Brock's Hellion

by Nicole Austin

  His thoughts kept returning to the night of the party and he’d come to realize taking Bobbi Lee to the game room and Dominating her had nothing to do with desiring her. He didn’t. It had been more about proving he didn’t need one confounding hellion who had gotten under his skin and sunk her claws right into his heart. To show he could go on without her.

  What a colossal fuckup that had been. Watching Riley spank and crop the woman hadn’t even gotten him hard. Not even pouring lube in his hand and stroking his cock while Riley fucked her ass had turned him on enough to join in the scene.

  The hellion had ruined him for any other woman. Tink was the only one he wanted, with or without D/s. He wouldn’t hesitate to accept whatever she was willing to give if she ever found it in her heart to forgive him.

  First he had to find her.

  Brock continued to search until noon, finally giving in to exhaustion when he almost crashed into a tree and realized he’d nodded off. The only thing saving him was his hand going lax on the throttle. He headed back to the bunkhouse, bone-weary and with a heavy heart.

  Not trusting the others to wake him, he set the alarm for two hours and fell into bed fully dressed.

  * * * * *

  At first Tink had thought her vision had been affected by her migraine and whatever had hit her, causing the large knot to form on the back of her head. As she explored her surroundings, she learned different.

  The walls, the floor and everything else in the room were black. Feeling her way around, she discovered a sink and a toilet along the same wall as the metal headboard. Either the lack of light made it impossible to see the fixtures or they had been painted black.

  She paced out the room, creating a visual layout in her mind. Six steps from the sink in the corner to the opposite wall. Seven from side to side, reduced to three when she started out standing next to the bed.

  The sensory deprivation wore her down. There was nothing to see, taste or smell. There wasn’t much to touch and the only sounds were those she made. There was also no way of differentiating night from day or marking the passage of time. She slept, paced and talked to herself.

  Before long even the sound of her own voice grated on her nerves and she was left with nothing to do but sleep, count steps and think.

  She did a lot of thinking about her life. She recalled her father and his lessons. Her mother’s withdrawal from everything. Escaping and discovering the world. Her behavior and how others reacted. But most of all she thought about Brock.

  She relived each and every interaction. Considered how they butted heads. They were oil and water except when it came to sex, and the greater the conflict between them, the more they craved each other.

  That amazing night in October would have never happened without Brock. She had no doubt that had it just been Zeke and Riley she wouldn’t have slept with them. They were great guys, hot and sexy. What they lacked was Brock’s fire and passion. His unique ability to wind her up in knots.

  Tink had to be honest, at least with herself. No one else had seen past all the smoke and mirrors to find the real woman. The one who was so very different from the fiercely independent troublemaker. Brock recognized the gooey marshmallow who, out of necessity, hid behind the black-hearted witch. The woman who thrived while surrendering to the one powerful man she could trust with her heart.

  Yes, seeing him at the party with another woman had hurt. Badly. But that was her fault. She’d run from him, given no indication she’d return. He’d been right to move on. Still, in her heart, she wished he’d waited for her.

  * * * * *

  The shrill ringing of a phone had Brock shooting straight up in bed. Darkness filled the room and as he glanced over to where the numbers from the alarm clock should have glowed on the nightstand he cursed. Knowing his friends were worried about him and meant well didn’t keep his anger from rising.

  “What?” Sheriff Monroe’s distinctive baritone barked.

  Brock swung his legs over the side of the bed, ran his fingers through his hair and listened to the one-sided conversation.

  “They’ve only been locked up since Thursday morning. Two and a half days.”

  During a brief pause, he heard other voices talking too softly for him to make out the words.

  “I don’t have time to deal with those morons. Keep their asses locked up until they agree to pay for the damages they caused at Smiley’s.”

  With a sense of urgency riding him, Brock took only long enough to change his shirt and pull on clean socks before stepping into his boots. He made a quick trip to the bathroom, making sure to avoid the mirror while brushing his teeth. When he stepped into the main room, all conversation ceased.

