Love on the Rise: Book Two of The Against All Odds Series

by Gemini Jensen

  My fault she was angry.

  My fault she was disappointed.

  She probably wouldn’t have been so outraged had she not found out I was involved, that I was working for the man she calls her uncle. She would have been more open to moving had she not realized that I was the one pushing for her to be uprooted and change cities for the umpteenth time in her short life.

  I knew this would happen one day, but it was impossible to grasp the complete concept of what a massive fuck-up would result in the process. If she weren’t hurt by my actions, she may have been paying attention. She may have escaped unscathed. I’ll be the one to hold myself accountable if my actions have caused the world to lose her for good. I’ll be the best judge, jury, and executioner possible, if that’s the case.

  Pulling out V's phone I call Jameson to deliver the news. After minutes of trying in vain to zoom in on the license plate, and realizing it’s impossible, I grab the footage and bring it along with me.

  I won’t sleep until she’s safe and in my arms.

  I won’t accept the fact that one of the last times I ever laid eyes on her, I chose not to answer her when she asked if I still loved her.

  I’ll shout the answer from the rooftops, tattoo the answer on my skin and wear it proudly. Whatever the fuck she wants.

  Yes. Always. Unwaveringly. Forever.

  ~Xoxo~

  The drink machine hums, then spits out a can of tomato juice. I’m hungry, desperate, and on the verge of losing hope. I’m damn near about to go crazy, ready to start busting down doors. Since I refuse to stop, even to refuel my body, this can of juice will have to tide me over for a while.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket and I answer it automatically. “Yeah.” I deadpan, my voice sounding as defeated as I feel.

  “We lost sight of them when I was perusing other feeds. They entered the freeway and could have gone anywhere,” Jameson’s voice mirrors mine.

  I sigh, taking a gulp of juice and heading up the stairs to her apartment.

  “We’ll meet you at her place. We’ll formulate a plan there,” he states. The line goes dead in my ear before I even respond.

  When I reach her apartment, 3E, I realize I don’t have a key, which has me considering busting down the door. Not giving two fucks, my contemplating doesn’t last very long before it turns into action. I kick it open just the right way, with just the right pressure, so that all the damage to the doorframe is visible only from inside the apartment. Slipping inside, I close the door and grab the nearest packed bag of hers to place in front of it.

  I didn’t realize something as little as seeing packed bags by the door could make me hurt any more than I already do, but it does. They lay there taunting me, pointing out the fact she never came back to make good on her threat of unpacking everything.

  Making my way into her tiny bathroom, I see a few beauty products still strewn about the counter, apparently the last things she intended to pack. My hands seek the purple bottle of perfume. Uncapping it, I lift the nozzle up to my nose and sniff. She only wears this stuff when she’s getting really dressed up. She wore it on the night of the charity event, and she even wore it the night of prom.

  Her silvery gray eyes flash through my mind, along with a thousand different times I’ve stared into them. The first time I ever saw her; the time we had our stare-down in the middle of prayer; all the subtle glances when no one else was paying attention; the time she stopped dead in her tracks looking like she’d seen a ghost at the charity event months ago.

  Then I imagine how scared she must be right now. If she’s still alive, a nagging voice in my head reminds me as it attempts to poison all my hope. Instead, all I see is a world in red and black.

  Everything on the countertop goes crashing to the ground. I throw anything I can get my hands on. When there’s nothing left to throw, I resort to kicking shit, starting with the nearby trashcan.

  “Gray.”

  It isn’t until I hear Jameson calling my name that I come to my senses. I didn’t even notice him enter.

  Scrubbing my hands down my face, I say, “Give me a minute.”

  I bend down and clean up my mess, placing everything back on the counter before scooping all the trash into the can.

  But my hands pause on a box, a pink and purple box. Then my eyes land on the word pregnancy in big, bold writing. I spot the used test laying on the ground nearby, and pick it up, noting the two pink stripes. Double-checking the instructions, I confirm what the two lines indicate: Pregnant.

