Scorched: A Dark Bad Boy Romance (Byrne Brothers Book 3)

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Scorched: A Dark Bad Boy Romance (Byrne Brothers Book 3) Page 17

by Holly Hart


  “Ye see that?” Mac says, his voice jumping an octave, his arm flashing out and pointing at the apartment right ahead of us. “Second floor, third window from the right.”

  I bring the binoculars my eyes again. The metal feels cold around my eyes. “Tell me what I’m looking at.”

  “There’s someone in there. Moving the curtain.”

  I count the windows until I bring the binoculars to bear exactly where Mac’s indicating. He’s right: a man, just some gang banger, is leaning out the window lighting a cigarette.

  “Can you see inside?” Mac asks urgently. “Anything?”

  The thin curtain billows in the breeze. The way it’s flapping, it’s hard to make out. I see another man standing behind him, a couple of rifles stacked against the wall next to them: and the mirror.

  I focus on it.

  Between the curtain flapping and the apartment building’s murky gloom, it’s hard to make out anything at all.

  Then I see it.

  See them.

  I can’t tell exactly how many girls there are, but the sight is unmistakable. A row of women, chained to the opposite wall. I can’t make out any details – the mirror is filthy and the room dark. But what I see chills my soul. I see Frankie – at least, I would have if she hadn’t escaped. I see Frankie in every single one of those girls.

  “They’re here,” I say. “All of them. This is the place, Mac. We found it.”

  My brother punches me in the arm with excitement. “What else? What are we up against?”

  “At least five guards,” I count. “But I can’t see any further inside. We better assume there are more of them: lots more.

  “More to kill, that’s all,” Mac growls. “Should be like shooting fish in a barrel.”

  And that’s it. The smoker steps back, the curtain falls, and just like that our peek inside the Templar safe house – prison – is gone. I inch backwards, making sure that I’m well away from the edge of the roof before I stand up.

  “Gather the lads,” I growl. My hand jumps to the pistol tucked in the small of my back, my fingers closing around the handle like it’s a comfort blanket. “We’ll do it tonight. Let’s go in hard.”

  Mac grimaces with excitement. “Looks like we found ourselves some roaches to kill, then, brother.”

  I hug my brother. “Thanks, Mac,” I say. “Couldn’t have done it without ye.”

  “We ain’t done nothing yet, Rid. Tell me that tonight when we’ve rescued those poor gals.”

  “I’ll see ye here,” I say, turning to leave. “Midnight should do it. I’m going to tell Frankie the good news. It’s about time she had some.”

  21

  Frankie

  The sun doesn’t so much kiss my skin as lick it: like a lizard; a really small lizard, at that.

  I guess I shouldn’t really have expected any more from Boston in late April, but I did. Maybe it was all those hours spent languishing underground, but I painted a picture of the world outside those four brick walls. That picture was a whole heck of a lot brighter than…

  … this.

  Still, just being outside is a little victory. This is the first time that it’s happened since Ridley rescued me from the Templars. It’s nice. I kind of forgot what the wind playing with my hair felt like.

  I mean, it’s ticklish, and annoying when it brushes up against my cheek – but it’s better than living in that season-less underground hideaway.

  I remind myself not to be an ass. That season-less underground hideaway also probably saved my life.

  And that – that thought – is what suddenly brings everything home. A tiny moan escapes my lips as I begin to realize exactly how stupid I might have been. It wasn’t the hideaway that saved my life, but Ridley.

  He put his life on the line to help me when no one else would, and when no one else did. And how have I repaid him? By walking out on it him without so much as a proper goodbye. What does that say about me?

  A passerby – an old woman, with her gray hair inexplicably twisted around curlers – shoots me a worried-looking glance. I guess it’s not often that pale young women walk down Dorchester Street mumbling to themselves.

  Dorchester Street.

  That name rings a bell. I think Ridley mentioned it, once or twice. Yeah, that’s right. He’s from around here. He talked about this area with a pride that was fascinating to see.