  “Anything?” He directed the question to the sheriff.

  “Not yet,” Monroe sighed, clearly frustrated. He looked like hell but Brock was sure he had no room to talk since he felt worse than road kill himself. “The search will resume in the morning.”

  As the others all started to talk at once Brock just held up his hand. “Nothing you say is going to stop me from going back out there tonight.”

  Too many hours had gone by. She’d last been seen at the party Wednesday night, three nights ago. If they didn’t find her soon— Brock shook his head, refusing to finish the thought. He would find her before it was too late. Nothing else was acceptable.

  He strode to the kitchen table where supplies had been lined up and loaded fresh batteries into a flashlight. Without having to be asked, Dakota, Jesse, Cord, Riley and Zeke all stepped up to the table and followed suit. They tested the radios, filled the packs with bottles of water and sandwiches Mille had made.

  Brock’s chest tightened and he choked up. He had never doubted their unconditional friendship but he knew it was more than that. They were a family, one that stuck together through good times and bad. The five men gathered around him would be by his side until they found Tink, one way or another.

  Unable to speak, he nodded at the others and headed for the ATVs that Tamara, Steph, Kate and Van had kept gassed up and ready to go.

  As they climbed on the bikes, Cord asked, “Where we heading?”

  “The Bar B.”

  “I rode past there this morning,” Jesse said. “The place is deserted.”

  Brock had to go with his gut. Van had said Tink being taken had something to do with Wyatt. He’d never known her to be wrong and something kept drawing him to that ranch.

  Savannah shared a speaking glance with Cord then turned to the rest of them. “He’s right. Don’t waste your time on the mountain though, stick to the buildings. When I saw Tink she was surrounded by darkness but she was lying on a solid surface. She has to be somewhere inside.”

  The drive to the Bar B took more than an hour—a tense hour during which no one talked. It was a small spread and didn’t have a lot of buildings to search but the sun had started to rise by the time they finished and gathered in the yard.

  Sunday morning. Tink had now been gone for three and a half days.

  While the property showed definite signs of neglect, there were indications someone had been there recently. Dakota thought tire tracks near the house and barn were only a few days old. In the house they found dirty dishes in the sink, coffee lingering in the bottom of the pot and two of the beds had been slept in. The stables still had various tack but the horses had all been removed. In the barn they found the usual assortment of ranch equipment and supplies.

  “Someone has been staying here.” Cord sighed and glanced around. “But the sheriff said no family had stepped forward to claim the place.”

  “Maybe teenagers have been using it to hang out and party,” Riley suggested.

  “Nah,” Zeke said. “If it was teenagers the place would be more of a mess.”

  Jesse shrugged. “Could be homeless people.”

  “Homeless people with a car?” Dakota asked.

  Brock’s unease continued to grow. There was something strange about the barn, but he couldn’t quite put h
is finger on exactly what it was about the building that bothered him. “I don’t buy any of those explanations. It doesn’t look like anything is missing. There’s a big screen television, stereo and laptop in the house. Wouldn’t teens or homeless people have taken the valuables?”

  Dakota came and stood next to him and stared at the barn. “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure. Something feels…off. It looks bigger from out here.”

  Next thing Brock knew they were all standing shoulder-to-shoulder staring at the structure.

  “The barn’s not that old. I remember when they were building it.” Without looking away, Jesse elbowed Riley. “We met that woman in Smiley’s. She worked for the construction company.”

  “That hot redhead.” Riley chuckled. “She was a blast.”

  Brock turned toward them, intent on seeing where the conversation was going.

  “Forget the sex. Remember how she rambled on about the weird supplies they’d had shipped in for the job. She said something about a bank vault, didn’t she?”

  “No, that wasn’t it.” Riley rubbed his jaw and continued to stare at the barn. “There was some movie she’d seen that had her wondering why anyone way out here would need what Wyatt had them building. Shit, I can’t remember what she called it.”

