by Zoe Hill
“We have something much more valuable to barter now.” He sweeps his hand through my hair, allowing the strands to run through his fingers then fall back into place.
Bile bubbles in my throat when he refers to me as “something” and a degree of understanding builds in my mind. Various therapists I’ve seen have tried to explain how most abuse is perpetuated to make the abuser feel more powerful and not to satisfy depraved desires. I’ve never completely understood the concept until this second when I heard the gloating in Harrison’s pronouncement.
His motivation is power.
He’s like a vengeful toddler chucking a tantrum over another child’s toy… if someone else has something he doesn’t, then he seeks to break it.
“No!” Bella screams as she’s hauled over the shoulder of one of her captors. Her anguish hurts my heart. To stop myself from running after her, I keep my attention on the toe of Harrison’s shiny loafer, where it pokes out from under his pin-striped pants. When she shouts for me again, I close my eyes and hum to myself to block her out. “Poppy! For fuck sake, stand up and walk out of here. They can’t make you do this.”
My best friend doesn’t know that this exchange is a ruse to set a trap into place.
I can only pray that she’ll forgive me once this is over.
When Bella’s shouts are abruptly cut off, I turn to look behind me. Chester has his hand over her mouth and he’s carrying her out of the chapel. With her departure, the sound of people breathing is all I can hear. It’s a pensive type of silence.
I face Harrison, recoiling when I discover that he is peering down at me. Reading the hunger in his expression makes my heart skip a beat while the maniacal possession in his eyes sets the hair on the back of my neck on end.
“I understand why my nephew is so captivated by you,” he muses. My face bears the remnants of Seb’s attack, yet he doesn’t appear to see the damage. “It seems you somehow left my care with your innocence intact. Rectifying that will be my first point of order once we’re alone.”
A gagging sound comes from my mother’s direction. Looking over my shoulder, I try not to allow her to see the fear that is leaching the air from my lungs. My stoic mother retches again when Harrison strokes my cheek and Sophia puts her arm around her waist. The two mothers, the main masterminds behind this plan, lean on each other. The friendship they forged in the wake of mine and Spenser’s mistreatment becomes apparent to everyone…
Including the man, we’re trying to trap.
“Leave!” Harrison shouts. Without thinking, I jerk out of his reach when he tries to take hold of the front of my shirt. Grabbing for me again, he snags a handful of my hair and yanks me to my feet. He pulls me in front of him and presses the muzzle of his gun against my temple.
Backing up, he yells, “Get out of here or she’s dead.”
Hands in the air, the hastily assembled crew of bikers and hired mercenaries back out of the chapel. Two men take hold of Spenser’s unconscious form, one lifting his feet and the other hooking their arms beneath his armpits. They follow Harrison toward the back of the building while another two of Harrison’s men follow the people supposed to protect us out of the doors. Once the church is clear, they return and unclip the bolts holding the doors open. With a loud thud, the doors close and I’m left alone with Harrison Greaves for the first time in twenty years.
Panic rushes up my throat. I drop my weight to the ground. It hampers his escape for less than ten seconds before he twists the handful of hair he’s holding tighter and uses it to pull me downstairs. Once we’re on the basement level, we enter an underground tunnel, and a hatch-door is pulled shut over us. Before it becomes pitch-black, I see that Spenser is being carried along the passageway in front of us. He’s about ten feet ahead of me, but it feels like there is an ocean between us.
Torches are switched on half a minute later, and the darkness decreases. Once I locate Spenser again, I tilt my face toward the roof of the tunnel, and shout as loud as I can, “Help! Mom. Dad. Someone. Anyone.”
“Shut up,” Harrison screams in my face. Using the fingers he has tangled in my hair as leverage, he shakes me until my teeth snap together. “Do you think I’d be stupid enough to bring you somewhere they can follow?”
He shoves me into the arms of another man, then stomps to the front of the line. The longer we’re underground, the stronger my fear grows. Touching my belly ring through my top, I silently pray that we’ll make it back to the surface before the tracking beacon becomes too weak for Chase to track. Thankfully, it isn’t long until we stop walking, and another hatch is pushed open.