  I’m from Columbus Ohio, but you’d never find my chest puffing out when I talk about home. It’s okay: nothing special. A place like most of the rest of America: Wal-Mart’s and drive-through pharmacies and kind people and assholes and everyone in between.

  Honestly, South Boston doesn’t look much different – at least to me. But I guess it must to Ridley.

  “Are ye okay, dear?”

  I spin, expelling the breath in my lungs with surprise. But it’s okay. It’s only the old lady. She’s got a slight Irish twang to her voice, and that makes it certain. This area must be Ridley’s home. His city, as he calls it.

  “I’m –, I’m fine, thank you very much.” I say breathlessly. “It’s just – been a long day, that’s all.”

  “If yer sure, then,” the old woman says doubtfully. “Because if you don’t mind me saying, you’re looking a little frazzled, gal.”

  Frazzled. Hell, that doesn’t even come close to what I’m feeling!

  “No really, I’m fine,” I say. When I realize that the old lady’s not going to leave me alone without a little more explanation than that, I improvise.

  “I had a fight with my boyfriend, that’s all,” I whisper, leaning in conspiratorially as though I’m letting the old woman in on a secret. Her eyes light up with excitement at the scent of gossip. “And I’m just taking a walk to clear my head.”

  “Men,” the old lady agrees, shaking her head. “He didn’t step out on you, did he?”

  I have to fight back a snort. The thought of Ridley cheating on me is almost absurd. I’ve noticed that he has a very particular moral compass. He would never do something like that. It’s just not his style.

  “No, no – nothing like that.”

  “Hit you?” She asks, arching her eyebrow.

  I shake my head.

  The old lady’s face wrinkles with confusion. “Throw you out?”

  “No –,” I say. I pause, trying to figure out how to put what happened into words. How am I supposed to explain what happened: that I’m filled with guilt about leaving my fellow captives behind, and that I’m leaving maybe the only man in Boston who might be able to help me find them in order to strike out alone –.

  Well, when you put it like that…

  The old lady barrels ahead without bothering to wait for me.

  “Call me old-fashioned, dear, but in my days, if a man didn’t walk out on you with another lady, hit you, or throw you out of the house – then you’d be positively begging him to let you back. But that’s just my two cents…”

  “Um, thank you,” I croak. But – like an avenging angel, the old lady’s already walking off, chest thrust out. She looks ready to harangue another stranger.

  Call her old-fashioned – and I will – the old girl made a good point. Ridley’s done nothing wrong, and not just that – I haven’t even given him a chance to do right! Whether I wanted the advice or not, she’s made me look at things through a clearer set of eyes.

  I heave a sigh. I know what I have to do. I can’t just leave Ridley like this. I owe him more than that. I’ve got to do what I should’ve done to start with: go to him, and ask him for his help in saving my friends.

  “And if he says no,” I mutter to myself, still walking. “You’ve lost nothing. He’ll have shown exactly who he really is.”

  I suddenly realize that I haven’t any idea where I am. I must’ve taken a wrong turn off Dorchester Street. I don’t know how long I was in that daze, but it was enough to take me into an old, slightly run-down industrial area.

  “Crap,” I groan. I’ve never had a head for geography. I�
��m a Google Maps kind of girl, and ever since the Templars took my cell phone away from me, I’ve been living in a Stone Age kind of world.

  I glance around.

  “Hey, chica,” a man’s voice calls out. “You look lost. You wouldn’t be needing any help now, would you?”

  I spin, terror washing in a tidal wave across my mind. I recognize that voice. Not the speaker, but the tone. Every single one of the Templars sounded the same. Like this man: cocky, evil, entirely too pleased with themselves.

  “No,” I say, voice high and cracking with nerves. “I’m fine. Just walking home.”

  I hold out for the far-off hope that I’m wrong, that I’ve just happened to stumble upon an arrogant young man out to try his luck. But even then, in my heart of hearts I know that I’m lying to myself.