  My heart lodges in my throat.

  So, Valley is pregnant and she knows it.

  Is that why she wanted to speak to me in private? To tell me in person, and to let me know we could never be together? Is Pierce the father? Maybe she wanted to tell me she’d found someone else entirely? Now it makes sense, the reason she shut me down today the one time I tried to show her affection.

  She can tell me whatever she wants to; she can walk out of my life for good, but it’s going to be when she’s safe. Putting everything back in the trash, except the two items I’m holding in my hand, I walk back out into the kitchen, shoving the test at Althia.

  “Looks like you’re going to be a grandmother,” I grumble, still in shock.

  Althia just stands there staring at the two items, making no other sounds besides sniffling.

  I almost get carried away with dwelling on the fact that the one person I would ever consider having a kid with, is now having a kid with someone else. But her safety is more important than my hurt feelings.

  Looking directly at Jameson, I ask, “So, how are we going to get her back?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Valley

  THROBBING SLICES THROUGH my skull eliciting a hoarse groan. It hurts so much, I’m afraid to even open my eyes, fearful that bright light will only strengthen it more. Migraines are something I’ve dealt with before, but this type of pain supersedes all others. Disorientation wraps around me like thick tentacles, holding me hostage in my state of confusion for what feels like an eternity.

  When I finally work up the courage to peel my lashes apart, I’m comforted for a small moment. All I see is black. But relief suddenly morphs into trepidation, because all I see is black—not black like in the middle of the night, black like there’s no light streaming in anywhere. Where am I? I can’t ever recall a time I’ve been in the position I’m in now, and while I can’t remember much at the moment, my intuition is screaming something isn’t right. Thoughts of being buried alive—entombed in a sarcophagus—make an unwelcome appearance causing panic to rip through me. My heartbeat hammers out a precipitous beat; a perfect match to the pounding inside my head.

  My arm consists of pins and needles underneath me, having gone to sleep at some point. I shift around, trying to both expel the tingling sensation while getting a better feel for my surroundings. I’m unable to move more than a few inches. It’s like my feet and hands are bound. At this point I open my mouth to call out to someone for help, but my lips are also fused together. The only noise produced from my body is a muffled, “Mmmmmm.” The only good thing about my attempt to move around, is the realization I’m on a cushioned surface, not unlike that of a bed. A sliver of my initial fear is chipped away just from being able to cross buried alive off my mental list of possible whereabouts. But that still leaves a million other possibilities.

  Trying to recall where I am and how I got in this predicament is about as useless as trying to see through muddy water. Right now, I’m counting my blessings that I can even breathe, even as a rancid, moldy scent settles into my nostrils. Scent isn’t the only sense I still have…my ears are still useful. Focusing now, I try to listen intently to my surroundings, to discover any little thing to clue me in as to where I am. At first, the only sound my ears can latch onto is the whooshing of my own blood, but after allowing for a small period of adjustment, I finally take notice of a few other noises. There’s a low hum, like some sort of appliance nearby. The drip, drip, drip c
oming from some water source. Finally, I come to the conclusion I’m inside somewhere. I strain my ears some more and swear I can make out the low and muffled tones of voices somewhere nearby but seeming to be separated by a wall between us.

  Suddenly, I’m not just scared but terrified down to my core. Not only for my life but for the one inside of me, the one I might not ever get to meet now. My chest is tight, making it hard to breathe, which in turn, causes even more lightheadedness. I try to ward off an anxiety attack, but all I can do is panic. It’s like I’m not in control of anything—my body, my situation, or my life in this moment.

  It seems like days of laying here, listening to the dripping water, the humming of what I imagine to be a refrigerator—particularly when my stomach begins to growl from a mixture of hunger and nausea. There’s no telling how much time has actually passed, but it’s long enough for my headache to dull, allowing me to remember bits and pieces of the last few days.

