Kindness is foreign to me. Survival doesn’t always breed gentleness and compassion.
“Let us get this roll inside,” Son says.
I purse my lips. “I need the carpet,” I remind him softly.
He nods to the van and opens the truck door. “There’s more in here. Hop on in.”
Relieved, I do as I’m told and find three additional rolls of carpet. I choose the smallest one as a thought occurs to me. If I don’t make some type of hole in the thing, I might smother.
I’ve come this far, I can’t fucking croak now.
A few minutes pass by before father and son open the back doors and lean in.
“I guess you expecting us to roll you up in one of these rugs?” Son says.
I nod. “I need ventilation, though.”
They exchange glances.
“You want holes in a perfectly good piece of carpet?” Daddy asks.
I start to cry again. “It’s the only way.” Covering my face, I realize I need to alter my plan. “Please?” I sob from behind my hands. “That’s what I was going to do and Sloane promised to reimburse me for the cost. I swear if you make holes in it, they’ll repay you. Just tell them Georgie Mason promised to pay on arrival.”
God, I hope she’d do something like that.
“All right,” one of them capitulates. “Let’s get this done.”
Dropping my hands, I swipe at my almost-dry cheeks and scoot back. They use carpet cutter and precious time to hole-up the bright orange carpet. It’s the ugliest color I’ve ever seen. Blegh.
“We’ll drive a bit,” Daddy starts, “to give you some privacy to fix yourself up however you need to be.”
Naked.
His face reddens, as if I spoke the word aloud. “You can pull a piece of the carpet over you to preserve your modesty, then we’ll stop and roll you up in it.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, a little touched at his consideration.
The doors slam shut and, a moment later, the van rocks into motion. I hurry and remove my clothes, making sure to get the diner key from my pocket, then lay on the carpet and roll a piece over me.
That new, weird nylon-y smell hits me. The fiber tickles my nose and it twitches. I scoot up, allowing my head to stick out for as long as possible.
It surprises me, but it isn’t long before Daddy and Son are opening the door and carefully rolling me into the carpet.
“You okay down in there?” one of them calls.
“Fine,” I return in a muffled voice.
They don’t answer, but the doors slam shut and the van soon starts rolling again. When they stop, I listen. However, I can’t hear much. I think they’re at the gate of Sloane Mason’s mansion.
My heart begins to pound. Suppose the ruse doesn’t work? Suppose no one’s home? Suppose the cops are called?
Heat flushes through my body and nausea hits me, hard. The key I’ve clenched in my hand cools my sweaty palm. I’m scared. I’m scared for my brother and I’m scared for these nice, kind men who believed me and offered me a hand.
What will I do if I repay them by getting them arrested?
The van starts up again and the tension deflates from my body. We’re going forward, not backing up. I think. Or is my sense of direction fucked up because I’m wrapped in hot-ass, scratchy carpet?
Without warning, me and the carpet are being dragged out. Then…I’m being carried.
We stop. Moments pass. I chew on my lip and get a piece of carpet in my mouth.
I hear voices, indistinguishable words. All the pitfalls of my ploy hit me hard.
I might get inside and then the carpet is tossed aside somewhere, leaving me to struggle for escape. And breath. And food.
And having a place to pee.
The nice father and son might discover I’ve been lying, take me away, and toss me in a river to drown.
I might…
I’m moving again. My ears perk. I hear…voices. Four or five male voices. I hear…a door closing.
A little bit of light shines through a few of the holes.
“What the fuck is Georgie thinking?”
Oh my God! That’s Kiln’s voice. Definitely.
“Who the fuck buys a carpet full of holes?” he grumbles.
“What is this?” another man asks.
“What does it look like, asshole? Carpeting. Georgie ordered it.”
“For where?”
“Fuck if I know, Jaeger,” Kiln snaps. “Sloane lets her waste his fucking money. For all I know, it’s to put in her playroom.”
“Not fucking funny, Kiln. Get that burr out of your dick. Sloane will fuck you up again if you fuck with Georgie.”
