The complete scars series: Books one-four

by Tonks, Rachael

  No one ever really understanding what happened, or what we went through the day I lost Travis.

  Travis Gordon; the nerd with a big heart.

  My best friend.

  I stop the bike, dismounting and walk to his resting place. I can’t control the wavering of my lip or the weakening of my legs as I make it to his headstone. Collapsing on to the ground a sob rages through me as do the memories of that day…

  7 years earlier

  “Jesus, Brax, slow down, will you,” his whiny voice calls after me. But I can’t slow down. I can’t ever slow down. I have to find her. I have to know she’s okay.

  “Come on, dammit,” I call back over my shoulder. Looking at how far behind he is now on the quiet country road, I’m not sure he can hear me. My nostrils flare with annoyance.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Travis, we don’t have time to stop,” I yell so loudly, the back of my throat stings like a bitch.

  I watch as he pedals at a snail’s pace. I sigh heavily, throwing my bike down to the ground and charging toward him. When I finally meet him on his bike, I place my hands on his handlebars, and lean closer to him.

  “Anyone would think you don’t want to find her, that you don’t care,” I spit at him and instantly feel guilty. His sad eyes flicker and his head drops.

  “You know that’s not true,” he mumbles nervously. “I just don’t think you’ve thought out this rescue mission,” he says, lifting his head just a little, his blue eyes peering over the rim of his glasses. “Where are we going? Where is it you believe she is?” He fires his questions at me, and I swallow the lump in my throat. The truth is, I don’t know, but my heart is ruling this mission, not my mind.

  “She’s with her father,” I state, kicking out my hip and adjusting my stance, “That much we do know.”

  “But you have no idea where her father lives. Until today we didn’t even know that she was in touch with him. I never heard her talk of him, did you?”

  “Hell, no,” I say in agreement. “But what do you want me to do, Travis? Turn back and forget all about her? Fuck, I love her, Travis, and if that makes me a fucking pussy, then I’m a pussy.”

  “No way. You know I would never think that,” he says, dropping the bike to the ground and pulling me into a hug. He holds me there, patting my back for a few moments before gently stepping back.

  “Let the police find her. I’m sure when they realize it’s all a big mistake, she will come back.”

  “Yeah,” I say with a nod. “Maybe her mom got it all wrong. Izzy would never leave us, right?”

  “You know, Brax,” he says, resting his arm across my shoulder. “Not all goodbyes are forever. I say bye to Mom every day, but I’m back, without fail every day after school.”

  I can’t help but chuckle at the fucking douche’s analogy. But in a strange kind of way it makes sense.

  “It’s going to kill me to be without her. Even if it is just temporarily,” I say, letting my head drop, my feet kicking up the soil beneath my feet. I push my hands into the pockets in my shorts as I fix my eyes on the ground.

  The sudden, unexpected sound of Travis’ body falling to the ground snaps me from my daydream. I blink rapidly as the scene in front of me plays out like a movie in slow motion.

  “Travis,” I cry out, dropping to the floor to hold him in my arms. “What the hell…” my voice fades as the blood pours from his shoulder.

  “It stings,” he whispers, his hand reaching over his shoulder trying to locate the source of the bleeding. “Something got me.”

  “What, like a mosquito?” I snap. “Fuck, Travis, there’s a shitload of blood.”

  “What is it?” his voice wavers, his head turned and his eyes trying to look over his blood covered shoulder.

  I lift up the back of his shirt, blood pouring like a waterfall down his back. I narrow my brows and shake my head in frustration. “What the hell…” I repeat, struggling to find the words. I stand on my feet and remove my own t-shirt, tearing it into two. “Here, hold this.”

  “Brax,” he gasps, “Your shirt, I know it’s your favorite.”

  “No, you’re bleeding out, and you’re my favorite and right now you need it more than me,” I say with a fleeting smile, desperate to get back to the mystery wound. Lifting his shirt over his head, I notice a small hole in the black shirt. I hadn’t seen it because of the blood, but as I hold it up in front of me, I see it. A bullet hole.

