[Bellamy and the Brute 01.0] Bellamy and the Brute

by Alicia Michaels

  “Isabella,” I whispered, watching as her nightgown fluttered around her ankles, despite the fact that the air around us remained still.

  She stood staring at me with her dark, unblinking eyes, her mouth a thin, unmoving line.

  I reminded myself that she wouldn’t hurt me. Still, when she approached me, I flinched away, cringing at the sound of her bones snapping beneath her skin. I bit back a whimper, falling back against the hood of the car. The heat from the metal stung my skin, but instinct kept me there, more willing to take the pain from the heat than let Isabella get her hands on me.

  “We’re not there, yet,” I said, fighting to still my trembling voice. “But we’re trying. Tate… he’s really trying.”

  She inclined her head with another crunch, wrinkling her brow as if trying to understand.

  I tried again. “You’re Isabella, right?”

  She seemed confused, lowering her eyes, then glancing left and right as if trying to remember her own name. Then, she nodded, making the joints in her neck crackle.

  “They say you hung yourself, but Camila didn’t believe that,” I continued. “And neither do I.”

  Reaching up to her neck, Isabella pressed her fingers against the dark bruise staining her white skin. When she fixed her black eyes back on me, I realized that a tear had escaped one eye. Even though she was dead, I imagined Isabella felt very much alive. If she could cry, that meant she could feel—sadness, despair, and pain. Where I’d once feared her and Camila, I now experienced pity. I’d be angry, too, if I found myself trapped between life and death, stuck feeling the pain I’d been subjected to at death.

  “We need a little more time,” I told her. “Please. We’re so close to ending this.”

  Glancing back up at the house, Isabella didn’t indicate that she’d heard me for a long while. Following her gaze, I wondered if Camila remained inside. Maybe the two silently communicated somehow.

  Finally, she turned back to me and nodded.

  “Okay?” I asked, edging away from the hood and back to the open driver’s side door. “More time?”

  Isabella nodded again, that unnerving sound sending a shiver down my spine.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I promise you, we’ll get justice for you. Soon.”

  Glancing down into the car, I lowered myself to the driver’s seat. When I looked back up, she was gone. Breathing a sigh of relief, I closed my eyes, giving myself a minute to calm down. When I opened them, the rose petals were gone too. There was nothing but the gate ahead of me, and the turn-off for the road leading into town.

  Once I felt able to drive again, I pulled out, turning the encounter over in my head. It had been a while since Isabella and Camilla had appeared to us, and I wondered if the fact that one of them had come to me directly meant they were getting impatient. Dread settled in my gut at the thought of being cursed by the ghosts like Tate… or watching him get worse once the ghosts became dissatisfied with our progress. More than ever, I was resolved to see this through until the end.

  Cruising to a halt at a stop sign, I glanced in the rearview mirror, wrinkling my brow at the sight of a black Lincoln pulling up behind me. Maybe I was being paranoid, but it seemed as if every time I had glanced in my rearview mirror, that car was tailing me.

  Testing the theory, I hit my turn signal to go right, instead heading straight—the way I needed to take to get home. The car continued straight after I’d turned, and I loosened my grip on the wheel, releasing my breath on a sigh of relief. The encounter with Isabella had left me shaken and now I was being paranoid.

  I flicked the signal to turn left and get back on course, but when I did, the black car appeared again from an intersection at my left, having made a turn to come back in my direction.

  I swallowed past the lump in my throat and fought the urge to panic. I took another turn, left, and then right again. Each time, the car wasn’t far behind, trailing me wherever I went.

  “What the hell?” I whispered.

  Why would someone be following me around? The details of my day-to-day life were not that interesting.

  They didn’t used to be, I thought. But they are now.

  A tremor rocked me at the thought that someone could be on to Tate and me. Had our digging got us into a hole we couldn’t climb out of? Who would care that we were asking around about Camila Vasquez?