“Or I might fuck him up.”
“I didn’t hear that.”
“Of course not. Help me throw this shit in the storage room, then get the fuck out of my face.”
Fuuucccckkkk.
This is not happening. No fucking way.
Seeing no other choice, I start to wiggle and moan.
Everything goes silent. I doubt they are breathing.
I move harder and groan louder.
The assholes drop me on the ground and jarring pain shoots up my side.
Before I catch my breath, I’m twisting and turning. Carpet abrades my skin. I squeak at the first roll my body does. End over end, I go. How fucking long is this carpet?
Cool air kisses half my body, then, I stop, flat on my back in the middle of a cold floor. I stare at the high ceiling, blinking. My blood pumps with adrenaline. Breath puffs out in short pants.
I stretch my toes, enjoying the freedom of moving my limbs. The hand holding the key flexes. Relief flows through me at the feel of the metal in my hand.
Above me, muscular legs appear in my line of vision. A man’s face comes into view. He has a bald head, a strong jaw, fine cheekbones and a pair of amazing blue-green eyes that instantly light with recognition.
“What the fuck?” the other voice I heard yells now.
Kiln sweeps my naked body with a gaze. It’s personal and lewd, and it sets my blood on fire. Then, his eyes narrow and I know I have to talk fast or all my hard work will have been for nothing.
Chapter Six
Drowned Rat Girl.
I recognize her the moment she acts like Cleopatra-come-to-life and rolls the fuck out of the carpet. I can’t believe I fell for the tactic of those two delivery men. Not only did they deliver her but they ripped me off for a grand.
Narrowing my eyes, I dig in my pocket for the delivery receipt. Georgie’s full name and this address is scribbled in the appropriate slots. COD is handwritten in huge letters. Information about the carpet jumps out at me. There’s no stock number. No price per square yard or per square foot. No reason why the carpet is filled with fucking holes.
What I do see is one thousand dollars cash on delivery mocking me. I’m so fucking annoyed with everything buzzing in my head about my mother, my father, and Sloane, until I’ve dropped the ball.
Fuck, if Sloane were here he’d have my ass. Either tell me to pack the fuck up or try to beat the living fuck out of me. I’d probably help him kick my own ass. This is unacceptable.
I glare down at Drowned Rat Girl. Still flat on her back, she’s staring at me, waiting, licking her lips. Calculating.
She’s lucky I’m not packing heat. If Sloane and Georgie were here, I would’ve been, and her ass would’ve gotten shot the fuck off the moment that piece of carpeting started wiggling like a giant worm from outerspace.
My gaze drops to her tits. They’re round and delectable, with tight, little nipples and peachy areolas. Her waist is trim, her hips curved, and her pussy hairy. I prefer shaved cunts. She’s smudged with dirt and her hair is a mass of reddish brown curls, matted in some places.
Her brown eyes measure me, while she calculates the best way to fuck over me. I should fuck her, then throw her out.
Except she smells like fucking garbage and patches of skin are rubbed red from the carpet. Beside
s, a girl who went through this much trouble to get into this house didn’t do it for me.
She’s a Sloane-groupie. She’s not here to fuck me, but backstabbing, disloyal King Sloane.
I crouch down and offer a cool smile. “You’re pathetic, sweetheart. I thought you had more self-worth than this when I met you.”
“You know her?” Jaeger questions.
Jaeger has Mother’s red hair and Dad’s spinelessness. Sloane and I are fighters. In a fight-or-flight situation, we’d fucking fight to the death. Jaeger would piss on himself or take flight. He doesn’t know who the fuck this girl is. She could be here to fuck all of us up. Yet, he’s frozen.
“Yep, I know her,” I tell my big brother, without looking away from her. Her face is fucking dirty. But fuck if she isn’t still so fucking lovely. Her face almost captivates me.
Her lower lip trembles and tears rush to one eye.
