Chasing Boston

by Grey, Rebecca

  Chasing Boston

  Chasing Boston

  Copyright 2021 Nikki Hunter

  All Rights Reserved

  Imprint: Independently published

  Cover design by Seventhstar

  Editing by Your Editing Lounge

  The content of this book is protected under Federal Copyright Laws. Any unauthorized use of this material is prohibited. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without express written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales are entirely coincidence.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  About Rebecca Grey

  To the reader –

  If someone asks you how my story ends, make something up because the truth is forgettable.

  – All my love, Millicent Acker

  1

  The Deal

  Millie

  The only men that go to Himond's bar either have a tragic past or a pitch-black soul.

  I'd seduce the devil himself just to ensure that Boston finds his way home every time. There are no other options for me except to enter the mouth of hell itself. I'd go further if it means saving my brother.

  An untamed animal.

  Chaos forced into a container.

  A storm. A wild girl. A free-spirit.

  A lost girl.

  That's what I am to Boston.

  If I'm the lost one, then how come he's the one that never made it home?

  There's no choice for me but to brave the stares that linger on the curves of my body—the shape of a girl just brought into womanhood. Stars and moonlight poke through the clouds behind me, winking and flickering with the mischief of the night through the swinging door.

  Tonight, the way the sky dances—as if it can't contain its excitement, as if it too knows something bigger awaits—mocks me. Any other day, I'd be enchanted by the expanse of untouched, unexplored sky. Not today. Today I want to look up to them and curse each star by name. The very things that should have led him home have failed him. Failed us.

  With our strict parents and the life that's already been planned for us, it's always been Boston and me against the world. For now, it's just me. So each glimmering light above me only fuels my steps forward.

  The door shuts behind me.

  Two seconds of heart-pounding fear is all I allow myself. All I ever allow myself. They pass and the room around me explodes against my senses. My skin prickles under the attention of the patrons lingering in every shaded corner. They know I don't belong here either. There is no screaming and no fighting, only the waves and swell of conversations, the flicker of lanterns casting their reddish glow on the faces of the patrons, the suffocating scent of tobacco and whiskey, the haze of smoke that hangs in the air, and I take a step forward, skirt swaying over my favorite pair of boots.

  Voices carry through the bar. So much noise that at times I wonder if someone is saying my name. Millie. Millie. Millie. That voice beckons me, calling me into the world I'll never belong to, singing to my soul. Never a lady but far from a lowlife. I take another step.

  Bodies, mostly men who sway back and forth with a drink in their hand, crowd the bar. The server across from them moves smoothly from customer to customer, hands pouring liquid into cups and sliding drinks to the patron who shows their coin the fastest.

  I have coins on me tonight, but they are not for alcohol. They are a payoff. They are a bribe. They are my life’s savings—coins collected from odd and end jobs, stolen from the end tables where my father leaves his change in heaps.

  When a man moves away, leaving a space open for me to slip in, he still has enough sense to stop and give me a puzzled look. Why are you here? the question in his eyes asks. He stops, lifting his glass toward me, and gives me a warning. A warning I should heed.

  "The worst sort of creatures are out tonight. You should go home before you get hurt."

  "And what sort of creature are you?" I ask before I can tame my tongue.

  He smiles, the motion lost under the thick beard that covers his face. "A thief." Then he brushes past me and he's gone. The space he left behind starts to fill with bodies.

  I surge forward, throwing myself against the bar with as much dignity as I can muster. Men on either side of me startle and look down at my petite frame. The twist of their grins and the knowing in their eyes unsettles my stomach, but I ignore it. Stretching an arm across the bar I wave at the server.

  "Hello, hello!"

  The man looks up from the drink he pours, his brows pull together, and he pauses to come to my aid. "How old are you?"

  "Old enough." Only nearly twenty. "I'm looking for a man named Rumi Williams. Can you point me to him?"

  The server opens his mouth to speak, his eyes clouding with white fog. He blinks once. Then twice. "I'm sorry, I don't know who that is."

  My spirit deflates. He should be here. He's somewhere.

  He's here, something inside of me screams.

  "I'm sorry for this," I say over the chorus of conversations, using the shoulders of the men next to me to hoist myself up onto the barstool then the bar-top itself. From here, I can see the entire sea of men and the few colorfully dressed women—assumably women in the business of pleasure.

  "Hey!" the server says, tugging at my skirt.

  I ignore the urge to swat his hand away, and the whistles of the men who think I'm about to put on a show. Carefully, I push the curling brown stands away from my eyes and I shout over the noise.

  "RUMI WILLIAMS. I'm looking for a Mr. Rumi Williams. Is there a man named Rumi here?"

  Noise, the static of chatter, lowers or stalls or halts altogether. Eyes—so many eyes—now press into my skin with the burning sensation of my uncontrolled blush. Though it'd be hard to see against the abundance of freckles that litter my face.

  I clear my throat and try again. "Rumi Williams. I'm looking for Rumi Williams."

