Free

by Kristen Ashley

  “After the arrest, police found stashes of illicit drugs and a variety of child pornography in Mr. Benson’s home.”

  A chill spread through Chew, making him shiver.

  “Police report that Mr. Benson has been charged with one count of first degree murder, three counts of possession of controlled substances with the intent to distribute and multiple counts of sexual exploitation of children. He’s been remanded into custody and will await a bail hearing on Monday.”

  “That sick fucking fuck,” Chew muttered.

  Christ.

  Well, his time in prison would be fun.

  Chew found the remote, punched the TV off then tugged the bags off the bed, reached in and got the .38. He checked it’s load and set it on the nightstand.

  He turned out the light and stretched out on top of the covers.

  He closed his eyes.

  He was almost asleep when they popped open.

  Digger was talking.

  Digger led them to him.

  Digger was a sick fucking fuck tied to Chew.

  “Shit,” he whispered, his mind turning, turning so fast, he started getting a headache.

  He needed to find a fence.

  He needed to find a goddamned fence.

  And he needed insurance.

  He stared through the dark before dawn at the ceiling.

  His mind stilled when it hit him.

  And when it hit him, his lips curved in a smile.

  Well then, he guessed he was going to Vegas.

  And after that, heading to Boulder.

  Tack

  Eight oh five that morning . . .

  “Police report that security video shows the man who murdered the owner of a liquor store in the early hours of the morning, as well as the man suspected in two other attacks that left another liquor store owner and a night manager of a convenience store in the hospital, is one Arthur Lannigan.”

  Tack sat at the bottom edge of his and Red’s bed, elbows to his knees, staring at the TV.

  “Arthur Lannigan is the same man suspected in the deaths of Natalie Harbinger, twenty-six, and Camilla Turnbull, twenty-seven. Both women’s bodies were found on the same night in different locations in Englewood earlier this summer. Mr. Lannigan is also the man suspected of a rash of murders Friday night, when five prostitutes were found dead in motels throughout Denver. They’d been robbed.”

  The door opened and even though Tack knew with the swift way it closed that it was his wife, he didn’t take his eyes off the TV.

  “Police raided Mr. Lannigan’s residence in Littleton early this morning to find he had already fled.”

  “He hadn’t fled. Spooked him,” Tack grunted. “Slim told them not to go in fuckin’ hot.”

  Footage of the cops outside Chew’s safehouse switched to a picture of Chew sitting in an armchair with his leg thrown over an arm and a bottle of beer in his hand. It had to be recent. He was older. Looked haggard. But he had a sly expression on his face that, considering Harrietta or Camilla took that snap, Tack found sickening.

  “Police are asking if anyone sees this man to contact the authorities immediately. Do not approach. The suspect is considered armed and dangerous.”

  They started another story and Tack lifted the remote in his hand to turn off the TV.

  Tyra sat next to him, doing it close and running her hand down his back.

  “Honey,” she murmured.

  “He needs money,” Tack said, staring at the blank TV.

  “Yes,” she replied, pressing close to his arm and rubbing circles at the small of his back.

  “He’s gearin’ up.”

  His wife said nothing.

  “Take one of us out.”

  She pressed closer, running her other hand down his forearm to hold one of his hands tight.

  “Kane—”

  “Snap,” he bit out.

  “Oh God,” she whispered.

  “And history repeats,” he said.

  Her voice was solid when she replied, “No it won’t.”

  He turned his head and looked into his wife’s beautiful green eyes.

  “No,” he growled, “it won’t.”

  Humility

  Rebel

  Nine fifteen, Sunday morning . . .

  “You think I should be relieved?”

  Rush stood next to me at Paul and Amy’s while Amy stood across the room, her hand pressed to her stomach, a stricken expression on her face, and Paul stood next to her, giving the ugly to Hank.

  And it was ugly.

  He was also slurring.

  Which meant it was morning and he was either already drunk, or he hadn’t sobered up from last night.

  “Mr. Ragowski,” Hank murmured.

