“Even so, Dad,” I say in a gentler tone. “I want to check on him. He was still unconscious when you took him home. He could be dead...”
“He was coming round in the car,” he says sulkily, “but fine. Go and check on him if you want. Make sure he knows he's not getting paid, though!”
~~~~~~~
As I knock on Dragon's door, I realize I feel a flutter of nerves. I was so focused on getting my father's permission that it never occurred to me that Dragon might not want to see me, at least not until now. After all, my father held him at gun point, knocked him out, and then dumped him back at home without a penny of the money he earned. Freeman might not be a popular name around here. But it's too late to turn back now, and besides, I have to see him. I have to thank him for what he did, even if he doesn't want to hear it.
He opens the door and I gasp. His eye is blackened.
“Relax, I've had worse,” he says. “In fact, I've given worse.”
He holds up his right hand. The knuckles are cracked and swollen.
“What can I do for you, Honey?”
“I've... I've come to see how you are.”
“Well, you've seen,” he says, going to close the door in my face.
“Wait! I've come to say thank you, as well. For what you did.”
He sighs. “You want a coffee?”
His apartment is small, but surprisingly clean and tidy. I follow him into the kitchen as he starts to go about making the coffee.
“So, what happened after I checked out?” he asks.
I tell him that Carl has vanished, and that my father has come round to the idea of letting me have a few small freedoms.
“Like this?” he grins. “I don't imagine he was thrilled at the idea of you coming over here. And since I'm not riddled with bullet holes, I'm guessing you didn't tell him about our... connection.”
The word hangs in the air, and I know that like me, he's picturing us together, remembering all the times we were together. It's like somebody whacked the thermostat up to full. The air is suddenly hot and thick. I don't even know who moves first, just that one minute we're standing there awkwardly, and the next minute we're in each other's arms, kissing, touching, stroking.
He's urgent and passionate, but gentle too, mindful of my delicate, bruised skin. I gently kiss the broken skin of his knuckles. He flinches slightly but doesn't stop me, stroking my hair before moving down to my back, my belly, my breasts.
And then somehow we're naked on the kitchen table and he's inside me, and it's good, hot and hard but sweet, too – and I feel more connected to him than I've ever felt to anyone, ever. I know he feels it too because he's different, moaning my name into my ear as he spills his seed inside me. As I orgasm, I don't want it to stop, ever. I wish that I could be frozen in this moment forever...
~~~~~~~
Afterwards, we just... hang out. Like we've done many times before, but this time it's different. Before, he was being paid – or at least expecting to be paid, I remind myself – to spend time with me at my house. Now, it's purely because we want to. And it's lovely, just to chill out without any tension or agenda or drama. For the first time, we're really talking. He tells me about his boxing career, and the old man that trains him. It sounds like he's something of a father figure to Dragon. I tell him about my mom, and how hard it was when she passed, especially on my dad.
We're talking about tattoos, my finger tracing the Chinese dragon that covers his left shoulder, when a thought occurs to me. I can't believe I've never realized this until now.
“Dragon?” I say.
“Yeah?”
“No. I mean, Dragon – that can't be your real name, surely?”
He laughs. “Sure it is. My parents gave me this tattoo when I was just a couple of days old. Of course, it was a picture of a newt back then...”
“Shut up and tell me,” I say, laughing.
“David,” he admits. “David Nolan, at your service.”
“So what came first, the nickname or the tattoo?”
“The nickname. I've had it since I was a little kid. I kind of want to make up a really cool story about why they called me that, but the truth is, I just really liked dragons. I was a geeky kid,” he says.
“That's sweet!” I say.
“What about you?” he says, grinning. His voice becomes high pitched as he mimicks me. “That can't be your real name, surely?”
I punch him in the chest. “Do you mind? My mother gave me that name! And I do not talk like that, David!” I'm trying to sound outraged, but I'm laughing too hard to pull it off convincingly...