Harrison sends one of his men out first. After his man calls “all-clear,” we climb the stairs into the night. Three Escalades with blacked-out windows are waiting for us. Waves crash nearby, and I spin in a circle, trying to get a bearing on our location.
We’re at the beach.
There’s a lighthouse in the distance.
Looming over us is a familiar clifftop.
I know where we are.
Elmer’s Point.
I remember swimming here all the time during the four months I lived here as a kid. The beach was my second home. My refuge from the horror that stalked me at church. I would stay on the sand all day if I could. My brothers would torment me, dunking me in the water and running off with my towel when it got too cold to stay in the ocean, but putting up with their rowdy ways was better than staying at home.
While I always loved the sanctuary of the beach, it was the days when the nephews of the man making my life a misery would come over to play with us that I loved the most.
The dark-haired twins, one too talkative and one who barely spoke.
The quiet one would trail behind the other boys. Almost five years older than me, he was patient and kind, where the other boys were loud and unruly. He was the only one to take my hand to help me over the rocks we had to climb to get to the top of a small cliff we liked to jump off. I would prattle on about everything and anything, and he would add his thoughts in a hushed voice that made him seem like he was sad all the time.
It is that silent boy who gave me the courage to tell me parents what was being done to me.
That boy singlehandedly ended my torment with one solid piece of advice.
“Promise me, you’ll tell your parents, squirt,” I repeat his instruction out loud.
The instant connection I had with Spenser finally makes sense.
My soul recognized his immediately.
“Get in.”
A hand pushes the top of my head down and I’m thrust into the backseat of the closest Escalade. Spenser is lifted into the seat next to me. As he slumps over, I catch him and guide his heavy body to rest against mine. The back doors are slammed shut, trapping us inside. Spenser flinches at the sound. Checking his eyes to see if he’s still out of it, panic lodges in my throat when his eyelids begin to flutter.
Zoran’s warning pops back into my head, and I pray quickly that Spenser will fall back into unconsciousness. He’s going to lose it if he discovers that the plan has gone wrong.
Harrison climbs into the front passenger seat. He gestures at the driver. “What are you waiting for? Drive, goddamn it.”
The vehicle takes off. It spits up gravel, and the noise disguises the sound of Spenser regaining consciousness. As we take a corner too fast, his head lolls on my shoulder. I do my best to steady him as I fight to keep my own balance. We clash heads and Spenser grunts. Holding my breath, I examine the front of the vehicle to see if they heard him. Thankfully, Harrison is too busy clutching at the dash to hold himself upright as the driving becomes more erratic.
I allow myself a small sigh of relief until I see the bandana-wearing driver looking back at me.
Our gazes meet.
He winks.
I gasp, then I grin and calm floods my veins.
I’d know those eyes anywhere.
Leaning forward, I accept the item that he tucks down the side of his seat and stash it next to my thigh.
The crazy driving continues, but this time it doesn’t worry me. I know that it’s just a decoy. After we round a particularly tight bend, Spenser sits up. A scowl mars his forehead and he rubs at a bruise on his cheek. He moves his jaw and touches the wound above his ear. I tense when the Escalade takes another wild turn, and it jolts Spenser all the way back to reality.
When he twists his body to look at me, I take hold of the “oh shit” handle with one hand and awkwardly wave at the dark-haired man staring at me with confusion all over his face with the other hand.
“Hey, Sabra. Long time; no see.”
TWENTY-FIVE
“Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end.” ~John Lennon~
SPENSER
When Poppy addresses me by the name I was known by as a boy, a bolt of joy hits me in the gut. She knows who I am. Pressing the bleeding wound above my ear, I hiss at the sting. My fingertips explore my scalp and I identify another bleeding bump toward the back of my head. Not content to hurt me once, Dad had to have his henchmen belt me over the head twice.
As fathers go, he’s a never-ending disappointment.