  Whatever the case, this guy was definitely trailing me, and I was not about to lead him to my house or my dad.

  Clenching my jaw, I led him around a bit more before pulling into the parking lot of a gas station. As I got out of the car, the black Lincoln continued past, disappearing down the street, back in the direction of downtown. I slumped against the driver’s side door, taking a few deep breaths before getting back in. I wasn’t sure how long I sat, waiting to see if the car would come back, but after a while, it appeared they didn’t intend to bother with me anymore. For now.

  Pulling away from the gas station, I took the long route home, ensuring no one was behind me before I allowed myself to pull into the driveway.

  Once inside the house, I headed straight to the kitchen to start dinner. Dad would be home soon, and I wanted it ready when he got here. But my hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t still them, and by the time I realized I was in no condition to cook, I had spilled an entire box of rice and dropped several kitchen knives.

  I cleaned the mess, and then slumped in a chair at the kitchen table, giving myself some time to calm down.

  Why would someone follow me? If I’d come home and they had found me here alone, would I have been in danger?

  Burying my face in my hands, I forced myself to face the fact that Tate might have been right. This was getting deep, and we were in over our heads.

  But then, I thought of Camila Vasquez and her fruitless investigation. The woman had died trying to prove something, and it was up to us to figure out what. All this meant was I needed to be smarter about how I went about gathering information, and I had to watch my back whenever I was out alone.

  Finally, I decided Tate didn’t need to know about any of it. It would only upset him to think I might be in danger, and I didn’t want him to cancel our trip to Fayehill. I had a feeling there were so many of the answers we were looking for there.

  Resolved, I stood and went to splash some cold water on my face, then returned to the kitchen to make dinner. When I heard Dad coming in, I plastered a smile on my face and pretended that everything was okay.

  The light breeze whipped through the open driver’s side window of Tate’s car, lashing my curls into a frizzy mess—but the evening air felt nice, so I let it go, despite knowing my ponytail would be ruined by the time we reached Fayehill. Beside me in the passenger seat, Tate lay reclined with his sunglasses on, eyes closed behind them. Another migraine had put him in bed all day, but he was determined that we make this trip to Camila’s hometown. Especially since this might be our only chance. I’d told Dad that the Baldwins needed me to stay overnight because they were going to be out of town on business.

  He’d been a bit reluctant, but I’d told him about Tate’s migraines over the past week, and he relented, knowing he was in no shape to look after his siblings.

  “Call to check in with me while you’re there,” he’d insisted. “And let me know when they’ve arrived back home, so I can come pick you up.”

  So, Friday, after my time with Max and Emma was up, I’d thrown my overnight bag into the back of Tate’s car and taken the wheel for the five-hour drive to Fayehill. Since it would be late when we arrived, we would have to visit the Vasquez family first thing in the morning, then hightail it back to Wellhollow Springs.

  Chewing my lower lip, I sighed, gazing out at the long stretch of highway looming in front of me. I hated lying to Dad, and it was becoming a habit. I would be glad when this whole thing was behind us, because I hated feeling like I was being forced to choose between him and Tate.

  “Are we there yet?” he mumbled, turning his head sl
ightly to look at me.

  I smirked, stifling a giggle. This was the fifth time he’d asked me—likely because he was bored. He’d been sleeping off and on during the four hours I’d been driving, and each time he came awake, he asked if we were there yet.

  “No,” I said, trying to sound serious, but failing. “Ask me again, and I’ll pull over and put you out on the side of the road.”

  “You could let me drive,” he offered. “I’m okay now.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Bull. You are not driving anyone anywhere right now. I’ve got this. Only one more hour to go.”

  “I forgot to tell you something I found while doing some more research on Mayor McShifty,” he said suddenly.

  “Mayor McShifty?” I laughed.

  “Fits Canton Haines to a ‘T’ don’t you think? Something about the guy doesn’t sit right with me.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” I said with a shiver, remembering our encounter at the festival.