  The crowd just blinks up at me. All their gazes, blues, greens, browns, and all the colors in between, change to storm clouds. I fist my hands at my side, looking around the room, trying to find anyone who doesn't look lost.

  In the center of the room, an arm raises, clad in a thick brown jacket. That's when I see the way the room moves. No shifts. Anyone whose attention I'd once had quickly drifts in a different direction. The hand that tugs at my dress falls away. Their eyes still filled with white smoke. I struggle not to gape, my throat dry, palms sweaty.

  Everything moves in a choreographed dance around the table in the middle. The singular man with his arm raised. A group of men, each one looking angrier than the last, create a protective barrier around him. The atmosphere surrounding them pulses. They are the heart of the bar. They are the lungs that breathe life into the room. They are beautiful. And they are terrifying.

  I send a fleeting glance at the people around me. None of them pay attention to me. Conversations rise back up and the boisterous noise continues once again. As if they've forgo
tten me. As if I am forgettable.

  I’m not. I know I’m not. Then when I become nothing in a room filled with people something in me relaxes while something else in me screams with worry. This is not normal.

  As the daughter of James Acker, everybody in Himond who is anyone knows me. I'm hardly ever not the center of attention, so these few precious moments are everything.

  I clear my throat and climb down onto the barstool then onto the sticky floor. There is peace in the way no one watches me or reacts to how I push through the staggering masses. A long breath leaves me, one that perhaps I've held since I was a child.

  The man at the center of the room drops his hand but I know where he is without seeing the curve of his fingers dotted with silver rings above the crowd.

  He's the sun.

  Everyone around us, the planets circling him.

  And me. An asteroid dragged by gravity right to him.

  My tongue darts out onto my lips, moistening the dry skin. I swallow as the group surrounding him moves to let me in. An empty seat waits across from him. It waits for me.

  The men around him are a rainbow of races, styles, and shapes. Not one looks much like the other, which isn't too terribly uncommon in our small coastal town known for our popular ports and rich trade. There is something different about the gang that circles the two of us, something I can't quite put my finger on.

  At last, I drag my attention to the man at the table.

  Man. He's hardly anything more than a boy, I quickly realize.

  Blonde hair curls around his ears, brown eyes glazed like honey, a round face, a full bottom lip but a nearly invisible upper lip, and clothes far bigger than his skinny body. My attention pans over him and he smirks thinking he's caught me admiring him. He is attractive but hardly the most beautiful man I've ever seen.

  The collection of people close around us, shielding us from the rest of the room. They all blur in my periphery; only this one boy remains in focus. No matter how I blink it doesn't change. All I can see is him.

  "That's normal. I seem to have that effect on people." His voice is dark and gravelly as he slides a drink across the table to me.

  "Are you Rumi?" I finally manage around the nervous flutter of my heart.

  "The one and only."

  He tips back in his chair, arms spread wide. The men around him chuckle, looking smug even through the fog that covers their features.

  I place my fingers on the glass he offered, not willing to drink, but needing a place to settle my shaking hands. I've done many reckless things. I've done many stupid things.

  I've never done this.

  "I would like to buy your aid."

  "I'm for sale now, am I?" His shoulders bounce with laughter and everyone else echoes the sentiment.

  Clenching the cup tighter, the glass fogs around my fingers. "You knew my brother, Boston Acker." Realization settles in his devious gaze. I inhale and continue. "His ship was due back to port two weeks ago and he has not returned. I think he may need help. I am looking for passage to find him. I can pay."

  My fingers slip into the pocket of my skirt where the small bundle of coins should be...and isn't. My jaw clenches as I remember the self-proclaimed thief and the way he moved by me. Everything I've saved, gone in one stupid minute. I should have known better.

  Rumi arches a brow like he too knows my pocket is empty. "I don't do anything for free." He starts, tapping his pointer finger against his whiskey filled cup. The ring on his finger tinks against the glass in a steady rhythm.

  "I don't have any money."

  "I don't make deals with money."

  Something in my chest tightens. Something in my head shouts to leave now. I grind my teeth knowing this is a game played by a tormented man. But I am not afraid.

  "What do you make deals in?" I ask.

  "Blood."

  Someone laughs behind him. His finger only twitches and the noise stops abruptly.

  The chair under me creaks as I press myself back into it. "What does that even mean?" I narrow my gaze, forcing a glimmer of the steel within me to shine through. A trick Boston taught me as means to intimidate those who only see me as a foolish girl.

  Rumi sucks his teeth, leaning toward me. "You want me to help you find your brother. What can you give me in return? What do you value the most?"

  My teeth sink into my lip. What do I value the most?

  I don't answer and he continues. His fingers walking across the table till I can feel the heat of his hand next to mine. Not touching but too close. "Your life? Your lover? Y—”

  "I don't have a lover."

  He hums. "It's something different for you. There is something else you long for the most." A sly smile spreads smoothly across his face. He melts into the arrogant gesture. "Freedom."