I keep my eyes on Poppy as I work back through my father’s ambush at the beach in my head and attempt to use that encounter to decipher the situation in which I’ve awakened. The sluggish way my mind responds, and the leaden feeling in my limbs leads me to believe he drugged me after he knocked me out.
Good ol’ Zoran.
He couldn’t ask for my help. He had to demand it.
Then to cap it off, he obviously fucked it all up.
His vow that this would end it all plays over and over and over in my head. If he was close by, I’d take out my frustrations on his face. Now that Stirling is covered in the Coalition’s filth, there’s nothing stopping me from rearranging my father’s facial features into something less like mine.
At least, then I’d be able to stomach what I see in the mirror a little better.
Having his eyes staring back at me all the time is beyond disconcerting.
“Are you okay?” Poppy asks when the SUV we’re traveling in straightens its trajectory for a moment.
“I think so.”
Taking hold of her hand, I allow the feeling of her skin, soft and warm, to soothe the rage that’s growing in the pit of my gut. Even from behind, I recognize the man in the front passenger. He’s hard to forget, considering he’s haunted my nightmares and poisoned every minute of my day for twenty-one years.
“Sabra?” Poppy nudges my arm with her shoulder. “We’re going to be all right.”
“How so?” She lifts her shirt and shows me her navel piercing. Arching an eyebrow, I remark, “So, that’s where they keep your tracker.”
Her eyebrows pinch together, but I’m unable to explain how I know about the tracking beacon because the Escalade pitches from side to side, and my uncle curses.
“Head for the main road,” he commands. “This is more like a goat track than a back road.”
“Sure thing, boss,” his driver replies.
As I tense up from the painful memories hearing my uncle’s voice invokes, Poppy takes hold of my chin and makes me face her. Before I can speak, she touches her fingertip to my forehead and drags her finger down between my eyebrows, over my nose and lips, down my chin, and under my jaw. Stopping when she reaches the notch between collar bones, she leans forward and presses her lips against mine.
“You remember?”
“I do.” Her lips curl into a brilliant smile. “I feel a bit stupid that it took me so long.”
“Tell me about it,” I admit with a wry grin. “It took the headache to end all headaches for the memories I was suppressing to barge their way back into my head. Hurt like a bitch, but it was worth it.”
“You saved me,” she sobs. Throwing her arms around my neck, Poppy clutches me to her. As her tears dampen the shoulder of my dusty Henley, I allow myself to forget the predicament we’re in so I can appreciate the feel of her body against mine. “I didn’t mean to forget you… it just hurt too much to think about everything that happened. Loving you became wrapped up in him—”
Silencing her apology with a kiss, I whisper, “Stop it. He doesn’t get to take anything else from us.”
Our moment is ruined when my uncle turns around to look at us. The moment I see his smarmy face, I’m sent spiraling back to my childhood. All the good flies out of my head and all I can remember is the bad. His hands reaching for me. Hurting me. Making me touch him in ways that made my belly feel funny. Forcing me to hide my crying when he pushed too hard. His weight pushing the air out of my lungs…
“Nephew,” the uncle from hell greets me. “You’re looking good.” He drags his vile gaze over Poppy and adds, “Both of you. It’s my favorite fantasy come to life seeing you two together.”
Caught between memories of the past and the need to protect my future, I lean forward to hide Poppy from his leering eyes and ball my hands into fists ready to pummel him into a pulp. I’m diverted from my plan when Poppy presses something hard against my back. The vehicle shimmies from side to side, and Harrison is tossed around in his seat. When he turns to the front and braces his hands against the dashboard, Poppy shifts over to her side of the vehicle and hands me something.
It’s a Glock-19. Propped and ready to fire. I haven’t a clue where she got it from, but I’ve never been happier to have a weapon in my hands.
“Do it,” Poppy whispers. “For both of us.”
As my uncle turns back around to face us, I lift the handgun and press the muzzle against the center of his forehead. The car straightens then slows down, and when Harrison’s eyes dart to the right to see why, a second muzzle is aimed at his temple.