Oh, she’s good. A fucking con artist from her heart. Many cocksuckers must fall for her bullshit. They haven’t learned to mistrust women. They see her gorgeous face, dirty or not, and big, brown eyes, and fall for her tactics.
“Let me explain,” she blurts.
I’m disappointed. She’s the most resourceful little creature I’ve come across in a while. I expected more from her than an offer to clarify her appearance. She’s been silent all this time, just to come up with that boring shit?
The moment my eyes narrowed, panic crossed her face. At the very least, she could offer me the promise of a good fuck, or suck, if I allow her to wait here.
She threw triteness at me. I’ll volley with directness.
“Save it. Sloane isn’t here, and you owe me a thousand bucks. Cough it up or I’m calling the police and having you arrested for trespassing, then I’m sending them to that rat-trap to have the motherfucker from last night arrested as well. Or, maybe, I’ll send in some people to permanently put him out of his misery.”
She sits up and her tits jiggle. My cock twitches.
Tears rush to the other eye. This time, she’s really about to cry.
Sucking in a deep breath, she grabs my wrist. “I’m not here for Sloane,” she tells me, lowering her lashes. Although her nose is red, she doesn’t allow one tear to fall. “I’m here for you. I didn’t know how else to get in, since you didn’t leave me a phone number.”
Yanking my wrist out of her grasp, I stand, throw my head back, and laugh. “That should’ve given you a fucking hint. I’m not interested.”
Her shoulders straighten. Throwing me a sour look, she stands. In her bare feet, she reaches my chin. Jaeger gives the back of her a sweeping glance. He lingers on her ass and lust gleams in his eyes.
“She’s all yours,” I tell him, then start around her. “For the right price.”
As I brush past Jaeger, intent on going to my room, she makes a noise of frustration.
“Kiln, wait,” she calls.
Before I know it, she’s in front of me, blocking my pathway with her grimy little body. “Move,” I order.
“I’m here for your pleasure,” she says quickly.
I settle my hands on her hips and frown at her rank scent. “You’re annoying me. Besides stinking to high heaven, I’ll never find pleasure if all you are is a bother.”
That isn’t quite true. After she cleaned herself up, I’m sure I could lose myself in her. Since Dietrech fucked me over, I haven’t concerned myself with giving pleasure. I’m all about receiving it. If a woman gets off, either I’m in a generous mood or it’s easy for her to come.
“Kiln, if she went through this much trouble…”
I scowl over my shoulder and Jaeger’s voice trails off.
Before I say anything else, Drowned Rat Girl cranes her neck and her eyes widen as she takes in the house. For a moment, she forgets my presence and makes a slow, three-hundred-sixty-degree turn, pausing at a huge photo of Sloane and Georgie.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, awed, then raises her gaze to me and shifts her weight. A sudden air of softness overcomes her face. “Wh-what time is it?”
“Time for you to leave,” I tell her without remorse.
Her mouth purses, drawing my attention to her pink lips.
She notices where my focus has strayed and her vulnerability vanishes. The scheming vixen returns. “My lips will feel soooo good wrapped around your cock.”
Her lips smack together. My dick jumps.
“How long have you been a whore?”
“Two years,” she says without a shred of remorse.
“That’s hard for me to believe.”
“I really don’t give a fuck what you believe,” she retorts. “It’s the truth.”
Enjoying her don’t-give-a-shit attitude, I fold my arms. “Tell me another truth.”
More lowering of her lashes.
I scowl at her. “No bullshit or I’m turning the fuck around and walking away.”
She huffs out a frustrated breath. “You really mean that, don’t you?”
“I don’t say what I don’t mean.”
“You’re such an asshole,” she cries in frustration.
“I’ve heard that before, so tell me something I don’t know or that I give a shit about.”
“Who fucked you over to make you such a dickhead?”
“The same motherfuckers who fucked you over to make you a con artist, a liar, and a prostitute.”
Her face flushes.
I’ve touched a nerve. “I’m giving you one more chance to give me another truth. Why did you go through all this trouble to see me? Certainly not for a fuck. Find your usual street corner for that.”