  Since the night I’d been followed on my way home, I’d often wondered if it had been a result of that conversation. Was the mayor trying to cover his tracks? If so, why? What had he done that needed to be covered up?

  “Well, turns out, we aren’t the only ones who can see through his ‘town hero’ façade,” Tate continued, adjusting his seat so he could sit up straighter. “There was a man named Jim Barnes. He wrote for the Wellhollow Springs Sentinel and published a few pieces on local government corruption. Canton Haines ignored a lead-poisoning crisis in one of the town’s oldest and poorest neighborhoods, leading to several deaths, according to Jim. There might also have been some city money that went missing. Jim seemed to think the funds for road maintenance and water purification were pocketed. He was adamant about exposing this stuff, and had earned himself a reputation at the Sentinel for his editorial pieces.”

  “Jim Barnes,” I murmured. “Why do I know that name?”

  Tate glanced over at me, raising his sunglasses up into his hair. “Hot tub guy.”

  I gasped. “The man who accidentally drowned in his hot tub was Jim Barnes?”

  “Yep,” he confirmed. “Fishy, no?”

  “Fishier than a can of Chicken of the Sea,” I muttered. “It can’t be a coincidence that this man dies in a weird accident after publishing those articles.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” he replied. “I hope this trip yields some more answers. If we can just make that connection to Canton Haines, I think we’ll nail this thing.”

  Keeping a grip on the wheel with one hand, I reached out to take his. “We will. I have a good feeling about this.”

  Tate clutched my hand back, but didn’t reply. He’d turned to look out the window at the sky, now dark and blanketed in stars.

  We spent the rest of the trip talking about mundane things—stuff we liked, didn’t like. The standard ‘we just started dating’ questions and answers. It felt nice to forget about everything else for a little while and act like a normal couple, which we certainly were not. At least, the circumstances bringing us together weren’t exactly typical.

  We arrived in Fayehill late and parked at the first hotel we came across—a decent-enough place that let Tate pay in cash. Seeming to feel better now, he suggested we grab dinner and eat before calling it a night.

  Unlocking the door to our double queen bedroom, I pushed it open while Tate toted both our overnight bags over the threshold. The room smelled clean, had a working AC, television, and coffee pot, so I was content. A long counter held two sinks against a far wall, with a mirror above it. The door to what I assumed must be the bathroom sat to its left. It wasn’t a palace, but we’d only be here overnight. Glancing over at the two beds separated by a single nightstand, I felt my pulse begin to gallop in my throat. This would be the first time we spent more than a few hours alone together. Without a curfew or the threat of Emma and Max walking in on us at any time, anything could happen. My palms began to sweat at what the notion of ‘anything’ could entail.

  For now, though, there were more pressing concerns—like the fact that we hadn’t eaten for hours. I reached for the small binder resting on the nightstand. I was glad for a distraction when I flipped it open to find several local places to grab food. Sinking onto the closest bed, I flipped through the different offerings.

  “Looks like there are some places around here that deliver to the hotel,” I murmured, glancing over the various menus. “You want a burger or pizza? Ooh, there’s Chinese!”

  He laughed. “You sounded excited about Chinese, so let’s do that.”

  Reaching for the phone, I dialed the number. “Okay, I’ll order. Hopefully, they’re still open this late.”

  “I’m going to hop in the shower while you do that,” he replied.

  I nodded in response, frowning when the phone continually rang without an answer. They must have been closed. Dialing the number for a place advertising the best burgers in town, I ordered. By the time I’d finished, Tate was out of the shower, sitting on the other bed across from me. He wore a pair of gray pajama bottoms and nothing else, using a towel to dry his damp hair. I watched him, unable to look away. The way the light of the lamp played over his wet hair was downright hypnotic, making strands of gold shimmer among the dark brown coils, made curly from being washed. A few stray droplets slithered down his neck, and then lower, over the bulges of his chest. Frowning, he used the towel to catch them, and then dropped it on the floor before glancing up at me.

