by Aubrey Cara
All Huntington’s paid-for-hire goons scatter and give up their weapons. Some more grudgingly than others.
Huntington stands in the middle of it all, hands casually raised in the air. He’s got an arrogant cocksure expression on his face when Slater comes up to him, gun drawn, and shoves him down over the desk to cuff him and pat him down. He probably thinks he’s going to get out of this like he has every other time he’s been arrested. I hope to hell they can make it stick this time.
Slater pulls a .22 caliber from Huntington’s pant leg and hands it to a waiting agent, along with a knife and a .32.
Someone knocks me to the ground from behind, snatching my gun, and I let them. Slater calls out, “He’s one of ours,” and whoever’s pulling my arms behind me backs off.
“Sorry man,” the agent who took me down says. “Medic over here,” he calls before patting me on the shoulder.
My vision swims in and out as I lie on the ground. I try to remain conscious, my eyes seeking out Candice.
“Hank!” She’s pushing away from an agent to run over to me. Tears stream down her face. They’re calling for more medics. Paramedics pull her brother down.
I push to my back, letting Candi fall over me, wrap her arms around me. My rib scream in protest, but I don’t care.
It’s over.
My girl’s safe.
Pushing the hair off her face, I drag her down for a kiss. “Let’s not do this again,” I joke, but her eyes are still wide, tears falling unchecked.
My tongue is thick and my mind fuzzy. My adrenaline’s dropping, and blackness is creeping in.
“Hank?” Candi’s beautiful face scrunches in confusion. “Are you okay?” She runs trembling hands over my forehead, cheeks, and beard caked with blood. “I thought they killed you. I thought you were dead.”
“I love you,” I slur. I meant to say something like I’m hard to kill or I’ll be all right. My brain to mouth is no longer functioning. Someone is covering Candi with a blanket and easing her out of the way.
“I think I have a concussion,” I tell the medic flashing a penlight in my left then my right eye.
“Man, you have a hole in your foot, too.”
That makes me smile. “Hurts like it’s been blown off.”
“Nope. You were lucky. It’s still there.”
“You look like shit,” Slater quips, standing over me.
“Crap party. No one told me I was going to be the piñata.”
They load me on a gurney and pop it up in place. I grab Slater, pulling him down to whisper in his ear. “They were waiting for us at the fucking safe house. Know anything about that?”
Slater’s eyes register surprise before his face is a blank mask. “Throwing guys under the bus isn’t my style.”
“I didn’t think it was. Guess it’s time to switch the lights on and see what tries to scurry back to the dark.” I lie back and let them wheel me out to the waiting vehicle.
Locked and loaded in the ambulance, they’re shutting the doors when I ask, “Where is she? Where’s Candice?”
The guy with me shrugs and asks up front about her.
“The naked blonde? She’s riding with the other guy we loaded up. They’re right in front of us,” the driver, a no-nonsense older brunette assures me.
“How is he? The other guy?”
She shrugs. “Not great. Dislocated shoulder, and we think he may have a broken leg, maybe a rib or two. He was coming to when they loaded him.”
We’re driving, siren’s blaring, and I’m trying not to be all asshurt over Candice not being here with me, which is stupid as hell. It’s only right she went with her brother. I would have been shocked if she hadn’t gone with the kid. Dylan needs her now more than I do. She’s the only family he’s got.
Who the hell am I to her?
I mentally block that question on the grounds I probably wouldn’t like the answer. It’s bad enough I want to mean something to her.
Hell, who am I kidding?
I want to mean everything to her.
22
CANDI
I’m exhausted, but if I close my eyes, I hear gunfire. Feel the warm, sticky spray of someone else’s blood on my face. Taste the coppery tang on my lips. See Hank on the ground, bloodied and pale.
“Are you sure you’re up for your shift tonight?” Hank asks, leaning over the couch where I’m lying.