She opens her mouth.
“Let’s make this easy. What’s your name?”
“It’s Raine,” she answers, sullen.
“Real name or street name?”
“Real name.”
“Last name?”
She glares at me and clenches her jaw. I lift a brow at her.
“It’s Storm.”
“You’re very fucking funny,” I grit.
Her look wishes a violent death upon me.
“What do you want?” I demand, fed up.
“Hmmm, let’s see. A bath, some clothes, a hot meal, and a place to live. Can you help me with any of that? No? I didn’t think so.”
She hasn’t given me a chance to respond before she answers her own question.
“You don’t ask for much, do you?” I say dryly, then nod to the door. “Since I don’t believe you, and I gave you the chance to tell me the truth, get the fuck out.”
I head down the hall.
“No!” she yells. “Wait, please! Stop!”
I continue on, but she catches up to me and barrels in front of me, forcing me to halt. Again.
“Please. Listen to me. Please,” she repeats. “You fought my brother last night. And…and…please…” She swallows. “Chambers shot him and he’s going to die if I don’t come up with the money we owe. Please. Help me help my brother. He’s all I have.”
Her frantic tone catches my attention. I don’t quite believe her. She’s capitulated too easily. On the other hand, I doubt a girl like her would beg me for help. True, I don’t know her, but, from the little I’ve observed of her, she’s too stubborn to bow down.
“Why the fuck should your brother’s life matter to me?”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again, but finds no answer, so she shrugs. “He’s my brother.”
“First of all, doll, I give a fuck about that how?”
She bows her head. For some reason, I don’t like the aura of defeat that gesture implies, but I remain stoic.
“All right,” she whispers, then twists her fingers together and looks at me again. “I-I told Chambers I booked you for the evening and you’d give me the money to pay up. He gave me twenty-four hours to bring him what we owe. I estimate I have about three hours left to deliver the money to him or he’ll kill Montana.” She looks away. “If he isn’t already dead from his gunshot wounds.”
The fucked-up thing about women is that they lie with a straight face. They make you believe their world is coming to an end if you don’t swoop in and rescue them.
They’re connivers, the lot of them. Yet…yet…I hear her desperation.
I know despair. I’ve felt it more than anything, though I recognize Raine’s low spirits because I’ve seen my mother exhibit similar behavior. I haven’t always been the perfect son, but my mother gave birth to me and then raised me. I owe it to her to look after her. To have patience and understanding during her episodes.
Also, I’m an uncle. I adore Chance and Bryn. In them, I see what I could’ve been. A father.
Something else I’ve learned is kids require patience. This lesson didn’t come from my mother or from being an uncle, but from Georgiana. She’s completely devoted to her family…er, her children. She’s taught Sloane that plans change on a dime when you’re a parent. She knows how to have a routine for her children and still adapt to any new situation.
“Kiln?”
Raine’s voice seeps into my brain. I ball my fists at my sides, knowing Georgiana is on my mind because, thanks to me, she’ll be a very young widow. Her children, my niece and nephew, will be fatherless.
Why did Sloane put me in this predicament?
“Are you okay?” Raine asks.
I blink and remind myself she’s a liar.
Yet, a part of me—a big part of me—believes Raine, and I hate that. She’s given me absolutely no reason to trust her. She tried to con me yesterday. She and her cohorts ripped me off for a grand and she lied about her last name. Or, maybe, both names.
Raine Storm? Is she fucking kidding?
Still, my dumb ass sees what I perceive as fear and honesty. My dumb ass believes her. I can’t ignore her words. Maybe, it’s because of the empathy I’ve gained for my mother. Or because of the protectiveness I feel toward my niece and nephew. Raine isn’t a child, though. Not by any means.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
Suddenly, I recall her response to my earlier question. I absorb her requests. Is she homeless? Hungry?
“You’ve been living on the streets for two years?”
Phoenix Rising Rock Band: The Series Page 81