  “Tell me about the movie,” Zeke said.

  A surge of hope filled Brock. Zeke loved movies and had a massive DVD collection.

  “I suck at names. Blonde chick, she was also in that movie with the gamblers. Played in a big poker tournament with the guy from Lethal Weapon.”

  “Maverick,” Zeke said. “That’s Jodi Foster. What was the movie about?”

  “She was divorced, moving into a huge house. Her kid had something wrong with her. Had shots she gave herself. Anyway, the black guy with the cool voice from the funny Vietnam movie—”

  “Good Morning Vietnam, Forest Whitaker.”

  “Damn, Zeke. You’re a walking movie encyclopedia,” Cord commented.

  “Keep going,” Brock encouraged Riley.

  “Three guys broke into the house thinking it was empty. They were after some papers worth all kinds of money. The woman and kid locked themselves in some kind of shelter but that’s where the papers were.”

  “Oh shit!” Zeke said and started walking alongside the barn.

  “What?” Brock growled as he followed Zeke. “What the fuck is going on?” He had no idea what they were talking about or looking for.

  “The movie’s called Panic Room. The house had a special room that you could go into and be safe if someone broke in or whatever. Had a phone and all kinds of supplies so you could stay in there a while.” Zeke stopped walking and turned around to face them. “The walls and door were steel and the room was hidden. You wouldn’t notice it unless you knew it was there.”

  As one they turned and stared at the barn, which looked the same as every other barn, but now made Brock think of scary buildings from horror movies.

  Cord grabbed his arm and spoke in a soft, raspy tone. “What did you say about the barn? Something about the size?

  Brock nodded as the pieces clicked together. “Smaller inside than it looks from out here.”

  “Holy fucking shit!”

  He wasn’t sure who uttered the curse but he agreed with the sentiment. His stomach had dropped, his heart stuttered and a cold chill raced along his spine.

  None of them wanted to believe it possible, but then they’d learned the hard way what a sick fuck Wyatt Bodine was.

  Chapter Eight

  “Atomic Tangerine, Blizzard Blue, Electric Lime, Laser Lemon, Magic Mint, Outrageous Orange, Purple Pizzazz, Radical Red. Uh…Screamin’ Green.” Damn, she couldn’t remember most of the fluorescent color names.

  Tink had loved coloring, one of few activities that didn’t upset her father until he declared her too old for such frivolous nonsense. With the dazzling array of colors, she created mystical places where no one yelled at her or locked her in her bedroom. Thankfully her father had never known she considered staying in her room more of a reward than a punishment.

  Being trapped in this endless black void, however, was getting to her. At first she’d been relieved when the two men had not come back. Now she would be happy to see them. Anything would be better than her present dark nonexistence.

  The lack of stimulus was driving her crazy—literally. Worried for her sanity and to avoid those things she didn’t want to think about, Tink had started exercising her brain by making lists. The states in alphabetical order had been first, then all the state capitals. Next she listed all her favorite shoe and purse designers.

  She sat up, hung her legs over the side of the bed. Forced herself to stand and walk the three steps to the wall then turned right. One step to the sink. She turned on the faucet, captured water in her hands and drank even though she wasn’t thirsty. Something about the hissing sound of the running water irritated her ears so she quickly turned it off. The trip back to the bed wore her out and she dropped onto the mattress.

  Vents in the ceiling provided a continual flow of oxygen. She had plenty of water. How long will it take to starve?

  That was one of the things she tried to avoid thinking about. At first her stomach had gurgled and made loud complaints. Later it had become an empty ache. Now she lingered in a lethargic state, her mind wandering off in odd directions. So she made lists.

  There were sixteen metallic crayon colors. Alloy Orange, Bittersweet Shimmer, Metallic Sunburst… Her favorite was Illuminating Emerald. The color of Brock’s eyes.

  She’d give anything to see his warm green eyes again.

