Darkest Before Dawn (10 page)

I
flatten
out the comforter and glance around the room, my nerves on fucking fire. This is phase two: bringing comfort and familiarity to a situation that should be anything but. For all intents and purposes, this is an actual bedroom—never mind there’s a double deadbolt on the outside of the door.

Everything is ready, except for me. I’m not ready for this shit.

She’s standing in the corner, a huge smile on her face as she runs her hand over the items on the bookshelf. I moved all of her books in here, but aside from that, every single thing in here, those have been here for all the other girls. Each girl is made to believe this room was prepared especially for them, they think it is a sign that I love them. That I care deeply for them because why else would I go to the trouble of all this? Of the dainty furniture, the freshly laundered sheets?

“You did this for me?” She smiles.

It never bothers me that they think that. But Ava thinking it, it causes a knot to form in the pit of my stomach. I can’t tell her yes, so I nod.

“Why?”

“Because…” I shift my gaze to the floor. “You’re special to me.” And that is not a lie. She rushes to me, wrapping her arms around my waist and holding me tight.

“Thank you, Max.”

I can’t do this any longer, so I excuse myself, locking both deadbolts behind me. When I turn around, I find Earl propped against the wall, his legs stretched out blocking the narrow corridor.

“She’s been here a good while, ain’t she?” he asks, a sick smirk plastered to his face.

“Well”—I brush past him—“she wasn’t a fucking whore, now was she? What do you expect?”

“Don’t know.” He follows me up to the kitchen.

I go to the fridge and grab a beer, popping the can and immediately chugging half of it. His beady fucking eyes never leave me, and the harder he stares at me, the more I want to knock him the fuck out. “What the fuck are you staring at?” I ask.

He laughs. And when Earl laughs at me, my blood pressure shoots through the damn roof. “You’re in deep shit, boy.” Another chuckle. “Deep,
deep
shit.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

He holds his hands up like he’s surrendering and shrugs. “I’m sure you know what it means.” He crosses the room, opens the fridge, and stops, staring over the top of the door. “She’s stolen goods, boy. So whatever you’s thinking, better get rid of it. You can’t keep her.”

I polish off the beer and crumple the can in my palm. “Fuck off, would you, Earl?”

“Ah, don’t go gettin’ your panties in a bunch.”

I don’t even look at him when I walk out of the kitchen and up to my room, slamming the door closed behind me. I pace. I pop my neck. And when that does nothing to ease the tension, I slam my fist through the wall like a fucking teenager. This is not fucking fair. It’s not right. Honestly, I don’t think I can let her go. How in the actual fuck am I supposed to break
her
, have
her
tell me she loves me, and then give her to another man when I can only see her as mine?

I take a seat at the desk and turn my MacBook on. This has become habit, reading the news every night, checking her Facebook to see what people are saying. Everyone is looking for her. She is not a prostitute or criminal; she is not one of the easily forgotten, as are the other women that have come through here. And the repercussions of this will be severe.

Trust me, I’ve thought about possibly taking her and running, just leaving in the middle of the night…but if I
set foot
out of this fucking place with her and I’ll be in jail, or fucking dead, within a matter of hours.

I read article after article. The fact that they have no leads, well, it does settle my nerves a touch, and just when I think maybe I can let her go, I read an interview with her piece of shit brother.

My sister, Ava, was the most important person in my life. She was so happy and vibrant, bringing life to all of those around her. Whoever took her has no idea what they have done to our family. All I can ask is that they bring her back. That is all we want, to find her alive and safe.

Lying motherfucker! I shove away from the desk, gripping the edge with my hands. My eyes land on the nightstand, and I nearly knock the chair over when I stand to make my way to it. I yank open the top drawer and grab my gun, pulling the slide back to make sure it’s loaded. Tucking it inside the waist of my jeans, I leave. I get in my car and I leave, making the two-and-a-half-hour drive to Birmingham, Alabama.

Some people don’t deserve to fucking live—to breathe my goddamn air. And Brandon Donovan is one fuck that I’ll gladly watch draw his last breath.

E
very day
when Max comes in, he tells me what day it is. Today is day 59. The days and nights blur together… Actually, I don’t even know what those things are any longer. I sleep when I am tired. I pace when I am awake and alone. But when Earl is gone, Max takes me upstairs. He’ll take me for walks through the fields, only if it’s night though, and we talk. It’s almost like we’re in a relationship—a twisted, messed up relationship, but he cares for me. I know he does and in a world such as this, labels do not exist. Friend or foe? None of that exists because he is all I have, and when all you have is one person, well, there is no need for definition.