  Scrunching up the first half of my shirt I press it against the bullet hole in his shoulder. I grab his hand, placing it over the material. “Apply pressure,” I say, jumping to my feet. My eyes frantically search the area for signs of where the shot came from.

  “We’ve got to go,” I say, placing my hand under his arm and pulling him up.

  “What is it, Brax?” he asks, a look of horror etched on his face. The blood pouring from his wound is slowing.

  Leaning in until my mouth is right next to his ear, I whisper, “Don’t panic, but I’m pretty sure it’s a gunshot wound. I think someone shot you. We have to get the fuck out of here.”

  “You, you, can’t be right. There’s no way I could have been shot. There’s no one here,” he says, his voice loud and I instantly cover it with my hand.

  “Shhh… Keep your voice down.” I say with wide eyes. “I don’t know what’s happening but we have to get out of here and get you to a hospital.”

  “Use your cell phone. Call someone,” he orders, the panic in his voice is evident.

  I pull out my cell, pressing the button to highlight the screen.

  But nothing.

  “Fuck,” I whisper shout, “Dead. Quick,” I say, pushing it back in my pocket and grabbing the handle of his bike. “Can you ride it?” I ask, lowering my head until my eyes meet his.

  “I, uh, I don’t think so,” he stutters, letting out a hiss, “I can’t move it…”

  “So, do it one-handed,” I snap. “We have to get out of here, like now.”

  I help him back onto the bike, wrapping the spare part of my ripped shirt around his shoulder blade and tying it in a knot. “There,” I say, pressing on it and checking it’s in the right place. “That should hold. Now, wait here a second while I go fetch my bike,” I say, pointing back to where my bike is laid a few hundred feet down the road. I run, my feet pounding against the dusty road, constantly checking back over my shoulder. A thousand thoughts rage through my mind but mainly, it’s full of ‘what the fuck’. I have no idea what just happened. Finally reaching my bike, completely out of breath and gasping for air, I power through, nonetheless. I grab the handlebars and jump on, powering my feet against the pedals to get back to Travis as quickly as humanly possible. The handlebars sway from side to side as I use every ounce of energy and physical strength I have, to get us out of this fucked up mess. I drop my head, my whole body swaying from side to side. As soon as I’m closer, I lift my head, slowing a little as I struggle to keep going at that tremendous speed. As if someone pressed the pause button, I freeze at the sight of three men, one dragging Travis from his bike.

  My heart pounds so loudly that it’s all I can hear. I see his mouth moving, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. It’s like my body is frozen in time. I want to move. I want to scream, but I’m scared. I’m scared I have no idea of what I’m walking into. I check over my shoulder and there’s nothing behind me. I should run, I should try to get help, but I’m so torn.

  So damn torn.

  Then something comes over me.

  A rage like no other.

  My whole body shakes, my adrenaline spiking as I can barely grip the handlebars. Sweat covers every inch of my body. Anger boils deep in my system as hot as lava. It churns within, hungry for destruction, and I know it's too much for me to handle. The pressure of this raging sea of anger will force me to do something I will live to regret.

  I won’t let this happen.

  I can’t let them do this to him.

  I set off again, bolting toward the three men dr
agging his screaming body into the overgrown, dense woodlands that border the road.

  “Stop,” I scream at the top of my lungs.

  The three men do stop, look between each other and start to laugh. Like fuel to the fire, I drop the bike, allow my head to fall and run straight at them with every bit of energy in my body.

  Clattering into the men, they all fall to the ground, but I’m the first up. I scan the pathetic pieces of shit laid on the floor, all look no older than twenty-five. Each one looked like the other. Dark curly hair, dark eyes and wide in stature. I start to kick the nearest guy to me in the stomach. His hunched body contracts every time my foot connects with his stomach.

  Within seconds, the two other guys are on their feet, their heavy hands on my arms.

  “Get the fuck off of me,” I yell, fighting them furiously trying to escape their grip.

  “You motherfucker,” the guy on the ground spits at me as he cradles his stomach, struggling to get to his feet.

  “Your little friend is going to pay for what you just did,” he snarls, his lip curling, as he smirks widely.

