I’m confused with Rachel’s distinction though. “Don’t all her mistakes and decisions make up her past?”
“Not in the way you think,” she answers, shaking her head. “There’s a reason she separates her mistakes and her decisions from her past. Those were of her own doing, but her past…she had no control over.”
“Tell me,” I urge Rachel, grabbing her arms.
I can’t take the secrets anymore, the talking in circles; I need to know what Sullivan, Rachel and even Marshall are hiding. It sure as hell isn’t just about that asshole Rick, even though that story seems to have more layers to it than they are letting on. There is more. More to that story. More to the fact that her parents aren’t here with us. More to her life than any of them are willing to tell me. A strange feeling overtakes me in that moment and instead of fear of the unknown, battling my flight instincts and the still small voice telling me to get the fuck far away from Sullivan, a calm grips me. A deep sense of knowing that despite what Rachel might or might not tell me, I will never give up on her.
Rachel shakes herself free from my grasp, shaking her head. “It’s not for me to say. It’s not for Marshall to say. Sullivan has to be the one to tell you. I know it’s tearing you apart not knowing much about her, and I know every instinct is probably telling you to give up on her, but please,” she pleads, “don’t.”
How can I ever? I didn’t get the answers I want, but I know that in order to find out what my girl’s secrets are, I will have to find her. I nod and smile down at Rachel who gives me a light squeeze as she hugs me.
“I can see why she likes you so much,” she mumbles into my chest. “Being in your arms now, I feel cherished…protected. Like nothing or no one can touch me.”
I chuckle softly and squeeze her tighter to me.
“What?” she asks, gazing up at me.
“Would you believe that that’s how I feel every time I’m in her arms?” I say with a smile as I look out to the approaching dawn.
“And would you believe that that’s how I feel when I’m in her arms too?” she expresses.
I look down at the strawberry blonde mess of hair below me and I kiss the top of her head. Her eyes gloss with tears and I hold her tighter. “We’ll find her,” I promise her.
“Promise?” Her grey eyes twinkling with welled up tears.
“Promise,” I whisper.
Twenty-nine hours, thirty-six minutes, fifteen seconds and counting. I’m about to tear my hair out because there’s still no goddamn word. I lost count of all the arguments I’ve had with officers throughout the day, accusing them of doing their jobs poorly. On two occasions Detective Witherspoon has had to throw me out of the building so I could calm down before ripping into more than one of the officers around. At one point, my mother even slapped me in the back of the head reminding me of my manners and on her coercion – I’m honestly afraid of that woman – I had to say an embarrassing apology to the entire precinct for my behavior.
Things are taking too fucking long. Every moment without her, without so much as a word or a clue as to where this fucking psychopath might have taken her, is agony.
“You have to calm down, Ben,” Matt says on our drive to his restaurant for dinner.
Rachel had taken Marshall to the apartment with her, one of my bodyguards in tow, and I let Simon take Mom back to my house.
“I can’t help it, Matt. We’re not any closer to finding her than we were yesterday. It’s just so fucking frustrating!” I huff, pulling at the tips of my hair.
I look like shit from not getting much sleep the night before, but if no sleep is what it takes to find Sullivan, it will be worth it.
“Well in that case, I’ve got an idea,” Matt proposes as we pass Rittenhouse Square. I should take Sullivan to dinner out here one day, I think wistfully.
“Shoot,” I tell him, trying to pull my mind from my intense longing.
I miss her terribly and every passing moment without her not only worries me, but is hollowing out my soul. I am in endless torment. My own personal hell…
“You hear me, bro?” Matt nudges me, dragging me from my thoughts.
“Huh?” I had no idea I had zoned out. How long had it been?
This no Sullivan thing is really taking a toll on me to the point where every once in a while I slip into a Sullivanic-trance…that’s the only way I can describe what’s going on with me. It’s consumed my every thought, my very dream, my conversations, my life…or lack thereof. Even before Sullivan was kidnapped, I’d felt empty; like a shell, wasting away with work, Molly and booze. I’m glad that now I have company. The more people I surround myself with, the better.