  “My daughter was carrying on a sexual relationship with a pedophile, who’s old enough to be her father, who ended up raping and murdering her. And I should be relieved about that?”

  It was important to note that Hank had not told him he should feel relieved. Hank had just shared the news the man had been caught, as well as relevant details, which he’d kept minimal, though admittedly none of them were good. Even so, they’d eventually find out anyway, since it was all over the news, so someone had to tell them.

  I felt for him, but that someone was Hank.

  “Paul,” Amy whispered.

  “This is it. This is what Diane left. An obscene footnote buried in history, the junkie and the pedophile,” Paul spat. “My one child and all her promise, that’s what’s left.”

  I bit my tongue, not literally, figuratively, trying to give him some space to get out the poison.

  But just to say, doing that was really freaking hard.

  “Paul,” Amy said brokenly.

  Paul turned to Rush and me. “And again, who’s this guy?”

  “It’s Rebel’s young man,” Amy said hurriedly. “You know that. You met him ten minutes ago.”

  Paul switched his attention to his wife. “Yeah. And like I want a man I met ten minutes ago to watch me be humiliated again by my dead daughter.”

  I felt my mouth get tight.

  Amy paled and reared back, but did it saying, “We couldn’t leave him out in his truck.”

  This was arguable, and I knew at this juncture which side I’d argue.

  Incidentally, that was where Rush had intended to stay.

  Getting the call from Hank sharing this was imminently going down, a call that woke us both up, Rush having had about five hours of sleep, he did not get my egg and bacon on cheesy buttermilk biscuits. He did not get the chance to “go at me.”

  We’d gotten out of bed and Rush went downstairs to make coffee, telling me there was a note from the boys that they were off somewhere doing something with Sixx.

  We’d taken a quick shower, pulled on clothes, grabbed some travel mugs of coffee and headed over to Paul and Amy’s. And so they could have a modicum of privacy in this emotional moment, he was going to wait for me out in the truck.

  It was sweet.

  Until Amy opened the door to me, saw Rush in his truck, Hank’s 4Runner pulling up, put things together, and when I told her Rush was my new boyfriend, she insisted he come inside.

  I couldn’t talk her out of it.

  And with the haunted look in her eyes, I didn’t have it in me to push too hard.

  I really needed to learn.

  When I ran down to tell Rush, he gave me a hassled look, but as I was sensing was oh so Rush, he got out of the truck and came inside.

  Cue quick intros that led into Hank sharing the news.

  Bringing us to now.

  “Yeah, we actually could leave him in his truck,” Paul retorted.

  “I’ll step out,” Rush murmured.

  “Oh no you will not,” Amy snapped at him then to Paul, “He’s Rebel’s man. Rebel’s family So he’s family.”

  “That’s insane,” Paul bit out.

  Considering Rush and I had been seeing each other for less than a week, and they’d never met him
, although I was so totally falling in love with him (I mean seriously, how could I not?), it kind of was.

  “It is not,” Amy returned. “And further, it can’t be easy for Lieutenant Nightingale to share this with us.”

  “He gets paid to do this kind of thing,” Paul shot back.

  Oh boy.

  Amy’s face got red and she returned, “Yes, on a Sunday morning, away from his family, sharing the delightful news our daughter was involved with a pervert who killed her, I’m sure to do that he gets paid handsomely.”

  “Perhaps we should leave you two to—” Hank started.

  “Yes,” Amy bit out. “You should. You should go home to your wife and try to forget you know any of this, and if you have any children hold tight to them and enjoy the rest of your Sunday. Thank you for coming. Thank you for not giving up on Diane. I know what you had to share this morning wasn’t easy, but I’m grateful you took the time to do it and I’m also grateful to know this is finally done.”

  “It’s not done,” Paul muttered. “It’ll never be done.”

  “It seems it won’t,” Amy clipped at him. “Considering, after experiencing my daughter succumbing to drugs, you feel the need to force me to watch my husband succumbing to alcohol.”

  “Shit,” Rush said under his breath.