  “Not anymore, chica,” the man says matter-of-factly. He’s wearing low rise jeans that sink well past his hips, and gold rings coat his knuckles. He lifts up a basketball jersey to reveal a pistol tucked into his waistband. “You’re coming with us.”

  I turn to run. I don’t get more than a foot before I collide with another man: six feet tall and built like an NFL player. I’ve got nowhere to go, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. I’m dead already.

  “This who the boss been looking for?” The big man’s gruff voice barks out. “Think we get to have a few minutes with her before –.”

  I’ve never been more relieved than to see the smaller man shake his head with quick refusal.

  “You want your cock cut off? That’s what happens to people who sample Ricardo’s women. You know that.” He says.

  “Please,” I whimper, struggling fruitlessly to escape the man’s tight grasp. “Just let me go. I’ll leave Boston. You’ll never see me again.”

  My pleas fall on deaf ears. The smaller man shrugs, picking something from his teeth. “No can do, chica. You should have left when you had the chance.”

  My head collapses forward, against my chest. I know. He’s right. I didn’t just sign my own death warrant; I printed it out and mailed it too.

  This is all my fault.

  22

  Ridley

  The way I drive the car back to the hideaway is borderline dangerous. I’m completely in control – practically melded to the overpowered engine beneath me, but the rest of the drivers on the road don’t know that. And the way they swerve both left and right to avoid me proves it.

  But there’s a reason I’m acting like this.

  I’ve realized that I can’t hold off telling Frankie what I’ve been doing for a moment longer. She needs to know that we found the girls – Mac and I – and that we’re going to save them. Tonight.

  I know she’s been feeling guilty about it. I’ve seen the signs: that faraway look in her eyes, that fraction of a second pause when she forgets where she is: lost in memory. Maybe I’ve ignored it for too long. But no more.

  I spin my car around the last corner and speed into the small parking lot next to my little railway bridge. I slam the door shut behind me and charge towards the little hideaway.

  “Frankie?” I call as I push the heavy iron door open. A tiny film of rust shaves away against my fingers, and I absently make a note to treat it. The second I get a chance. Whenever that might be.

  There’s no reply.

  It doesn’t bother me too much. I just figure that Frankie’s asleep. After all: If I hadn’t spent most of the afternoon lying on my belly on top of an old apartment building on the outskirts of South Boston, I’d have joined her.

  And preferably we’d be naked.

  I think that might be my idea of heaven. Just me and Frankie, forever – no cares, no worries. No city to look after. Just an unlimited supply of high-end lingerie and –.

  Ridley!

  I shake myself back to the present. Something’s not right. I don’t know how, but I already feel a prickling of worry in my stomach.

  “Frankie?”

  I reach out and flick a light switch on. The vaulted brickwork arches overhead flicker with light, and then explode into life. But the bolthole is silent, bar the humming of machines.

  Silent – and empty.

  “Frankie!”

  I shout out her name again and again. Something is definitely wrong here. I spin around and look back at the door, checking it for any signs of forced entry. But there are none. It was locked when I made my way in, and it’s locked again now. I felt the click as it slammed closed into its frame, and I heard the beep that announced the bolt thudding home.

  Frankie’s not here.

  The hideaway is empty.

  That much is obvious. The lights were off when I walked in, and the door locked. It’s a small place: there’s nowhere to hide. Some part of me still prays that this is all some elaborate joke, that Frankie’s just crouching in a closet, waiting to jump out.

  But that part is tiny, and getting smaller every second.

  I charge around my small emergency pad. There’s no logic to it: Frankie couldn’t hide in here even if she wanted to. There isn’t space. Once I’ve checked the bathroom – slamming the door open and even checking the shower, just in case she slipped and fell – that’s it.

  There isn’t anywhere else.

  The seed of worry that had begun to take hold in my stomach starts to sprout. It lays down roots and takes hold of my stomach, my chest, and even my mind.

