soap—I’m pretty sure Beat and Ink are sharing it (I’m guessing they’re roomies by the two worn-out towels on the rack). Not very sanitary, but hygiene is a luxury I cannot afford right now.

I scrub my body and keep the water running as I try to pry open the overhead rust-stained window next to the showerhead. I stand on my toes, peeking outside, blinking away disbelief as the sight in front of me registers. A teenager with a beanie zig-zags his way on a bike in the middle of the road, the electric wires above his head tangled with shoelaces and sneakers. Beyond the sight of shotgun houses, wilting porches and the echoes of desperate, barking dogs is a Taco Bell.

Taco Bell!

I recognize the branch. I’m in Stockton. Whose streets I know, whose crack heads I studied, whose language of hardship and adversity I speak fluently.

I study my surroundings. The house I’m trapped in is a simple one-story, and the house right in front of it is probably an identical bungalow. It looks deserted, so yelling will get me nowhere other than on Beat and Ink’s shit list.

But I’m guessing by the sound of traffic and the location of the fast food restaurant that we’re close to El Dorado, one of Stockton’s main streets.

Knowing where I am will work in my favor when I run away.

And I
will
run away. One way or the other. With or without Beat’s help.