  That was when Paul got red in the face.

  I really should have pushed it with Amy to let Rush stay out in his truck.

  “Now we’re gonna do this in front of two guys I don’t even know?” Paul asked irately.

  “Yes, we are, Paul, because I’m a mess. My only child is dead. My husband is slowly killing himself. But none of that negates the fact we have a mortgage to pay and only a part-time income coming in to pay it since you feel the need to be inebriated twenty-four hours a day, like you are right now. So you’re on an unpaid leave of absence that needed to end, oh, I don’t know,” she leaned toward him, “three weeks ago.” She leaned back and tossed out both arms in exasperation. “You’re off, drunk, buying panini makers for goodness sakes! Driving drunk, I might add. This has gotten completely out of hand. The Diane I raised would be ashamed of us.”

  Paul leaned toward her. “The Diane you raised became a porn star.”

  Uh-oh.

  Now I was getting mad.

  Rush’s hand came out and held tight to mine and somehow, with that, I didn’t lose it.

  Amy had no one to hold her hand.

  So she reared back again, and after she did, she shouted, “Tell that to your vodka bottle, Paul!”

  I gave Rush a squeeze, pulled free, moved furtively to Hank, put my hand on his arm and whispered, “Thanks, Hank. You can go. Tell Roxie I said hi.”

  He looked at me, and the warm, whisky-eyed sweetheart was back.

  His fingers found mine, held tight for a beat, and he murmured, “Talk to them about victims’ assistance again.”

  I nodded.

  He shifted his attention to Paul and Amy. “Mr. and Mrs. Ragowski, try to take care of yourselves,” to which he received a heated glare (Paul) and an apologetic look (Amy).

  They deflected off him (or at least I hoped the glare did) and he moved to and out the door.

  When it closed behind him, I looked to my friends. “Paul, Amy, Rush and I are gonna take off too.”

  Amy’s back went straight, her chin came up, and she announced, “I’m leaving him.”

  God dammit.

  “You’re what?” Paul asked.

  She turned to her husband. “I’m moving in with Barbara. It’s all set. And if you don’t get to a meeting and get yourself dried out and get back to work, we’re putting the house on the market and I’m filing for divorce. I’m not going to end this living nightmare having a dead daughter, an alcoholic husband and bad credit. You have a week, Paul. Life’s too short. I’m not wasting another second watching you waste away.”

  Paul stared at her, his mouth open, his face blank.

  Amy turned to me. “I’ll be in touch, doll. I love you.” She looked to Rush. “I’m sorry. I should have let you stay in your truck. I’ve leaned too heavily on Rebel and you got caught up in that. That ends now. I hope you understand the extenuating circumstances and I hope to meet you again under better ones.”

  With that, she flounced to the hall and we heard a door slam.

  I gave my attention to Paul.

  “Paul, you two need to chat. We’re gonna go.”

  “My daughter died,” he muttered toward the hall Amy had just gone down.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “And that bitch,” he lifted a hand to the hall, “treats me to that?”

  I clenched my teeth so I wouldn’t say anything stupid.

  Rush did not do the same.

  “Man, get your head outta your ass or you’re not only gonna lose your daughter, you’re gonna lose it all.”

  Paul was searing a look at Rush, but Rush was grabbing my hand and pulling me to the door.

  “I’m not sure you’re welcome back,” Paul spat at Rush.

  “I’m pretty sure, you keep acting like a moron, I don’t care,” Rush muttered, opened the door and pulled me out, turning back and saying, “Goodbye.”

  He reached in, shut the door and moved me down their walk.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” I whispered, holding tight to his hand.

  “Good that happened. Amy needed to lay it out,” Rush did not whisper back.

  “You didn’t have to witness it.”

  He stopped me at the passenger door to his truck and looked down at me. “Would you still be in there, playing referee to those two, if I was out in my truck?”

  I slid my eyes away.

