by Chloe Walsh
"Name."
"Quinton." I swallowed deeply, Adam's apple bobbing in my throat. "Quinton Presley."
"Louisiana?"
"Yes, sir," I said with a nod. "Pocketful, Louisiana. The heart of the south. Population –"
"Quinton?"
"That's me."
"Shut up."
"Okie-dokie."
"So," he mused, finally releasing me to spark up a cigarette. "What's a god-fearing, Southern boy such as yourself doing around my neck of the woods?" Leaning against the hood of Sketch's truck, he waved a box of Marlboro cigarettes in front of me. "You're a long way from home, cowboy."
"Yes, yes I am, and no thank you," I replied, as another nervous chuckle escaped me. "I value my lungs too much to put toxic…uh, never mind. Shutting up again."
"What do you want, Quinton?" he asked then, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
Right. In. My. Freaking. Face.
"Mister," I spluttered, coughing. "Do you mind?"
Silence.
"Okaaay then." Smoothing the creases out of my shirt from countless hours of non-stop driving, I took a deep breath and came right out with it. "My boyfriend Chris was murdered, his girlfriend Romi was committed to a mental asylum by her creepy dad, and then her boyfriend Sketch – who also happens to be Chris's twin – helped me break her out. Then we went on the run where we were freaking shot at by these big-ass dudes with guns. Guns! With actual bullets in them! Can you believe it? And then, both Romi and Sketch's dads showed up at the motel we were staying in and all hell broke loose. And then Romi all of a sudden decided that she 'remembered' where she hid our boyfriend's journal –" I rolled my eyes and used rabbit finger gestures for emphasis – "Like someone forgets that kind of thing – not." Huffing out a breath, I quickly continued, "So, picture this; we're at the motel in Texas, Romi and Sketch have just popped each other's cherries, and everyone's freaking the hell out. Their dads are cussing and throwing around threats. Sketch is puffing out his chest and snarling like the baby version of Simba trying to protect Nala from the hyenas in The Lion King movie. Romi's rambling like only Romi can, and Mrs. Capaldi's being her usual homophobic-bitch-self, so I use that as my opportunity to sneak out of the motel and go get the journal when I hear this huge BANG!"
He arched a sardonic brow, looking mildly amused. "A huge bang?"
"That's right." I nodded, eyes wide. "And let me tell you that I did not wait around to check it out. No, sir. I've seen my fair share of horror movies and I ain't that brainless secondary character who runs back in the house. Hell to the no. So, I got in Sketch's truck – which I technically didn’t steal if you consider that we could have been in laws had his brother not been decimated from the earth – and I drove back to Pocketful, and would you lookie what I found –" Slipping around his huge frame, I quickly yanked the door of the truck open and retrieved the dirt-covered journal. "So, basically, to cut a long story short, I'm in some serious shit, mister, and I could really use your help." Panting from my verbal exertion, I exhaled heavily. "Oh, please and thank you."
"Well shit." Scratching his stubbly jaw, Lucky Casarazzi studied me for a long moment before putting his fingers to his lips and letting out a piercing whistle. "Yo, Noah? Get your ass over here and listen to this kid talk. He could give your wife a run for her money." He turned back to look at me, eyes dancing with amusement. "Hey, kid, you think you can you repeat all of that again for him?"
If it means you'll help me?
I grinned. "Absolutely."
7
Romi
When the door of my temporary jail cell flew inward in the middle of the night, and my father stepped inside, I knew trouble was brewing.
Forget trouble brewing, a tornado was about to blow my world down.
Countless days had passed since our last encounter and I felt like I was looking into the face of a stranger, not the man who'd raised me.
Barefoot, filthy, and still wearing nothing but Sketch's oversized t-shirt, I was dragged from my cell and roughly transported from the haulage liner to an awaiting speedboat.
"Where are we going?" I asked, teeth chattering from the night air as it whipped at my face. We were all alone on the speedboat and I was hoping this was my opportunity to get through to him. "Dad?"
"Don’t speak," he barked, not looking in my direction.