  The details start off hazy and slowly become clearer. The baby is the first thing I remember, my maternal instinct coming out front and center above all else. Next, I remember seeing Uncle Jameson’s face for the first time since I was a little girl. I remember Gray showing up out of nowhere. I recall an argument, although I don’t remember everything that was said. I remember busting open the doors, storming across a parking lot, and arriving at my car. And then…that’s it.

  Lord, help me. Someone must have grabbed me when I was distracted.

  There’s only one person who’d go to these measures. That means I’m completely at another person’s mercy, and mercy isn’t a word that’s in his dictionary. I don’t want to, but I will myself to close my eyes and drift off to sleep. I may be letting my guard down, but I’ll need whatever strength I can summon.

  ~XoXo~

  Cold water splashes over my face, and someone’s bony fingers work to slide the cloth away that’s currently wrapped tightly over my eyes. The flickering of the single dim light overhead clues me in on the bulb’s age. I, however, feel like I’m staring straight at the sun after being handicapped of my sight for so long and everything is distorted.

  The tape around my mouth rips away—and let me just acknowledge the concept of ripping off a band-aid all at once to ensure the least amount of pain is a joke when used on duct tape philosophies. I swear the whole top two layers of skin stick to the adhesive and go with it.

  Next comes a voice that haunts me in my dreams—an eerily sinister voice—one I once fancied as a young child as belonging to a Disney villain.

  “Valentina, it’s been too long.” Dominic Malone’s voice cuts through the shadows, grating on my ears.

  I can’t help but roll my eyes. What kind of opener is that? He’s a moron of the highest caliber, even if he is richer than should be allowed, and even if he is my biological father. I certainly didn’t get my brains or my looks, for that matter, from him. Why Mom always insisted I looked the most like my father, I’ll never understand.

  What an insult.

  I fight the urge to sing “I gets it from my mama,” but even I know that right now isn’t the time for joking around. My situation is dire to say the least.

  “Dominic,” I respond, for the first time in my life. As a girl, I always referred to him as ‘father’ even if he never deigned to act like one.

  He laughs darkly in response like he’s thinking just the same thing.

  “So, in your years of absence, did you finally discover the truth?” he asks, stepping out of the darkness and under the light. The shadows fall across his face at an angle and I shudder.

  “The truth? I discovered nothing I didn’t already know, even as a child. That you were a sorry excuse for a husband, and that you have no love or loyalty even for your supposed loved ones,” I spit out the last few words disdainfully.

  He’s a sorry excuse for a man if there ever was one. I pray to God no one is higher on the list of examples. If there’s somebody worse than him, there’s no hope for humanity.

  “Hm,” he sounds amused. “You’re wrong. My supposed loved ones have no love or loyalty for me.”

  Another man, probably one of his cronies, appears behind him and walks over to me. I eye him warily as he approaches to help me to my feet. He jerks me up by one shoulder and ushers me across the room only to bring me closer to Dominic. The man who had peeled away my eye-covering—whom I had stupidly forgotten about until this point—slides an old, wooden chair over to the center of the room. The squawking and shrieking of wood against the smooth, concrete flooring makes my teeth grind together.

  One of the dickweeds—I’m not really paying attention at this point from studying Dominic, checking to see if I see any signs of a weapon—shoves me into the chair. Each one takes an arm, and even when I jerk and writhe, I’m too weak to slip out of their grasp.

  My wrists come together behind my back, the clicking of a thick zip-tie sliding in place so tightly, I’m sure the hard plastic is going to slice through my skin. The two men work wordlessly, as if they’ve done this a thousand times and anticipate exactly what their superior expects from them. My stomach flips as I acknowledge they probably have, in fact, done this a thousand times. I’m now a statistic, and the odds aren’t in my favor.

  “Don’t worry, little dove,”— What the fuck? Why is he giving me a pet name? He sure as hell didn’t when I actually wanted to hear one—“I’m not going to kill you. Not just yet. First, I’m going to finally perform the DNA test I was trying to have just before my beloved wife ran away with you. If you’re mine, we’ll make up for lost time. If you’re not mine, I have no use for you,” he states like it’s the most natural conclusion in the world.