  Every muscle in me tenses in answer. An answer I don't want to give but leaves me nonetheless.

  "Ah, that's it."

  "So, if you help me find my brother, what then? Am I to lose my freedom? Be a slave?" There is a buzzing in my ears and I can't tell if it's the rapid wave of thoughts that crash inside of my head, the crowd around us, or the magic this boy seems to have over the entire bar.

  "I like to think of it as more like a humble servant." He taps his finger against the table.

  My vision only pinholes further on him. His eyes glow as if they hold the fading sun. Even the youthfulness of his skin begs for me to touch it, to cup his face in my hand, and give him whatever it is that he wants from me.

  My freedom though? That's too much to ask. Too much to give to a man I just met. But for Boston...

  "How long? How many years is your brother worth?" Rumi tilts his head.

  All of them.

  Boston would sooner kill me than let me sell myself away until I die.

  He sighs dramatically, flattening his hand against the table. "Five years. Give me five years of service and in return, I will take you to your brother."

  Five years.

  Five whole years.

  Five freaking years.

  I'll be almost twenty-four. I'll leave his service and be unmarried, disowned by my family, and no one will think of me as a lady. But for Boston...

  "Five years." I nod slowly.

  "What is your name?"

  "Millie."

  "Your full name," Rumi whispers.

  I cringe at my own name as it leaves my lips. "Millicent Angeline Acker."

  "Do you not like your full name?" His brows pull together, a look of confusion or concern maybe...but it still feels derisive. I shake my head. "Millicent is the name of a woman with power. Millie—that is a little girl's name."

  "I prefer Millie."

  He shrugs his shoulders. "Millicent." He weighs the name on his tongue, tasting it, letting it roll off his lips with fluid grace. From him, the name doesn't sound nearly as stuffy and old. It sounds like potential.

  That sly smile turns damnable and he extends his arm. I lift my hand and it feels like days from the time it leaves my lap to the moment it touches his skin. His fingers curl around mine and I gasp as fire licks at my palm. My body tries to jolt away from the pain but he holds my hand in place and the heat fans through my veins. A stinging like the press of a hot iron grows against my forearm.

  And he watches me with pitch black eyes.

  2

  Before The Deal

  Millie

  I hate being late. Yet it would seem that I’m so very good at it.

  Puddles splash muddy water up my legs as I storm through the woods behind my home. Lashings from tree branches and the sparse brush grabs at my clothing as I tear through it all. What had once held my hair up off my neck is ripped away and the dark tumble of my brown strands wave like a tattered flag in the wind.

  Hilda, my dear friend and our household cook, will be so mad. My mother will be disappointed. And my father... well, it's best not to think about what he'll be. Not to mention, Desmond Schuyler, the man to whom my hand is promised.

 
The sun heads for the horizon, hardly visible behind the thick gathering of clouds. A light rain has begun and the sprinkle of water against my skin is refreshingly cold compared to the heat the day has offered. At this point dinner has probably been served, they wouldn't have waited this long. Not for me.

  Poor Desmond. Poor, poor Desmond. I hardly enjoy sitting with my mother and father for meals; I can't imagine practically being a stranger and sitting through one with them. By now my father's face is probably purple with anger.

  I break free from the treeline, the vision of the large brick estate no longer obscured by limbs, trunks, or leaves. The door to the kitchen remains open, cracked ever so slightly for me to slip in. Crossing the yard, I look down at the mud splattered up the dark trousers I'd stolen from my brother's room. Small twigs and bits of leaves cling to my boots. I wince as I leave behind footprints on the white steps that lead me inside.

  A rough breeze circulates the moist air inside the busy kitchen. Hilda immediately stops what she is doing to pin me with her furious gaze. Though as hard as she tries to be intimidating the soft blue hue of her eyes could never be cruel.

  "Foolish girl," she seethes, pushing the strands of her graying blonde hair away from her face and wiping her hand against the apron tied at her waist.

  I smile. My chest rises and falls with every sharp inhale of breath. I kick my boots to the door, reaching for my wet socks.

  "Okay, but you remember how yesterday everyone was convinced that they saw a baby dragon behind Murphy's farm? The whole town was buzzing with it." I straighten, my eyes wide, the tale already pressing behind my lips with the urgency to tell.

  "You didn't." Hilda gasps. She shakes her head making her simple stud earrings glitter in the light. Her lips draw into a worried line that cuts across her features as she opens the pantry and pulls out a waiting dress. The kind of dress you'd expect a girl to wear when she is to have dinner with her betrothed. My smile doesn't falter though the idea dulls my excitement a fraction.

  Holding up a finger, I begin again and start stripping out of the rest of my clothes. "I did. I had to know."

  Carefully, she leads me forward away from the mess of mud I've made and slips the dress over my head, tightening the laces. "And this is where you tell me that the whole town is made up of superstitious idiots."