  Rolling onto her side, Tink covered her face with her hands and softly cried.

  * * * * *

  Cord and Dakota believed that pacing off the length of the exterior walls then comparing the interior measurements would provide answers.

  Brock didn’t have the patience for a methodical approach. He went to a pegboard just inside the barn, grabbed a sledgehammer and started taking the place apart board by board. Zeke, Riley and Jesse got busy dragging all the equipment and supplies out into the yard.

  Cord and Dakota finally agreed on an area where the dimensions went wrong. Without a word, Brock moved to the section of wall and started hammering away. His arms, shoulders and back ached. Regardless of the cold temperature, sweat rolled down his torso. He just kept swinging the big hammer.

  The other men grabbed tools and joined him. Boards splintered as they chopped away at the wall. At first the metallic clink didn’t register as his hammer connected with something solid. He struck again, another clink.

  Riley, the smart-ass, started feeling around with his hands. Brock had no idea what the fool was doing. When Riley focused in on a particular board and pressed it something clicked and part of the wall slid open.

  For a few breathless seconds all any of them did was gape at the big steel box hidden at the back of Wyatt Bodine’s barn. There were seams for an entrance but no handle he could see. “How the fuck do we open it?”

  As if from a distance, he heard Cord talking into his radio. Something about the sheriff and the fire department.

  Riley began running his hands over the seams. Brock figured it was worth a try since he’d managed to find the rolling panel that way. But he didn’t like what his friend had to say when he stepped back.

  “Looks like a panel slides back into the wall but there’s no trigger. Must be electronic.”

  Brock repeated, “How the fuck do we open it?”

  Cord placed a hand on his shoulder. “Fire truck’s on the way.”

  “Why?” He felt as if it was a stupid questions but he didn’t get it.

  “Maybe they can pry it open with the Jaws of Life.”

  “Okay.” He was having a real hard time accepting what his eyes clearly saw. “But we can’t just stand here.” He’d go insane long before the fire truck arrived.

  “Crowbars.” Zeke snapped out the one word and headed out of the barn.
He quickly returned with three crowbars, handing one to Brock. Jesse grabbed the third. The three of them attacked the seam in the steel wall, working to wedge the tools into a paper-thin crease but getting nowhere fast. Cord, Dakota and Riley all took turns with the same result.

  Van’s big black Hummer arrived with a throaty roar and squealing tires, Steph’s Wrangler was right behind. Kate, Tamara, Steph, Van, Mandy, Mille and Sandy descended on the barn, all talking incessantly, asking a million questions in between gasps and soft sobs.

  Craig Morton brought up the rear, shaking his head at the women. “There was no stopping them from coming out here.”

  A few minutes later, Sheriff Monroe and one of his deputies arrived, the two men snapping pictures for evidence. By the time the fire truck pulled up, Brock was ready to pull out his hair. Tink was in there, he knew it but he couldn’t get to her.

  The firefighters gave it their all without success. Even using the crowbars to try to widen the gap, the Jaws of Life wouldn’t fit into the crevice. The steel box was slammed shut tight.

  Unable to tolerate doing nothing, Brock grabbed the sledgehammer and started pounding the steel walls, undeterred by the shock waves racing back along the handle into his arms.

  Over and over he hit the box, the loud clang punctuating his curses. “Sick…motherfucking…bastard.” Even as his strength gave out he struggled to lift and swing the hammer. Kept right on going until Jesse slapped his face.

  Prepared to rip his friend’s head off, Brock turned on him, stopping suddenly when he saw the women gathered around Van. Her face bore the blank stare he knew meant she was having one of her visions.

  When she finally came out of it, Van grabbed the sheriff’s arm and announced, “You have to take me to jail.”

  Faster than lightning, Cord had moved between his wife and the lawman. “Over my dead body.”

  “Cord.” She smoothed her small hands over his arm and stepped around him. “There’s a man in the jail. I think he’s Wyatt’s relative. He has the key.”