“Stay very still,” the driver warns. “You so much as twitch a finger at my little sister and I’ll blow your brains out before he can touch the trigger.”
“This is... this is,” Harrison splutters.
“Unacceptable,” I reply as I squeeze the trigger and the back of his head explodes over the windshield.
I lower and pull Poppy into my arms. The tears that roll down her face don’t match her smile, but I figure she’s happy when she straddles my lap and pulls my mouth to hers.
Against her mouth, I murmur, “Everything about him was fucking unacceptable.”
Yanking the bandana from his face, the driver wipes his side of the windshield, then carefully pulls off to the side of the road. He switches off the engine and Poppy squeals excitedly. Despite the red-blond hair that I’ve learned is a Tennyson calling card, I don’t recognize him. Since Poppy is happy to be in his presence, I relax, and as he exits the vehicle and makes his way around to my door, I take hold of my girl’s bruised but ecstatic face and plant another kiss on her.
The man pulls my door open and holds out his arms. “Come ‘ere, squirt.”
Poppy all but leaps from my lap into the big man’s embrace. They hug, both talking at once. I struggle to keep up with their conversation, however, I hear enough to determine that I’m looking at a ghost.
Throughout this disastrous pursuit of vengeance, Eitan was certain about a lot of things.
Oliver Tennyson, not being dead, was top of his list.
Turns out, he got that right, at least.
Poppy’s elation at having her brother back is short-lived. After he’s taken his fill of her affection, he pulls his pistol free and aims it at me. I cock my head to the side, searching his face for answers while his little sister slaps his chest.
“Put that down, Ollie,” she commands. “Spenser is not like Harrison.”
He ignores her instruction, instead, concentrating solely on me. Acting as if her assault on him is akin to a fly buzzing around his head, Oliver uses his other hand to pull a small console that’s no bigger than a garage remote out of his pocket. He presses a button and a red light at the top lights up.
“Get on your knees, both of you.”
The desperation in his eyes is one
that I know intimately. I raise my hands on either side of my head and step out of the vehicle. He pushes Poppy toward me, then steps out of my reach. Gripping Poppy’s wrist, I make her kneel in the dirt next to me.
“When did you meet her?” All color drains from Oliver’s face when I continue, “My Aunt Rosalie, I mean.”
“The day after I put a bullet in her husband’s head to prove to them that I was trustworthy.”
“Sounds about right,” I muse. Jerking my head toward the vehicle that’s speeding down the dirt road, I ask, “That ours or yours?”
“Mine,” he replies. Pointing at the bushes on the other side of the road, he says, “Yours will be here shortly. For now, I need you to hide over there and keep your mouths shut until I’m gone.”
“No,” Poppy shouts at her brother. “I’m not letting you go. Please. Come home.”
After I raise my eyebrow, he answers my silent question with a sharp nod. I slap my hand over Poppy’s mouth and wrap my arm around her waist. She struggles to free herself, screaming from behind my palm. Without delaying, so she can exchange goodbyes with her brother, I sling her over my shoulder, then run across the road and down the embankment until we’re hidden behind the bushes that Oliver directed us toward.
Poppy sobs like her heart is broken and tears stream down her face. The torrent of sorrow wets my skin and hurts my heart, but I don’t allow her to break free until I’m sure that her brother is gone, and the coast is free. As I release her, she lashes out. Her slaps rain down, stinging my face, and her kicks make my shins smart. I take it all until she’s spent.
As her energy flags, I hear two vehicles approaching. When they stop, and familiar voices begin calling our names, I pick her up and hold her against my chest as we head back to the other side of the road. She is silent for most of the short walk. We pass by the abandoned SUV that still contains my uncle’s dead body, and his brain matter splattered over the front window.
Seeing the mess settles the last of the fear that stalked me for two decades. He’s really gone, yet the satisfaction I thought I’d feel after his demise hasn’t dawned. Part of me believes that it never will. Revenge may be a dish best served cold, but I think mine has come a little too late. The damage he caused is too engrained to be fixed.