  “Right,” he muttered, yanking open my door. “So it’s good I went in. Now we can go home, fuck, I can crash, we can find out where the fuck your brother and his man are, get them home to you, and I can go back out and shake down more people who have no idea where Chew is. Another perfect day.”

  Oh man.

  He was tired, done with this mess, probably hungry, had to deal with that ugly with Paul and Amy, and, well . . . tired.

  I did not delay climbing into the truck.

  Rush closed me in, rounded the hood, then angled in the other side.

  After he started it up and pulled out into the road, I asked, “Do you want my cheesy biscuit breakfast sandwiches?”

  “It’ll take too long. We’ll grab something from a drive thru, eat it on the way home, I’ll finish breakfast eating you out, then I’m gonna sleep.”

  “That’s a plan,” I said, though I hated fast food (all but Arby’s, their beef and cheddars and curly fries were crack). The rest of it, I was totally down with, and one part of it, I was seriously down with. I dug my phone out of my pocket and told him, “I’ll call D.”

  “Good idea,” he muttered.

  Diesel didn’t answer so I left a message.

  Rush was taking our order from a drive thru window at Taco Bell when my phone binged with a text.

  Doing some shit with Sixx. It’s gonna take a while. Covered?

  “D says he’s doing something with Sixx and it’s gonna take a while,” I told Rush as he handed me the bag.

  “They’re not back when I wake up, I’ll drop you at Essence’s,” Rush replied, pulling out of the fast food lane.

  And there it was again.

  Plans change, Rush just found a new flow.

  Covered, I texted D. Then followed up with, I might be at Essence’s if you’re gone long. I’ll text.

  Right, sis. Later.

  I dug in the bag to get out Rush’s breakfast burrito.

  “Thanks for taking me,” I said.

  “Not a problem,” he replied.

  “Thanks for being awesome.”

  His lips quirked, he glanced at me, took his burrito and looked back at the road.

  “Not a problem.”

  I pulled out my own burrito, set the hash browns and cinnamon balls where Rush could get at them, then crunched up the bag an
d threw it to the floor.

  I unwrapped enough to take a bite, chewed, swallowed and announced, “You’re right.”

  Rush did not swallow his bite but asked with a full mouth, “About what?”

  “Diane gave me one last thing after she died.”

  He knew where I was leading and that was why I got a gentle, “Babe.”

  “I wouldn’t want it to happen this way. But it did. So that’s what I’ve got. And I’m good to take it.”

  He switched burrito hands to reach out and give my thigh a squeeze.

  He nabbed a hash brown on the way back to the steering wheel.

  “I’m glad Amy did that. I’m not so worried anymore,” I shared.

  “Yeah,” he replied.

  “They’re really not that awful,” I told him.

  “Amy’s not,” he replied firmly.

  Hmm . . .

  It would seem Rush wasn’t as easygoing with men who treated the women in their life like dirt, even with extenuating circumstances.

  I understood Paul’s extenuating circumstances (to a point).

  I still liked that.

  We ate.

  We made it back to his house.

  We fucked.

  And Rush passed out.

  But I lay naked in his arms, watching Rush sleeping, marveling that he still looked badass doing it, thinking about our morning and about what D and Mad were doing with Sixx and about going to Phoenix.

  I’d had his dad’s pancakes (and they were amazing).

  Rush really needed to try my cheesy biscuit breakfast sandwiches.

  And he might not know it because he’d never had it, but he really needed someone around to look after him.

  I wanted to be that someone.

  Bad.

  The question was, was it more important I look after him by going to Phoenix?

  After his losing it when his mom was such a bitch, and that day, him dragging me around, putting a good face on it even though he was dragging, I was uncertain.

  What I knew was, we could talk about it more, he’d be open to my thoughts and concerns, and we’d come to a decision.

  Together.

  And knowing that would be how it went down was awesome.

  Valenzuela

  One twenty-eight, Sunday afternoon . . .

  His head snapped back, he heard a low but sharp cry of pain as his teeth dragged flesh, and he found it an odd but alluring sensation that he was not able to move his hips when he spent himself magnificently into the condom.