More often than not, I find myself fantasizing that one day he will fuck me. It sounds crazy, but he goes out of his way to make me comfortable, to spend time with me, and there’s something in his eyes when he looks at me that makes me believe—I’m not even sure—maybe this is love... As fucked up as that is, there is something deep and electric, like a pull, between us. That sounds so stupid, doesn’t it? Murder. That is what our connection is—our fathers. And what a connection to have, one of hatred…

I lie here for the hours I’m alone and think that maybe this is fate. Maybe he is my person and the only way we would find each other is through this nightmare. Because then this is all worth it, right? Love. Something that is worth any cost, any sacrifice?

I play out the scenarios of how I can save him, how maybe I’m the girl who will ignite the conscious I know lurks somewhere deep within him and then he’ll save me. And even though he’s a bad person, even though he has done me wrong by keeping me here…it is, after all, only a job. He’s following the rules, and if I am the one who makes him break those rules—well, isn’t that the type of thing romance stories are based on? Isn’t that what every woman dreams of? Having her love be something so special and pure that it can turn a beast into a man?

I close the book and toss it to the floor before flopping back onto the bed. There’s an
actual
bed in here with a pretty lavender comforter and fluffy pillows. There’s a ceiling fan and a closet, a dresser with a mirror, a bookshelf. Every week he brings me more books. The last one I read was
Dark Places
by Gillian Flynn. He said it was one of his favorites, so of course, I devoured it. There is so much you can tell about a person by the types of books they read. I wonder why he likes it so much, is it the murder, the shitty upbringing, the abuse? I desperately want to know what happened that led him to where he is in life—what made him like to kill. Men who are as cold as he should be, you see it in their eyes, there is an emptiness that tells you they will snuff your life out in an instant. But Max’s eyes, while they are cold, and black, and
pretend
to be empty, there is a flicker of something I believe only I can see. A brief flare up of life and loss and love that I think is quickly dying out.

And I want to be the one to understand him.

I want to love him because I think that is all he really needs. Someone to actually, honestly understand and love him.

A few days ago, he gave me an old radio clock so I wouldn’t have to sit in silence anymore. I didn’t bother to ask him the time. To be honest, I’d rather keep the concept of time as one of those things I really have no notion of. I don’t know why, but just being able to watch the time tick by—I think that would push me over the edge. There’s some pop rock song playing loud enough that I barely hear the knock on the door.

I smile when I see Max step into the room. “Bought you something,” he says, holding up a book written by two authors I’ve never heard of
.
I clap my hands before holding them out. He places the paperback in my hand and I immediately flip it over, reading the synopsis to
Wicked Little Words
.

“Thank you,” I gush as I thumb through the pages, breathing in the smell of the fresh ink.

“Yep, sounded like something you’d like. Absolutely fucked up and sick,” he says with a laugh as he sits on the edge of the bed.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“Because I care for you.”

“No, Max. Why are you here in your life? What made you do this—Earl, Bubba…
why
are you helping them?” He won’t look at me, so I gently take his chin in my hands, much like he has done to me time and time again, and I lift his face. “Look at me,” I whisper. “I want to know who you are, why you are the way you are. I want to understand you.”

His brow creases for a brief second, his eyes narrowing. “I know nothing else.”

I feel a soft smile shape my lips. “Your eyes say differently.”

He glares at me, and I am uncertain whether it’s anger or confusion or something else entirely, but he’s thinking.

“When you fail those you love time and time again,” he says, taking a breath. “When shit like this runs through your blood like a goddamn virus, you have no choice. Sometimes good intentions are laced with pure evil.”

“You and your riddles.”

“I have my reasons, Ava. But even at that, even without Earl and all this shit, I was fucked up long before that. I told you the truth already, I like to kill, and what kind of fucking person enjoys that shit?”

Goosebumps prick their way over my arms like needles. This man is a murderer. He’s confessed twice that he enjoys taking people’s lives, which should make me hate him, but it doesn’t. “But you kill bad people, right?”

“Yes.”

“People that hurt other people?”

“Yes.” His eyes are locked on mine and I take his hand, bringing it to my lips and kissing it so tenderly.

“Then your heart is in the right place.” And I know how twisted that sounds, but I do believe it. We all have different convictions, and who am I to judge his? In a world like this, a person’s conscience changes. Right and wrong are not weighted by conventional measures. “You just need someone who understands it,” I whisper.

“You…” He starts to reach for me but stops, leaning over his knees and scratching his fingers through his thick hair.

“What’s wrong?” I scoot toward him and gently scratch my nails over his broad back.

“Nothing.” He yanks away from my touch. “Nothing,” he repeats, his tone growing agitated as he stands and paces the length of the room, stopping to lean against the far wall.