“I know you miss her.” I must’ve wandered off again; Matt’s voice brings me back to the conversation.
I really am not very good company right now. I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’m sorry, Matt.”
“No, it’s fine. We’re here anyway.” He shuts the engine off and it’s then that I realize where we are…not at Matt’s restaurant.
We’re at the club.
Anger rises to a boiling point and I bang on the dashboard of his car and turn to him. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” I blare at him. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kick your fucking ass for bringing me to Allure, Matt.”
“Just hear me the fuck out, will ya?” the fucker begs.
At that time, a knock sounds on the window, scaring the shit out of me. I look out the window to see Marcus, one of my best friends and business partners, grinning at me with his latest rug rat in his arms.
Stepping out of the car, I greet him warmly, hugging him and kissing his baby girl, Eva – all bundled up and warm – on the head. Shit, I needed this guy.
“How you doin’, bro?” he asks, tucking his little girl deeper into his arms.
He loves her so much, I admire that about him. Although the bastard owns a strip/sex club, he loves his family with a fierce passion.
Marcus is a tall, fairly built guy with smooth caramel skin, low-cut, wavy, dark hair, a neatly trimmed goatee and a bright white smile. His eyes are hazel-grey, a little cat-like. He has a rich, smooth voice, which I am told melts panties. More than all of that, he’s a voice of reason.
“She’s still missing, what’d you think?” I answer, bringing my gloved hands up to my mouth and blowing into them for warmth. The air is nippy today.
“F…damn,” he curses, correcting himself. He tries not to cuss around Eva and it’s hilarious to see the guy who let’s F-bombs fly like they’re another language try.
“Okay, so I’ve already talked about this with Matty, yeah?” he speaks with resolution in his voice.
I look at Matt and scowl at him. “What the fuck, Matt? An intervention, really?”
“Not an intervention, homie,” Marcus says, shaking his head at me. “A possible solution.”
“Keep talkin’,” I bid him.
“It’ll require you goin’ into the trenches and probably breakin’ a few rules, dude. You ready for that?” Marcus tells me.
I think about that for two seconds. Following the rules has got me nada. No-fucking-where.
“Fuck yes.”
“You might die,” he reveals, widening his eyes to let me know that this is not something on the up and up.
I step toward him and look straight in his eyes when I admit, “Dude, she’s missing…I’m already dead.”
Chapter Eight
Night has descended and ominously, it has started to rain. I picture them as Sullivan’s tears; her crying out for me to rescue her. Shrugging off another wistful moment, I take in my familiar surroundings. We’d been driving for about an hour, trying to find the one person who could possibly help us. This is definitely a suicide mission, but my options are few and none right now.
I look up at the building in front of us and I gulp. It’s an old warehouse. To the untrained eye¸ it’s abandoned, but Matt and I know different. On top of the building are various satellites, hidden by b
illboards advertising electronics. A few glasses on the building are broken and dim light escapes through the cracks.
Looking over at Matt, I nod. “The thought did cross my mind more than once. I’d kind of forced the idea back down since we were already dealing with the cops.”
“So…?” Matt waits for my next move, his brows lifting expectantly.
“We’ve got no choice now, do we?” The police are no closer to finding her. They have no leads or sightings. I open the car door and set one foot out.
“If I get shot, I will haunt Marcus’s ass forever,” I grumble.
Matt chuckles as he opens his door and I can’t help but do the same. The cold bites into both of us and I shiver, cursing. Cold or not, it’s now or never.
When we’re both out of the car, we step out toward the building, my heart racing to keep up with my head. What the fuck are we doing here?
A click startles us both and the feel of cold metal on my neck freezes any further movement from me.
This night just keeps getting better and better, I huff silently.