Shivering, I wrapped my arms around my body and looked up at the stars as waves chopped and crashed against the sides of the boat.
Chris, I mentally whispered, I'm really sorry, but I think I'm going to be joining you tonight. Look over Sketch for me.
A lone tear trickled down my cheek at the thought. When I reached a finger up to wipe it away, I caught sight of lights in the near distance.
A boat.
No, not a boat.
A ship.
Not just any ship.
The one from my dreams.
Stop, Romi.
Don’t think about it.
Don’t remember…
I watched in a semi-state of horror as my father steered us towards it. "Turn back," I begged, unable to stop the tears from falling now. "Don't do this." Panic rose inside of me. "If you're going to trade me off or keep me locked up like you did Sketch, then I'd rather die."
Silence.
"Dad!" I barked out a harsh sob and jerked to my feet, swaying unsteadily, as the boat moved closer to what I presumed was my demise. "Let me go."
"Sit down," was all my father replied.
"And wait for you to what? Trade me off? Kill me?" I choked out a hysterical laugh. "Go fuck yourself."
His face took on an expression of pure fury. "Ramona –"
"I mean it, Dad," I screamed back at him, hands balled into fists at my sides. "I'd rather die!"
And with that confession off my chest, I threw myself overboard.
8
Presley
Hands down, I was having both a rare and wonderful day. After the last few weeks of drama, I felt like I had come through hell and entered heaven. And in this particular Quinton-version of heaven, I had been taken up the Coloradan mountainside by two glorious looking men, deposited inside a fancy-pants manor hidden away in the hills, where I was now currently wedged on a luxurious, leather couch between said men – who didn’t look like they wanted to kill me.
See?
Best day.
Thank you, skanky aunt Nora!
"Well shit," Noah – my cousin's killer half-brother's BFF – said, blowing out a breath when I finished reciting my tale of woe. "You're absolutely right, Luck. Thorn's got nothing on this kid."
"Right?" Lucky chuckled, thoroughly amused at my expense. "I feel like we need to put them in a room together and watch them fight it out for airtime."
"It would be a bloodbath," Noah agreed thoughtfully before turning his brown eyes on me. "You up for it, kid?"
"Question," I said, holding up a finger. "What the hell is a Thorn and will it hurt me? Because I've gotta tell you now, the strongest muscle in my body is my tongue."
Both men erupted in laughter and I laughed right along with them, a nervous cackle of sorts, while I mentally schemed about how to get these two beasts to help me.
"Thorn is my wife," Noah replied, smirking. "And that's one helluva story you just told us, kid, but I've gotta ask; does monogamy not exist for teenagers anymore?" His brows furrowed. "Does everyone just date… everyone nowadays?"
"Hell if I know, man," Lucky mused. "These millennials are a new breed of human."
"I'm just trying to get this all cleared up in my mind," Noah continued, still frowning. "So, you're dating this Chris dude –"
"Was," Lucky corrected. "Past tense. Chris is the dead one. Keep up, Noah."
"You were dating Chris, the nerd," Noah said, changing tenses. "Who was dating Romi, the former popular cheerleader." His brows pinched together. "Who used to date his twin brother Sketch, the varsity jock –"
"Still dating," I offered. "Well, they're still sexing, at least."
/>
"They only sexed once," Lucky corrected. "First time in the motel room, witnessed by pervy cowboy here, remember?"
"Sexed?" Noah arched a brow. "Is that a word now?"
"Who the fuck knows." Lucky shrugged. "Millennial slang."
Shaking his head, Noah turned back to me. "And you and the cheerleader –"
"Ugh, only in her dreams, baby-boomer," I groaned with a shudder.
"Gotcha," Noah chuckled. "And what about you and this brooding jock –"
"Sketch," I filled in with a wistful sigh.
"Sketch. You ever hook up?"
"Passionately, provocatively, and frequently." I sighed. "And regrettably, only in my dreams."
"Jesus Christ." Chuckling softly, Lucky stood up and moved for the door. "I need a smoke. All this teenage drama only reminds me that it's coming down the track for us."