  I glare at him now, grinding my wrists together foolishly as if my bindings might somehow loosen, completely desperate to claw his eyeballs out. Realizing it’s no use, I slump forward. Somehow, the distant acknowledgment of a defensive strategy I once heard about comes zipping into my head.

  Stall. Keep them talking. Buy as much time as possible.

  “How exactly did you find me? Out of curiosity. And what to do you mean DNA test?” my voice sounds like sandpaper, raspy and dry.

  I need water…

  “I found you because I came to be suspicious of how close my dimwitted brother, Jameson, and that hillbilly hick, Gray, were becoming. Gray was suddenly Jameson’s side-kick everywhere he went. Like a modern-day bromance that I sure as fuck didn’t understand…”

  “Aw, and did you get jealous? Your brother spending time with someone else and pairing off?” I egg him on. It’s stupid, I know, but I hate this man standing in front of me too much not to.

  He shoots me a narrow look, his black eyes glistening like some demonic apparition has possessed him.

  Someone grabs my hair from behind, jerking so hard I think my neck might snap and I’m now staring at the discolored ceiling tiles blotched with water stains. No wonder the room smells so putrid.

  Finally, one of the two dipshits speaks for the first time, his accent thick like a Bostonian or some city-dweller, saying “When the boss is speaking you’ll show some respect, or I’ll beat it into you.” His eyes are wild as he stares down at me, and even in the darkened room, I can tell his pupils are dilated.

  Swallowing, I snap my mouth shut instead of arguing. Seemingly satisfied by my compliance, he begins to step away but instead of simply releasing my hair, he shoves my whole head forward.

  “Now, that we’ve got that settled, I’ll continue. I put a tracker in Gray’s car before he and Jameson left on another one of their frequent business trips. All these years I had thought my brother had some secret mistress somewhere so I overlooked it up until Gray started traveling more with him and I realized that assumption was no longer plausible. As for the DNA test… I’m now positive that was what pushed your mother to run away. I’ve had years to think about it, and I know she was miserable here, still don’t care about that. Something drove her to suddenly decide to uproot the daughter she loves so much and dis
appear.”

  He snaps his fingers, signaling for his cohorts.

  I hear the rustling behind me, but even as I turn my head in an attempt to get a glimpse behind me, I can’t tell what’s going on.

  One of the men comes around in front of me, holding something in his gloved hand, but hiding it.

  “Open your mouth,” he orders.

  I grind my teeth together, not even opening it to decline.

  “I said open your mouth, bitch,” he growls.

  I glare at him—at this particular sentiment, taking note that it’s the drugged up henchman.

  “Last chance. You can either open up or I can knock you the fuck out and do it the hard way,” then he leans down to whisper, “and a word to the wise. I can’t be held accountable for what happens to that pretty mouth of yours when you’re out cold.”

  My nose scrunches as he breathes in my face, the smell of alcohol making me want to vomit.

  Note to self: If I make it out of here alive, alcohol is one of the nausea triggers in this pregnancy.

  When I glance at his palm again, seeing he’s just holding a cotton swab, I finally do what he’s asked. I’d rather avoid being cracked over the top of the head again. The headache from the first time still hasn’t subsided.

  He swirls the swab in my cheek for several seconds, taking it out and placing it inside a test tube.

  “That wasn’t hard, was it? Do what you’re told and we might even feed you while you’re here.” He ruffles my hair playfully, although it feels anything but, then steps away.

  My eyes land on Dominic again as he begins rubbing his hands together in anticipation and grinning like a freak. “Alright. Now we’ll finally answer the decade old question. Is she, or isn’t she, my daughter? Guess we’ll see. If not,” he takes his finger, slicing it across his neck like a knife, “you’re out. But don’t worry. I might not kill you straight away…I might just let you stay alive longer to send your Mom a few little videos of your stay here. Make her think there’s actually a chance at getting you back before I send you back to her in multiple packages for her to piece back together.”