“Yes, Daddy,” I say rolling my eyes. The moniker falls easily from my lips. I’ve been calling him that whenever we’re alone. It feels natural, and makes something warm and fuzzy spread through me.
Also, it doesn’t hurt to know it pleases him. And pleasing him results in that same warm fuzzy feeling.
He runs a knuckle down my cheek, tracing the circles under my eyes which I know are smudged dark with fatigue. Worry lines his forehead. There’s a constant tenderness with how he deals with me now. The first few weeks after everything went down, it was a healing balm, but his brand of tender loving care is beginning to chafe.
He’s still the same controlling Hank, but different. It’s like he’s holding himself back.
I just want everything to be to normal again, even though I doubt that’s possible. We have a new normal. I’ve been living at John’s, or staying with Hank, for the past two months. Dylan, too.
The first week home, Dylan spilled the beans on how I’d been sleeping, or not sleeping. I was fine during the day, but every night I’d wake up screaming. Hank moved us in here when he found out. I complained, but I was secretly relieved. Night time hasn’t been my friend.
When I’m not reliving actual events my subconscious is working overtime on creating new, horrifying scenarios just waiting for me to fall asleep to play themselves out.
The silent biker from the poker game turned out to be Hank’s friend, Slater. I overheard Slater telling Hank about the buyer Dom lined up for me. Some sicko who’s rumored to buy girls so he can torture them to death over weeks and months. However long they last.
My nightmares that week were especially messed up.
So yeah, I’m pretty sure what little sleep I get is because I’m tucked up against Hank. Every time I wake up, I can reach out and curl into him.
John doesn’t like that we’re sleeping in the same room. He thinks we should be married first. Hank laughed and pointed out John was always too quick to pull the trigger when it came to marriage. John’s been married more times than should be legal.
Hank just got his own place and wants me to move in permanently with him, which freaks me out.
Right now, I can lie to myself about our situation being temporary. Moving in together would mean it’s real and I’m not sure if I’m ready for that. People I care about have a way of leaving.
Which is another reason I like being at John’s, because I can tiptoe across the hall in the middle of the night to check on my brother. I need to assure myself he’s here and alive.
When I’m at Hank’s, I have to force myself not to call and check on Dylan twenty times in the middle of the night. I have to stop doing that. If he passes a psych evaluation in two months, he’ll be gone. His plans to join the Army haven’t changed, but after everything that happened, they want to make sure he doesn’t have PTSD going on.
He’ll probably pass just fine. Dylan has proven himself resilient. I think he’s doing much better than me.
Maybe being a Dawson male makes him born to mentally withstand getting beaten bloody. This time they broke his leg and dislocated his shoulder. His shoulder is fine now, but his leg’s in a cast for another two weeks.
If he’s having any nightmares or anxiety from it all, I can’t tell. He actually seems different now. Stronger, even. Maybe it’s because getting picked up by Dom’s men offered him the opportunity to be heroic. He’d given himself up when he found out they were after him, allowing Byron to get away.
“You don’t look like you’re up for working tonight,” Hank says, shifting up.
“Geez. Seriously, I’m fin
e.”
The muscles in his arms flex from knuckle to shoulder as he braces himself on the back of the couch. His jaw ticks. I can tell he wants to call me out for snapping at him. Maybe threaten to spank my fanny.
But he doesn’t.
And I’m…disappointed.
He’s been like this ever since we were taken by Dom—or Huntington, rather. Whatever his name is, I hate him. Sometimes I wonder if Hank just feels obligated to care for me. They say bonding through a traumatic event is normal and healthy. But our we confusing that bond with love?
I definitely feel confused.
I’m not sure what love feels like. A part of me thinks I’ll crumble to ashes if I leave Hank. The other part of me wants to leave and save Hank from himself. I don’t want to be his burden to bear.
He feels responsible for me. He wants to save me, but he doesn’t have to. I’ve always taken care of myself. Why should now be any different?
Also, everyone knows it’s smarter to leave someone before they can leave you.