"The hell it is," Noah growled. "I'm homeschooling."
"Think that's gonna stop your sons?" Lucky laughed. "They're like chips off the old block, Messina."
"I'm not worried about the boys," Noah called back. "Finn and Jace can't come home pregnant. The girls on the other hand?" He shuddered. "Hell no, they're staying home with their daddy until they're both thirty."
"Erin, maybe, but good luck trying to tell Taylor what to do. Girl's the reincarnation of her mother."
"Are you saying I can't handle my wife and daughter?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying."
"Fuck you, douche. It's happening. Homeschool is on the cards." Clearly pissed, Noah stood up. "And I wouldn’t be so fucking smug if I were you, mister I only make daughters." Narrowing his eyes at the blond god in the doorway, he added, "That's how many girls now? And still no son for Lucky."
"Yet," Lucky chimed back with a wink. "My woman didn’t cut my balls off in my prime like some people I know."
"Ha-ha, asshole." Noah flipped him the bird and stalked after him. "And still no ring for Hope, either. Wow, do I sense commitment issues –"
"I hate to interrupt this delightful pissing contest, but could ya'll please return your focus to me?" I blew out a ragged breath. "Can you help? Can my friends and I hire you?"
"Sorry, cowboy, I can't help you," Lucky said, sobering his features as he flicked his gaze to me. "I got out of the game a long time ago."
My heart sank. "Can't or won't?"
"Both."
"That's bullshit," I groaned.
"That's fatherhood," Noah corrected before following Lucky out of the room.
"Wait – wait!" I stood up and chased them both outside. "Now, I recognize that I'm in no position to demand favors from either one of ya'll, but please, you've gotta help me." Smoothing my shirt down, a nervous trait, I quickly continued, "I'm in over my head in some seriously murky waters and nobody taught me how to swim with sharks." Still clutching Chris's faithful journal, I thrusted it at them both. "Now, I haven't read it yet. Truth be told, I'm afraid of what I might find. But my friends are in trouble and, dammit, I need a white knight to ride to their rescue. And since I clearly ain't qualified for the job, I was hoping one of ya'll could do it for me. Please. I've already lost Chris. I can't lose Romi and Sketch, too." I sighed in defeat. "Take pity on a poorly proportioned pubescent with a penchant for academics and self-preservation."
"You done?" Lucky quipped.
Exhaling heavily, I nodded. "Yeah, I think I am. Did I sell it to you?"
"Say y'all again," Noah instructed.
"Y'all."
"One more time."
"Y'all."
He looked to Lucky and shrugged. "What? I like the accent."
"Then go listen to Lee," Lucky shot back impatiently. "Listen, cowboy, I'm really sorry to disappoint you, but I've got kids to think about. I'm not looking for any more trouble –
"Neither am I!" I strangled out. "But it's looking for me, and if you don’t help me, there's a good chance I'm not gonna make it to that fancy-pants college I was telling you about." Swallowing my pride, I pushed on, "I am really scared and I am begging you to help me. Please. I'll do anything."
Lucky stared me down for what felt like an age before inclining his chin. "Alright, kid. I guess I can do you a solid."
"You can?" My eyes lit up. "You will. Oh my god, thank you so much!"
"I'm not making any promises," he continued, taking a drag of a cigarette. "And you're gonna owe me, cowboy. And you can bet your ass I'll cash in that favor someday."
"That's amazing. Wonderful, mister Lucky. Fantastic, sir. No problem. Wow, I can't believe this." Laughing with sheer relief, I stepped forward, arms extended. "Should we hug it out?"
"No."
"Okie dokie."
"Now, give me that damn diary," he ordered. "We've got work to do."
9
Romi
My attempt at evading capture was an unsuccessful one. Fished out of the water by my father before I had a chance to get ten feet away, I was wrestled to temporary safety. Once on board the ship, my hands were tied behind my back, all while surrounded by a liege of armed men.
Keeping a firm hold of my arm, and totally uncaring of my bad knee, my father dragged me under deck. Drenched to the skin, I stumbled along corridor after corridor, not stopping until we reached an achingly familiar door.