  “Frankie,” I groan. “Where the hell have you got to?”

  The obvious answer is that she’s simply gone shopping. Yeah, that makes sense. I saw the look on Frankie’s face when I came back with those clothes – she wasn’t exactly bowled over by my selection.

  But she would have said something, wouldn’t she? Frankie’s a smart girl. She’s proved that a thousand times over. She’s smarter than me. And more than that – she knows how dangerous the streets are right now – especially for her.

  None of this makes any sense.

  I rack my brain for any hint of where she might have gone.

  I stand in the center of the hideaway and spin slowly in a circle. I don’t know what the hell I’m looking for. A clue, maybe. A hint. Anything, really – just a sign.

  I spin.

  Nothing.

  Again.

  Nothing.

  Again.

  Nothing –.

  I see a flash of white from the corner of my eye. Resting against the brickwork in the little alcove where we eat. Whatever it is, I don’t remember it being there before. I walk towards it. My feet feel as though they are stuck in quicksand, and my legs as though they’re smelted out of lead.

  It’s a note. I reach out with trembling fingers. I’ve never been so scared of anything in my life as I am of a piece of paper right now.

  It’s folded in two. It crackles as I open it and begin to read.

  Ridley,

  Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. You will never know how much your kindness meant to me. You’ll never know how much you mean to me. But I can’t stay here, living underground like this. This isn’t home. I don’t –, I don’t really know where home is anymore. I’ve got nobody except you. Except you and the girls.

  Maybe if I find them, then things can go back to the way they were before. It’s the not knowing that I can’t live with. The fact that I’ll never know if they lived or died. I know you must think I’m crazy. Heck, I don’t even know if there’s anything I can do.

  You must understand that.

  Thank you Ridley, and I love you.

  Goose.

  The note falls to the ground.

  “Oh, Frankie,” I whisper. “Why couldn’t ye have waited. Just a couple of hours.”

  For a few long seconds, I think I’m in shock. I can’t explain how I’m feeling any other way. Like a wave just smashed against me, and has me struggling for breath, reeling, stretching out for dry land. It’s like my chest is imploding, and collapsing in on itself. I try to breathe, but my rib cage squeezes my lungs.

  The world spins.


  The shock fades.

  But another emotion replaces it. One I never expected.

  Loss.

  Because that’s the only way to explain this. It’s like I’ve lost a relative, and I’m grieving. I can’t imagine feeling worse even if one of my brothers died. I’ve known Frankie such a short time – and yet the way we connected has been nothing short of incredible. The chemistry we’ve shared, the connection we’ve built: I never knew that any of that was in my life’s plan.

  But it was.

  And now it – she is gone.

  “No fecking way,” I growl. My voice echoes against the brick arches above me. “I’m not having it.”

  I know why Frankie left. It was because the guilt was threatening her. Guilt about leaving those girls behind. I want to shout that we found them, Mac and I!

  I want to, but I don’t. I can’t. There’s no one here to hear me. Especially not Frankie.

  But if her leaving is the cloud, then there’s a silver lining. Because Mac and I, we did find those girls. We know where they are, and we’re going to save them. Tonight.

  So all I need to do is find Frankie and tell her that. I can fix this. It hasn’t all been for nothing.

  My phone buzzes in my jeans pocket. It’s a low, insistent drone that breaks through my shocked, reeling mind. I almost bat it away, but something stops me. A false hope, maybe: that Mac’s somehow stumbled across Frankie.

  But even as I’m fishing the phone from my pocket, my brother’s warning echoes in my mind.

  “I doubt a mouse could swish it’s tail in the city without one of those tattooed fucks snitching to their higher-ups.”

  Mac might have said it crudely, but it’s no less true because of that. He wasn’t lying when he said that the Templars have a man on every street corner. Hell, I saw half a dozen of them on my madcap dash back here. Every one of them might know who Frankie is. In fact, if I was the mythical adultero, then that’s exactly what I would have ordered.

 

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