  “You shot him,” I exclaim. “The fuck is wrong with you guys?”

  The guy digs into the band of his faded jeans, pulling out his gun. He steps closer, one hand still clutching his stomach as he lifts the gun up, resting the tip against the side of my face. The guys holding me grip the back of my neck, holding me in place as his shaky hand drags the gun across my cheek and toward my mouth. I hold my jaw firm as he pushes against my mouth.

  “I should blow your fucking brains out. Here and now,” he says, tilting his head, his nostrils flaring with every breath he takes in.

  “No!” Travis screeches, “don’t hurt him,” he breathes rapidly, grimacing in pain as he tries to push himself up from the ground. The guy standing in front of me spins on the spot aiming the gun at Travis, a shot reverberating through the woodland. His piercing scream makes me clamp my eyes shut, my whole body trembling with fear.

  Open your eyes, Brax. Open your damn eyes, I tell myself.

  But I can’t.

  I’m too afraid of what I might see.

  A sob catches in my throat and I finally force my eyes open. My ears ring with the deafening sound of the shot. Travis’ leg is bleeding. The sick fucker shot him in the leg.

  “Why?” I scream out. “Why are you doing this?”

  “We wanted to have some fun, and you little faggots look like the ones to give it to us.”

  “You sick fucks,” I say, spitting at the man in front of me.

  “Oh, you don’t like our games?” One of the men behind me taunts. “Just wait until we get to the fun part,” he laughs and a heavy ache hits me deep in the stomach. I stand here, with the realization that we might not make it out of here alive. These assholes have a sick plan. A plan that involves us. Everything has happened so fast. One minute we are searching for Izzy, the next minute shots are fired and we are under attack by three unknown men.

  I feel stunned.

  Stunned by what they have done to my best friend. Exhausted from fighting these guys. Guys that are twice my size and have double the strength. I glance at Travis on the ground. His eyes are wide and open with fear. His face has paled and his skin is covered in beads of sweat. I see it on his face. It’s a reflection of how I feel.

  I pull at my arms, determination coursing through my veins. I have to get out of their hold. I have to get over to Travis to see he’s okay. The reality is that he’s been shot twice now, both wounds gushing with blood. Arching my back, I drop my hands behind me and manage to slip from their hold. I drop onto the ground, right beside Travis.

  “Travis,” I cry out, wrapping my arms around him and pulling him into me. “Talk to me, buddy.”

  “I’m okay,’ he replies, his eyelids flicker as he fights it. Fights the almighty need to close his eyes. I can see him fading. I can see him losing the fight.

  “You sick fucks,” I scream as they lean down, taking me by the arms and dragging my body away from him. Saliva flies from my quivering lips.

  “Come on,” they laugh in unison like this is some sick kind of joke.

  “What? What do you think is so damn funny?”

  “You,” the guy with the gun snaps. “You pathetic faggots.”

  “Fuck you!” I continue to scream my words all the while glaring at him, wishing that looks could really kill.

  “Oh, don’t you worry, I intend to,” the guy replies with a lift of his brow, holding his stomach as he continues to laugh hysterically. I shudder at the intention of his words.

  I lunge forward, hoping to find the strength to get my revenge, but I’m held back. My hands are forced behind my back. I look at a fading Travis on the ground and wonder why him? Why have they not shot me? I’m helpless, watching as they drag Travis’ lifeless body from the floor and deeper into the woodland. He doesn’t fight it. He’s fading away and I can’t help him. There isn’t anything I can do. I’m pulled along too, stopping just a few meters away from a tree.

  “Stop… please,” I say, begging pitifully but I have to do something. “Shoot me, take my life, do whatever the fuck you want, just let him go. Please, he’s lost a lot of blood. He needs to go to the hospital.”

  Raucous laughter breaks out between the three men.

  “Does he… does he really think either of them are getting out of here alive?” One guy asks through his fit of laughter.

  “Stupid fucking faggots,” the other taunts.

  “We are not faggots,” I scream with every bit of air in my lungs.