  Clearing his throat, he ran a hand through his hair, pushing the wet mass back from his forehead. “Um, Bell?”

  “Yeah?” I answered, my voice hoarse from the lump taking up residence there. I could barely think past imagining pressing my hands against his bare skin and smoothing them over the lines and planes making up his naked torso.

  “Can you hand me my bag?”

  Tearing my gaze away from him, I realized both our bags sat close to the door, which my bed was nearest to.

  “Sure,” I replied, turning my back to him, grateful for the distraction.

  If I’d stared at him any longer, the urges seeing him half-dressed made me feel would be harder to ignore. When I turned back to hand him the bag, he stood, accepting it with a smile.

  “Thanks,” he murmured.

  Reaching into the bag, he produced a comb and began raking the wet curls back from his face, taming them into smooth waves. Since I couldn’t go on staring at him all night, I reached for my own bag and retreated into the bathroom. Closing the door, I leaned against it and took a moment to calm my frazzled nerves. I could do this. I could spend the night in the same room with Tate without losing my mind. Especially since it seemed as if he was being cooler about this than I was.

  Of course, he’d probably been in this situation a bunch of times. I was the inexperienced one here.

  Peeling myself away from the door, I dropped my bag on the closed toilet, proceeded to undress down to my underwear, and then turned the shower’s nozzle all the way to ‘hot’. Waiting for the water to heat up, I took my hair from its loose ponytail and worked to make sure the stray strands were pulled to the top of my head so they didn’t get wet. I didn’t have the time or energy for a conditioning and detangling session tonight, so washing would have to wait. I must have tugged the rubber band too hard, because it snapped in my hand, stinging my fingers.

  “Crap,” I muttered, glaring at the broken band in my hand.

  Going into my bag, I began rummaging for another, but realized there weren’t any.

  I sighed. “Double crap.”

  “Everything okay in there?” came Tate’s voice from the other side of the door.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Just broke something, is all. No big deal.”

  “Broke what? Let me see.”

  His voice sounded much closer now, as if he stood just outside the door. Glancing down at myself, I became all too aware of the fact that I was pretty much naked. Reaching for a clean towel, I wrapped it around myself and made sure it was secure bef
ore opening the door a crack.

  Tate stood on the other side, now wearing a shirt. I extended my arm through the cracked door with the broken rubber band in my palm.

  “It’s just a broken hair tie,” I told him. “I told you, no big deal.”

  Chuckling, he plucked it from my hand. “I’ve heard the ‘don’t get my curls wet’ speech enough times to know you need this thing. Gimme a sec.”

  Leaning against the frame, I let the door fall open a bit more and watched as Tate attempted to tie the two broken ends of the rubber band together again. After a few seconds of fumbling, he managed to get it tied into a knot. Holding it up, he grinned.

  “Success. Turn around and let me do it. This thing is fragile now, and you’re just going to break it again with your manhandling.”

  “I did not manhandle it,” I grumbled even as I turned my back to him. “It’s an old rubber band.”

  Tate didn’t respond, going silent as he began piling my hair on top my head, gently pulling it up with one hand and gathering it in his opposite fist. Closing my eyes, I sighed at the feel of his fingers stroking the strands, swaying back into him as he stroked the back of my neck between pulls, lingering on the sensitive spot just where it met the top of my shoulders.

  His breath caught and released on a rush, tickling my exposed skin. I shivered, swaying back against him as he quickly and neatly pulled my hair into a topknot.

  “You’re good at that,” I murmured, reaching up to feel his handiwork. Not a strand had escaped the band.

  Wrapping an arm around my waist, he pulled me back against him, lowering his head until his lips brushed the side of my neck.

  “What? This?” he murmured, kissing his way down to my shoulder.

  “Hmm, that too,” I whispered, placing my hand over his where it rested against my belly.