Through the corner of my eye I see silver metal shining in the back of Matt’s head. I flinch with my first instinct to try to save him.
“Move an inch and you’re both dead,” a rough voice warns as he presses the metal more firmly into my nape. “I’ll search this Hayes,” he says to his partner. “You search the other.”
After giving us a thorough search and confiscating our phones, they nudge us with the guns to walk towards the warehouse, hands raised. The doors slide open immediately when we near it and we all walk through, hands still risen.
We walk into the familiar building and we see the familiar face smirking at us behind a single large black desk filled with large computer monitors, giving off a fluorescent luminescence in the middle of the vast space. He rises sleekly, buttoning his dark grey jacket and moving around the desk. He runs his hand through his neck length silky black hair and his smile seems to widen as he leans against the desk and crosses his legs at the ankles, waiting for us to come closer.
“Well, well, well,” he lilts. “What do we have here? Benji and Mapollo.”
I scowl at him for using that God-awful childhood name and I look across at Matt whose face has turned to ice.
“I’m sorry, Ben and Matt,” he corrects himself while chuckling and holding his hands up in mock resignation.
“Drake,” I breathe, trying to check my anger. “Would you mind getting your pet poodles to back off?” I glance over my shoulder at Quincy smirking at me.
Quincy is one of Drake’s many bodyguards – big, black, tall, handy with a gun and quick on his feet. The other guy is Nate – huge, white, bald head, goatee and a scar from the corner of his eye to his cheek bone. I am oddly calm, considering who I am standing in front of, but my familiarity with him exceeds any fears I have, as well as what I plan on asking him.
Drake is master at what he does. He’s ex-Seal, as in, he was too much of a loose cannon and was booted. He’s also a genius, cunning, and ruthless. He’s a criminal – no pretty way of saying that.
He deals in…finding people and finding things out about any and everything and everyone. It hadn’t taken him long to build and maintain his empire, earning a stronghold over the city of Philadelphia and a widely known and feared name across Pennsylvania, New Jersey and New York.
Drake and his team do their criminal version of private investigation, corporate espionage, surveillance and assassination, among other dubious…activities. If someone goes missing that owes, say the mob, Drake finds and “takes care of” that person without the hit being tied to said mob – not that there’s any organization out there called the “mob”.
Really.
Drake knows every important person who comes through Philadelphia, as it’s pretty much his job to know. If a noted criminal were to come through here, he had to know first, and then give them permission.
He’s good at being who he is and if not for being childhood friends, I’m sure that the moment Matt’s Mercedes graced the gravel of this premises, we would have been shot. I secretly thank divine providence for that life-saving fact.
“Pet poodles!” Drake howls with laughter, throwing his head back. “That’s a good one, Ben.” He nods to the two guard dogs and they back off, not without Quincy tapping the back of my head with his gun.
“Okay, so you two are probably the last I expected to see here, right up there with Obama. What kinda trouble are you both in?” He eyes us suspiciously as he folds his arms across his chest and rests his chin between his thumb and forefinger.
“We need to solicit your…expertise,” Matt answers.
“I have plenty, Matt. You need to be more specific.” He waves his hand in the air to signify how plenty his expertise are.
“Information…I need you to find someone for me,” I say as calmly as I can; when really all I want to do is grab him and tell him to help me or else.
“What’s in it for me?” Drake asks calmly, resting his hands on the desk on either side of him.
I sigh exasperatingly and approach him. Of course, his bodyguards are right to stay within breathing distance of me with that move. Drake waves them off and refocuses on me, but they don’t move. Do they think I’m that dumb to try to make a move on their boss while they’re here and obviously strapped?
“We’re fine, Quincy. Ben won’t do anything. We have…an understanding,” Drake says to his men and I guess understanding is code for “we’re friends”, because despite the route he has taken, Drake, Matt, Marcus, Bryce and I are friends.