The thing about leaving is, I worry about him, too. A part of me died when I thought he might be dead. I haven’t told him, but I feel anxious whenever he’s not around. Not because I’m scared for me, but because I’m terrified something will happen to him. I feel the same way about Dylan, but with Hank, it’s worse.
I don’t want him taken away from me. Not ever again.
“You shouldn’t be on your foot,” I chide. His doctor put him in a boot cast last week, and the man’s been walking around way too much. He’s a horrible patient.
“Why don’t you come get me off my feet, baby girl?”
I know what he’s doing. He’s hoping if we have sex, I’ll take a nap. It worked well for a while, but it’s not enough anymore. I’m too strung tight with anxiety. I’m not sure why I feel so anxious. Whatever the reason, I’m up for the distraction.
His eyes are twinkling. The fire is banked, but I’d like to see if I can make it blaze.
I worry my bottom lip between my teeth before I pop it out in a pout.
“I don’t know, Daddy. I’m not really in the mood.” Even as I say it, I feel a hot rush of heat between my legs. My pulse picks up another notch when he chuckles, a low rumble that makes my nipples pebble.
“I find that surprising, princess.” He leisurely runs a hand up my bare leg and between my thighs, playing his fingers in light whispers over my sex. He has to know I’m wet for him, but he shrugs, a wicked smile pulling his lips. “I guess we’ll just have to go lie down.”
He pulls his T-shirt over his head. Even recovering from a gunshot wound, he’s still been working out, and it shows. His chest and abs are all well-defined, hard man. He lets me ogle my fill before walking away.
He gets to the hall and calls, “Are you coming, princess?”
“Not yet, Daddy. But if you’re lucky, in a minute, we’ll both be.”
“Just a minute? You’re making it too easy on me.”
“You are a cripple.”
“Careful little girl, or the only person who will be coming in a minute will be me.” His threat sends delicious tingles through me. I want more. To push him. It’s a sick new game I’ve been playing. Seeing how far I can go to try to get punished.
Keeping my eyes locked on his, I take off my clothes and get down on my knees, slowly crawling across the space to the hall where he stands. Opening his pants, I take out his hard length, licking from top to base before nipping his ball sac. Then rake my nails down his thigh.
Twining his fist in my hair, he yanks my head back hard enough my eyes water, and thrill rushes through me.
“Is that how it’s going to be?” he growls.
I snap my teeth closed in answer, and he pries my lips open wide. Shoving his cock in my mouth and down my throat, he holds it there until I gag and can’t breathe.
This is something I love. Gagging on his cock makes my panties flood, every time. He braces himself on the wall, doing this again and again, until my jaw aches and my eyes are streaming.
“Are you ready to swallow me down?”
I nod, digging my nail into his ass, and then he’s groaning above me. Spilling down my throat in pulses. And I swallow again and again. I nearly come from his rough treatment, but I need more.
He runs a gentle finger down my cheek, his gaze intent. “You’re such a good girl. I’m sorry, princess.” I’m not sure if he’s apologizing for the rough blow job or the fact that he knows what I need and won’t give it to me.
I gaze up at him, wanting to plead with him to give me what I crave. I know it doesn’t make sense, but the darkness that has been creeping into my veins for the past two months demands more than mild spankings and orgasm denial. He doesn’t take things past a little rough sex. Ever. It’s not enough. It’s never enough.
I’m just not sure how to ask for more.
And even scarier, what if he gives it to me, and this darkness doesn’t go away?
23
CANDI
There’s something I haven’t told Hank, and I’m reminded of the fact the second we pull into the parking lot of Rusty Spur. I flash with hot and cold when I see her car already parked there. Kat Martin, the girl Cody attacked.
“What is she doing here?” I ask.
“Who?” Hank asked, putting the 4Runner in park.
“Kat,” I say pointing to her car.
“Oh, I think she’s filling in for Isaac or something.” He quirks a brow in question. “Is that a problem?”