~~~~~~~
I'm sitting on the couch with his arms wrapped around me, and we're watching some stupid show on TV, when my phone rings. It's my father. I let it go to voicemail, but I know what it means.
“Time to go home?” Dragon asks with a wry smile.
“Yeah,” I say, stretching and yawning.
He gets up too, and starts walking me to the door.
“So,” I say, “when do you want to do this again?”
His face is conflicted, and he clears his throat before he speaks.
“Look, Honey,” he begins. “This... this can't become a thing.”
I feel like I've been punched in the stomach.
“Don't you... like me?” I say, like a child. I regret the words as soon as they come out of my mouth. I've been through too much to stand here begging some guy to see me again.
“It's not that,” he says. “Your father fucking hates me. And, you know, a lot's happened. You need to take some time, make sure that you're not just doing this because you're grateful I ran that asshole out of town. Nothing's changed, not really, since the last time we had this conversation. You need to stand on your own two feet.”
I feel my temper flaring. Not just because he's rejecting me, again, but because deep down I know he's right. I can't go through life clinging to one man and then the next. I need some space, and some time. That doesn't take the sting out of it, though. I open the door.
“See you around,” I snap.
He grabs my wrist.
“I'm not going anywhere,” he says, kissing me.
I try to be cold, and reject him like he's rejecting me, but I can't help it. I relax, and the hard press of his lips against mine turns into a long, lingering kiss.
“See you around,” I repeat, but this time my voice is warm.
“Most definitely,” he says with a grin as he closes the door.
I'm parked right outside, so it's not too far to the car. As I cross the lot, I find myself feeling lighter, like I have a future for the first time. My own future, one that I can choose, instead of one that's chosen for me or one that I've just fallen into.
I'm so lost in my own happy thoughts that I don't hear the person move up behind me. The first I know of it is when the hypodermic needle slides coldly into the side of my neck...
Chapter Seven - Dragon
As I lie in bed, watching the night turn to dawn, I wonder if I've done the right thing by sending her away. I know I have, but if that's the case, why do I feel like I've just made a huge fuck up?
I grab a beer from the fridge - breakfast of champions - and sit down on the couch, trying not to notice how empty and big it seems, now that I'm the only one sitting on it. I can't concentrate, not on the TV, not on anything. My mind keeps wandering back to her. Frustrated, I decide that I need to get out of here. It's too early to go down to the gym and train, but I can go for a run. I down the last few mouthfuls of beer and get changed into my running gear.
An hour or so later, and I'm starting to feel better. I've pushed myself hard, pounding the streets relentlessly. My thighs and calves are aching, and my breath is starting to come ragged in my chest. It's always the way with me – the physical exertion seems to compress the noise in my head, making it smaller and easier to manage.
I have done the right thing. Maybe not for me, but for her. If she was with me, then her relationship with h
er father would be impossible to manage. He'd never swallow it down, and I'd come between them. Even as it is, I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to go on fighting in this town without feeling the weight of his wrath. I've done nothing wrong, at least not by the code I live by, but I can never explain that to him. If he knew I'd been sleeping with Honey for months, before and during my employment, he would kill me. If Honey and I were together, then who knows what he'd do.
I'd like to think that he'd lay off, but on the other hand, this is the guy who was forcing her into marrying that abusive asshole, just because he was a rich lawyer. Yeah, he didn't know that the douchebag was hitting her, but he must have known she didn't love him, didn't want him. And even before that, he'd practically kept her a prisoner since the mom died. When Honey had talked about it, she didn't seem to realize how crazy it sounded. Or maybe she did, and she was just covering for him. She loves him, that much is clear. Being with me would fracture and twist that love until it was broken and unrecognizable.
I can't do that to her. I know more than anyone what it's like to have a hole in your life where your father should be. Or, more accurately, an asshole. I'd have been better off alone than with him. The day that Child Protective Services took me away was the greatest day of my life, although it hadn't felt like it at the time, and not for a long time after. But, hindsight is 20/20 as they say. I'd been five years old when I was taken from my home, and sent to stay in the house of an older couple who had no children of their own. Mr and Mrs Patrick – known to those who loved them, and many did, as Paddy and Mrs Paddy.