The five of us grew up together and formed a bond so strong that no one could come between. I’d stolen Drake’s girlfriend when he enlisted, though, so there’s that one little glitch. It’s still a tossup if he’s forgiven me for that. If I walk out of here with my life then that will speak volumes.
The dogs back off eventually and Drake claps his hands together. “Okay, I’m all ears, Ben and this better be good.”
“Did you see the pictures with me and that girl at the gala dinner?” I ask him. He must’ve. Everyone did.
Drake motions behind me for some chairs and in a matter of seconds two chairs are brought to us. Matt and I sit on the seats provided while Drake strolls around to his and eases himself into it, resting his elbows on the arms and tenting his fingers.
“Yeah, I saw her…” he hedges. “Is she the one that’s missing?”
“They still can’t find her,” I say by way of an answer and an explanation as to why I came to see him.
“Ah.” He nods as realization dawns. “So you need me to find her.”
We are all silent for a while as he busies himself with his keyboard. I am pretty irritated that he’s doing that, but I am begging a favor. As long as he is going to help me, it doesn’t matter. Well, as long he doesn’t stall for too long.
“What’s the guy’s name?” he finally asks as he looks intently on the screens in front of him and taps the keys on the keyboard quickly.
“Rick Mason,” I respond.
Drake scrunches his nose and his brows furrow, stopping the increasingly annoying tapping of the keys. A frown mars his lips and I wonder if he had found something on his computer.
“I knew that fucker was bad news,” he spits, shaking his head. “I knew he was coming here. A contact in New York told me. I knew he was a recovering junkie and now an entrepreneur, so I never got suspicious. When he spent only cash, it didn’t even ring any bells. He changed hotels twice and still, I thought nothing of it. After a week, I just thought he was here on vacation so I let my suspicions die down. We had dinner once, and he went on and on about an old flame that he wanted to reconnect with so I was thinking that his intentions were honorable. If I had known…”
“Do you know where he is?” I pipe up, pissed and excited at the prospect that Drake can lead us to them.
But he shakes his head.
“His last whereabouts was the hotel on 17th and Walnut and t
hat was two days ago,” he answers.
“But can you find them?” Matt asks when I deflate with nerves and dashed hopes. I’m happy he’s here because I’d be a stupid wreck without him.
“I can,” Drake responds. “But not without information.”
I tell Drake everything about the day she was kidnapped, even uploading the recording I had taken to his computer.
“Is there anything else I need to know?” Drake asks as he slides my cell phone back to me.
“I don’t know how significant this is but he called her Delilah. Neither her friend Rachel nor her lawyer Marshall has explained to me why he’d call her that, but they told me the history between the two of them; that they used to date and that he raped her and she shot him and ran away to escape jail time.”
“Hmm,” Drake murmurs, rubbing his chin with a long index finger. “That’s quite a story. I don’t see you with a woman like that, Ben; she sounds dangerous.”
“You let me worry about that.”
“Do you care for her?” he asks seriously…and isn’t that the million dollar question?
“Yes,” I say softly.
“Care for her like you did, Jennifer?” he jabs. I knew it was coming.
“Are you still mad at me about that, Drake?” I snap.
“That bitch was a slut,” he waves it off. “I still owe you an ass kicking for that bullshit, but I am asking you a valid question.”
I sigh, knowing now what he is asking. Jenny was just someone I could fuck. I’d tossed her after I had a few goes at her.
“No, I don’t,” I grit out. He nods his understanding.
“Are you in love with her?” And there’s the other million dollar question.
“What does that have to do with anything?” I spit.
“I just want to know how far your feelings go for this girl. You came to me, Ben,” he reminds me. “I don’t do safe, I do dangerous and clean, and for you to risk your squeaky clean, big shot, business exec reputation and seek assistance from “unmentionables” like me–” He air quotes– “well…this girl must mean a lot to you,” he deduces, as only Drake can.
Broken Love Page 9