  “We saw you…” the guy with the gun snaps. “We saw you looking all cozy a few feet down the road.”

  “We are best friends you fucking dick,” I shout, thrashing wildly as I try to escape his hold.

  “Hold the little fucker still,” one of them growls. He steps into my line of sight, grabbing my chin tightly, pocket knife in his hand. He presses it against my forehead, dragging it along my skin. The contact of the blade stings, blood dripping and pooling around my eye socket.

  “Stop,” instructs the guy holding me back. “I want him to be able to see every bit of what we are gonna do to his ‘best’ friend,” he exaggerates the word, followed by a deep, throaty chuckle. The emotion inside reaches boiling point as if my whole world has somehow exploded. My adrenaline spikes as the acid fear eats away at my soul. No matter how this plays out, one thing I know with absolute certainty is that nothing will ever be the same again. Everything inside me tells me to run, but I can’t. My natural reactions are completely suppressed and I’m trapped. Like a caged lion trying to escape.

  The guy who shot Travis, and one of the other guys, drags his limp body, propping him up against the tree, I watch as he drops a rucksack to the ground, pulling out some rope. Securing his hands, they wrap it around one of the lower branches. His body is held up by the ropes but his head has fallen forward. My stomach dips and my heart fills with despair at the fact that he could be dead. I have no idea if he’s still breathing.

  “Travis,” I shout to him. “Hold on, Travis. Please, hold on.”

  The main guy runs over to me, knife in hand. “You have a lot to say, cocksucker. Say another word, I dare you. Because you know if you do,” he leans his face so close to mine that I can smell the tobacco on him. “I’ll cut your fucking vocal chords.”

  “He will,” agree the guys holding me. “He’s done it before.”

  The guy turns on his heel and makes his way back over to a limp looking Travis. He grabs a handful of his hair, pushing his head back, rocking it from side to side like he’s a rag doll. He slowly turns his head, placing Travis’ mouth close to his ear.

  “Fucker is still breathing,” he says with a tone of disappointment. Lifting his right hand, clutching the knife, in one smooth slice he works the knife across Travis’ neck, blood spilling from him, covering the guy in blood.

  “No!” I scream as loud as I can, my body falling forward as the pain sears through me. “N
oooooo…” I continue, over and over.

  Suddenly, I fall forward, the sound of gunfire making me flinch. My head whips from side to side as I try to get a handle on what is happening. The guy behind me lays limp on the ground and I scramble on my hands and knees away from his body. I touch my face, my hand covered in his blood.

  More shots are fired, but I don’t stop. I make my way behind a tree, using it to pull myself up. My legs are weak and barely able to get me moving. I take small, limping steps until I manage to find the strength to run. I take off, running through the light-restricted woodland; leaves and dry grass crunch beneath my feet.

  “Stop,” the unfamiliar voice calls to me. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  I don’t stop, but I do turn my head to look at the man following me. He’s quite tall, well-built with dark brown hair.

  “Please, we need to get help for your friend,” he yells to me. “The others are dead. You have nothing to fear,” he says breathlessly.

  I stop running, my mind playing the scene over and over and suddenly I have no strength in my legs.

  “He’s dead,” I cry, tears streaming down my blood-soaked cheeks.

  “He needs you,” the guy bends his head.

  I know he’s right. Alive or not, I need to be the one that holds him, that helps him down. I have to find the strength to do this.

  “Okay,” I choke out, my feet coming to an eventual stop. I lean forward, resting my hands on my bended knee. I jump at the sudden feel of a hand on my back.

  “Let me help you,” the guy offers with a sad smile. I wasn’t sure how to react to him. If my presumption is right, this guy, single-handedly killed three men. What’s to say he won’t do the same to me?

  “Don’t touch me,” I warn, my hands flying into the air.

  “Sorry,” he says, holding his hands up in a mock surrender. “Shitty move, huh?”

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?” I ask, my words falling out with a stutter.

  “I’m Carter Mellano,” he replies, holding out his hand. “You must’ve heard of my family,” he says, tilting his head to the side.

  “I haven’t actually,” I scoff.