One with a crack underneath big enough for a child's hand to fit through.
"Oh my god." My breath hitched at the sight of the brass door handle. "Is this…"
"Quiet," Dad warned, tightening his hold on arm so hard that I winced in pain. "He's inside?" he asked the giant brute guarding the doorway.
One stiff nod was all he received in return.
"Listen to me," my father said in a hushed voice, turning to look at me. "Keep your mouth shut in there. You know nothing. You remember nothing. Do not speak to anyone. Not one goddamn word."
"Daddy, please don’t do this–"
"It's already done, Ramona," he interrupted, and then he pushed the door inwards.
My breath left my lungs in an audible gasp when I was faced with a front-row view of my past.
The room.
The men.
I remembered their faces.
I remembered what happened in this room.
Sketch…
"Calisto Dillon," a man with a thick Italian accent acknowledged from his perch behind an enormous oak desk. Flanking him on either side were four men, all dressed in finely cut, black suits, all stoically silent. "It has been too long, no?"
Terrified and yet morbidly curious, I let my gaze trail over the formidable looking stranger and couldn’t help but recognize the resemblance he bore to the actor who played Rhett Butler in Gone with the Wind. He was tall and strong, with dark hair and a moustache. Heck, the guy was even puffing on a cigar. But it was his eyes that struck a chord deep inside of my subconscious. I'd seen those eyes before.
Every day of my life.
Was this the man I was being traded to?
If so, what did he have that belonged to my father?
"Not nearly long enough, Raffaele," my father bit out, tone laced with venom. "Where is he?"
A low, rumbling laugh escaped the man my father had called Raffaele. "Ah, as direct and to the point as always." His eyes twinkled with mischief and a shiver rolled down my spine. Oh yeah, I definitely knew this man. "You have not changed, old friend," he continued to speak, his accent thick, his tone light and airy. "Of course, old friend is not the appropriate term for a traditore."
My Italian was non-existent at best, but I could recognize the word traitor in almost any language.
Danger, Romi.
You're in danger.
My father remained uncharacteristically silent, but I could feel the tension emanating from him as he stood beside me, hand still roughly gripping my arm.
"Tell me, Cal," the Raffaele man continued, sitting down in his chair and setting his cigar in an ashtray. "After all these years, how does it feel to look the man you betrayed in the eyes again?" A wide smile spread acro
ss his face, enhancing the lure of his attractive features. This man was as beautiful as he was dark. "I can only imagine it feels like seeing a ghost, no?"
Dread settled deep in my stomach.
Something very bad was about to happen.
It was at that exact moment the man's attention flicked to me.
His piercing blue eyes locked on mine and I sucked in a sharp breath as a deep feeling of familiarity swept through me.
"Ramona," he surprised me by saying, curling the R in my name as he spoke. "You have grown."
Stunned, I could do nothing but stare right back at him.
In fear?
In horror?
In admiration?
I couldn’t tell.
Maybe all three.
"You do not remember me," he mused, more to himself than anyone else. "That is not what I was expecting." He offered me a roguish smile. "I am told that I am a hard man to forget."
"It was a lifetime ago," Dad interjected. "She remembers nothing of your reign."
"Fifteen years to be exact," Raffaele countered evenly. "And do not fear, traditora, I remember enough for all of us." Stroking his jaw, he tilted his head to one side, his razor-sharp eyes still studying me. "Do you know why your father brought you here, child?"
"No." Trembling, I shook my head. "But please let me go," I croaked out. "Please, sir, I don’t –"
My words broke off when my father's hand connected with my face. "Silence, Ramona," he warned, spitting out the words. "Don’t. Speak. Again."
Ignoring the tears burning my eyes, I dropped to my knees, more out of shock than pain. My father had never struck me before this moment. Not even once. I suddenly realized what I had always known deep down. I was alone in the world. Without Sketch, I had nothing.
Sketch…
"And you wonder why your world is falling down around you," Raffaele mused softly. "You have forgotten the code."