Now would be the perfect time to spill my guts, but instead I say, “No no. It’s fine. She just…isn’t very pleasant to work with. She doesn’t much like me.” Which is true. She always looks like she’d throat punch me given half the chance.
Hank smiles, his eyes going soft, and he leans in to drop a tender kiss on my lips. It’s just a quick one, but still sends a warm tingle through me. “I haven’t worked with her much, but she seems a tough nut. I wouldn’t take it personally,” he says, tucking a loose strand of my hair behind my ear.
If only he knew.
He stands with his door open and leans in. “Are you coming, princess? It’s time to earn your keep.”
“I thought that’s what I did this afternoon.” It comes out harsher than the suggestive tease I’d intended it to be.
“I don’t know what your deal is lately, but you could really use a good—” he breaks off awkwardly, his lips going tight.
My heart plummets to stomach. It’s such an insane thing to be disappointed over. I may call him Daddy, and I may be his princess, and baby girl, but maybe it’s better this way. He takes care of me, and dotes on me.
Wanting things back the way they were between us is twisted.
But I miss the fight.
The rebellion.
Being overpowered.
“Come on, Candi.”
“I’ll be in right behind you.”
He studies intently me for a minute, and I think he wants to say something, but he just nods. “Okay, just don’t take too long. It’s already starting to get busy.” He shuts his door, walks to the back door of the bar, and lets himself in.
Hank opened up about getting dishonorably discharged for beating an officer half to death during his last tour. He caught the man raping an older boy from one of the villages they were near. It was Hank’s word against his, and the officer had connections.
He also told me about his mother. What it was like growing up with a prostitute mother. Finding her dead. Being shipped off to his religious grandmother’s and then his father’s, and then joining the Marines as soon as he was able.
His dark past is more heartbreaking than my own and just goes to show how honorable and strong he is… and how not worthy I am to be with him.
He looked down on me when we first met, and now I believe he was right, too. I’m not a good person. Not even close to how good he is.
I’ve had weeks to tell him Cody is Kat’s attacker, and the guilt has been gnawing at me a little more e
very day. I think I might have rambled off his name to the FBI while they were taking my statement, but if the DEA or FBI brought Cody in for questioning, I haven’t heard about it. And it certainly wouldn’t have been for the attack on Kat.
For weeks now, I’ve been pointedly making sure my shifts don’t coincide with hers. She’s never liked me, but now she has just cause to hate me. I know who attacked her, and I haven’t said anything.
At first I forgot about Cody, and what he’d done. My world narrowed down to pretending everything was normal and all the crap with Dom never happened.
By the time I started working again, I’d blocked it from my mind until I overheard Kat’s boyfriend telling her friend Mimi that she was still having anxiety attacks.
Kat is going through what I’m going through, but the person who haunts her nightmares isn’t behind bars. Every man who touched me. Every horrible thing I saw. Every horrible thing that happened. It was because of Dom. And Dom, or Maxwell Huntington, is behind bars waiting for trial.
I may be worried about him not being convicted. Hell, I might not rest easy until he’s dead, but I know who he is. I know his name. I know his location.
I’ve asked myself many times how much worse it would be if I didn’t know who took me, my brother, and Hank, or why. If we’d just been through what we’d been through and had to jump at shadows.
That’s what Kat is living, and I’ve done that to her. All so I don’t have to stir the pot.
My brother’s involvement with Dom has been swept under the rug. His crime was small fries to the DEA and FBI. To them, he’s just a dumb kid who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The local police, on the other hand, may want to take umbrage with my brother’s misdeeds. As far as I know, the police have had little to no involvement with the case. The takedown of Maxwell Huntington hasn’t gone to the media. They’re keeping it quiet until they have a conviction.
I want desperately to let sleeping dogs lie, but every time I see Kat—get a glimpse of the same dark shadows under her eyes that occupy my own—it eats at me.