I'd been terrified. A new house, with new rules to learn, and new parents to issue punishment if the rules were broken. It took me a long time to learn that in this new house, it was okay to touch things, to make noise, to laugh and play and run about in the yard. A couple of days in, I'd dropped a cereal bowl and it had smashed on the tile floor. I'd wet myself with fear – breaking something was a Very Bad Thing, one of the worst things you could do – but Mrs Paddy had just hugged me, and told me it didn't matter, it was an accident, and besides, there was plenty more cereal and plenty more bowls, come and look. I'd thought it was a trick, a trap, but it wasn't.
If I'd have stayed with my father, who knows how I would have turned out. Like Carl, probably. The whipped and cowed often grow up to be bullies and thugs – it's the only way they know how to feel powerful, in control. Instead, Paddy taught me to channel my rage and aggression, to control it instead of letting it control me. I think they'd have liked me to get a formal education, but that always reminded me too much of my father. Instead, I became a fighter. I knew I was finally free of my father's malignant shadow the day I stopped dreaming of unmasking him for the monster that he is. He was on the TV, his wife beside him, smiling and waving at the people who had elected him state Governor. I could take it all away from him with a single phone call – any news outlet in the country would fall over themselves to run my story – but I couldn't care less. Fuck him. I know who I am, now, and I know what's important in life. It's sure as shit not him.
So yeah, I think as I pound the pavement, pouring out the tension and frustration, maybe I'm projecting a little, but so what? Honey's father loves her, really, genuinely loves her, and I can't get in the way of that. Besides, she'll meet someone else. She's a great girl – not just hot and sexy, but sweet and kind. She needs to stand up for herself a little more, and learn some self-reliance, but she'll make out okay, I'm sure of it.
As I hit the final stretch, I can see Freeman's car parked outside my building. Oh shit, round two. There's nothing I can do about it, no point running away. Besides, it's not in my nature. Maybe it's another beating, or maybe this time he'll use the firearm he waved in my face earlier. Either way, all I can do is make a stand and go down fighting.
As I reach his car, he bursts out of the drivers seat and launches himself at me, grabbing the front of my sweat-soaked shirt with his fists. His eyes are wild – he's completely fucking lost it. I'm about to headbutt him when he speaks.
“She's gone! They've taken her! They've taken my baby girl!”
He falls to his knees, right there on the parking lot, sobbing. Fuck.
Chapter Eight - Honey
The light is harsh, searing my retinas. I close my eyes and see halos of orange burning there. There's something important, something I need to remember, but it floats away like smoke. I feel my mind slipping away, as I sink back down into the darkness.
I open my eyes again and this time everything is dark. My brain is still foggy, but the pain in my arms is nagging at me, chasing away the haze, forcing me into reality. With a wrench, I finally come to. Where am I?
It's pitch black. I'm sitting on a hard floor, leaning against a wall, my arms above my head. I try to bring them down, but there's something wrapped tightly around my wrists, holding them there. Rope, I think. God, they hurt! I move them around as much as I can, trying to get the blood flowing back through them. I draw one leg up under me and try to stand, but the movement is forcing my arms too far back behind me, and I can't get any higher than an awkward half-crouch.
Defeated, I slide back down into a sitting position, the pins and needles stabbing up and down. I clench my fists, hold, and relax, as if I'm trying to get a vein up for bloods at the doctor's office. It seems to help a little, but not much. How long have I been here? I can't judge the passing of time at all, but the dull ache in my bladder tells me it must have been quite a while. I can't remember much. I was in the parking lot at Dragon's place. There was a sting, like a bee, and a gloved hand over my mouth. After that, everything is jumbled and disjointed. I remember falling on my knees, but on to hard parked dirt, not the asphalt of the parking lot. I remember a voice, booming and yelling, but there's no image to go with the sound. I remember a room, filled with rabid dogs and hundreds and thousands of tiny, biting insects – but that part must have been a dream. Nevertheless, the memory of it heightens my fear.