“Max…” Fear strikes my chest. What if Earl has told him he has to kill me, what if I am no longer an asset to them? My heart hammers in my temples, adrenaline jolting through my body.

He looks at me, his brow furrowed. “How do you feel… I need to know how you feel about…” Shaking his head, he trails off. I notice him swallow

The upbeat song on the radio fades out, and then the song “Unsteady” begins playing. An orchestra plays in the background. The pulsing sound of the strings and that man’s voice change the mood to something somber, regretful, grief-stricken—lost. The air grows tense. Max bites down on his lip, shakes his head once more, then crosses the room with determined strides. His stare pins me in place. The intensity burning behind his eyes causes my skin to prickle and my heart to leap to my throat. Dragging one hand through his thick hair, his brow creases into a torn expression as he closes in on me.

This is it. He’s going to kill me. To this song. In this room with his bare hands. And I thought I loved him…

I scoot across the bed until my back hits the wall and I swallow. Max stops in front of me, his eyes locked with mine. His gaze drops to my mouth and he closes his eyes on a groan. He grabs my face. His fingers scratch up into my hair, his palm resting over my cheek. Slowly, he tugs my face toward his until his mouth is merely inches from mine.

No words are spoken, they don’t need to be.

This is wrong. There’s something about him I know shouldn’t be humanly possible, yet there it is. Those dark eyes of his keep jumping from my eyes to my mouth, and when he leans in so slowly, my heart bangs against my ribs. The chorus of that song blares over the radio and this is one of those moments you know you will recall on your death bed. A pivotal moment where every single unlived breath of your life hangs in the balance.

“I shouldn’t want you like this,” Max whispers over my lips, the heat from his breath forcing chill bumps to sweep over my skin. My eyes slam closed as another long breath transfers from his mouth to mine. “Tell me no,” he says, his lips barely brushing against mine.

I swallow just as his warm lips crush over mine. He climbs onto the bed, his hands still gripping my face as he deepens the kiss. And this kiss, although it’s gentle, it is somehow still brutal and raw and hard. The weight of the situation is evident with each touch, every breath, but within that is a beauty so profound, words would never do it justice. Pausing, Max groans. His fingers twist my hair as his tongue teases my lips. I savor the soft feel of his mouth like a morsel tossed to a peasant. I relish in this because it is something I have longed for, no matter how wrong or perverse. I have wanted this from him for so long. This kiss grants me a type of validation. Somehow, among the dark depths of this nightmare, I’ve found some fucked up version of love—and I believe it’s the only love language I will ever understand. I’ve given myself over to a devil, and God help me, all of the misery has been worth it for this very fucking moment.

Max rests his forehead against mine, his thumb caressing my jaw. “I can’t help it,” he breathes over my mouth. “No man could…”

And our lips join once again. I feel every piece of me begin to melt, and internally I scream at myself to snap out of it, but Max—everything he is, the parts of him he believes are ruined, tainted, the way he’s touching me like I am everything at this moment—well, I just can’t stop it. He is
right
.
We
are right, and sometimes, yes, sometimes, maybe fate has to fuck up every last thing in your life to put you where you belong because this
is
where I belong. I feel it in my heart even though my mind wants to deny it.

Max’s hands slide down my neck, my shoulders, my sides. He grabs me by the waist, his lips still pressed hard over mine. His fingers flinch into my sides and he groans before he tears his mouth from mine.

“Don’t stop,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around his neck.

Another kiss and our hands are all over each other, but just as my fingers graze the waist of his jeans, he tears away from me to stand, bowing his head and pacing. I push up from the bed and stare at him.

“I can’t,” he pauses and locks eyes with me. “Ava, I can’t…” he says, grabbing me and throwing me against the wall while kissing me like I’m his very fucking breath.

The air surrounding us is thick with primal energy—brutal want and passion. His hands roam over me. My fingers dig into his huge biceps. He owns parts of me he shouldn’t and I am fairly certain he knows.

Growling, Max fists my hair before pulling away once again. “What do you want from me?”

I want to shout: “For you to love me”, but I can’t say that. I am fully aware I am in love with a very bad man, that I have betrayed myself, and when you betray yourself you are truly lost. So, instead, I whisper, “Nothing.”

“Do me a favor, Ava.” He presses a finger over my lips and that intensity in his eyes morphs to worry. “If I ever ask you what you feel for me, just don’t tell me. Don’t
ever
tell me.”

And with that he turns and exits the room, leaving me undone and terrified that the only man my heart is capable of feeling this way about is the grim reaper himself. And even though I’m well aware I’m longing for the very thing I know may one day take my life, I can’t help it. All my heart keeps telling me is that some things are worth the risk, because without certain things you’re often better off dead anyway.