I still can't see anything. I have not adjusted to the total, absolute darkness. I can only tell if my eyes are open or closed by blinking hard and holding them open. There could be anything in that darkness. The false memory of the insects is gripping me, and I can almost hear them, clicking towards me on many feet. I try to stay calm, focusing on talking deep breaths. In, and out. In, and out. There's no perspective. I could be in a huge, cavernous cellar – or I could be in a broom closet. I fan my legs out slowly, trying to touch something, anything, to get a sense of what surrounds me. I can feel that the floor is rough stone, with bits of grit and debris, but I don't touch an object or a wall.
The sound of my sneakers scraping along the floor is loud in the silence, but there's no echo. I strain my ears, trying to hear anything at all. There's something, but it's faint. And then I place it – the irregular plink of dripping water. As soon as the image flashes into my mind, I realize that I am thirsty, desperately so. My throat is dry and parched, my lips cracked. I lick my lips, and my tongue feels big and clumsy.
I stop breathing as a new panic hits me. Am I alone? My captor, or captors, could be in this place with me, and I wouldn't know. They could be feet away – inches away. There could be a knife at my throat, a gun at my head right now, and I won't know until the cold steel makes contact with my skin. Although that's not the worst thing that could happen to me. I don't know who's taken me, but the list of suspects is short. The guy who's been writing the letters. All the horrible, vile acts that he described come back to me, and I choke down a moan of fear. No. No sound. If he is in here, or if there's a camera rigged up or something, I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of hearing my terror.
He could have already touched me, done things to me, while I was unconscious, but somehow I don't think that's happened. I'm still fully dressed, and there's no pain down there when I shift my position.
I wait. Nothing happens, and nothing happens, and nothing happens. My thoughts become more and more jumbled, but I don't realize that I have fallen asleep
until I wake up with a jerk that sends fresh waves of pain down my rigid arms and deep into my shoulders.
Something has woken me – footsteps, coming straight towards me, fast. I pull my knees up to my chest, trying to shrink into the wall, unable to get away. Hard hands grab my face, and I struggle, thrashing about, whipping my head back and forth, trying to shake the hands off. But it's impossible. Suddenly, everything is hot and I can't breathe. There's a bag over my head, the rough fabric scraping my face.
I cry out in pain as my arms are yanked down into my lap. My wrists are still tied together, but the movement is too much for the trembling muscles. There's a scraping on the floor, two scrapings, and then the footsteps retreat. I hear the slamming of a door – a big, heavy door. I am alone again.
As the feeling in my arms return, I use my hands to pull the bag off my head, taking deep breaths as the fresher air reaches me. Now that I'm not tied to the wall, I can stand. I do so slowly, my legs weak and unsteady, scraping my back up the wall as I lean on it for balance. Once standing, I stretch my arms out in front of me, and take small, hesitant footsteps forward. My foot kicks against something on the floor, and the clang makes me jump. I poke it sightlessly – whatever it is, it's something small.
Twelve steps takes me to the other side of the room. The wall is cold, rough stone, and the picture I have in my mind is of an underground cellar. I follow the wall around, anti-clockwise. It sounded like the door was off to the right, and I don't quite dare approach it until I have a better sense of where I am.
The room is fairly small, and it seems to be more or less empty. It only takes a couple of minutes for me to inch around the perimeter, passing the metal hook embedded into the stone where I woke up, all the way round to the door. I was right – it's a heavy, metal thing. I can feel rivets, but no handle. It only opens from the outside. Then, something brushes against my face, scaring the hell out of me. Bats! That's my first, irrational thought, but as the thing sways back and forth, I can hear clinking. It's a long, thin chain, hanging from the ceiling. I pull it.
Dragon: A Bad Boy Romance Page 7