by Nicole Fox
My muscles were so fatigued. I was losing, and in my mind I silently apologized to Milo – the thought of my best friend dying at the hands of this creep suddenly fired me up. “No!” I growled. “This is for Milo!”
“And this is for mom!” Lydia screamed from the darkness as a lead pipe came down out of nowhere, cracking him hard across the shoulders and the back of his neck. He shrank beneath the blow, roaring in pain and anger, but still the knife came at me. She hit him again and again, each time rearing back farther than before, the pipe slung back over her shoulder as she screamed with each swing.
With a final burst of strength, I threw him off me, flipping him over on his side. Lydia followed after him, pipe in hand, beating his head and arms. “Lydia, honey!” Joey screamed in agony. “Lydia! Stop helping them!”
“Fuck you!” she screamed, hitting him again as he curled up into a ball.
My vision faded out as I rolled over and tried to rise to my feet. I stayed on all fours, my breathing ragged as I struggled to stand. Lydia came to my side. “Kort, are you okay?”
I waved her off as I slowly rose to my feet, my whole body screaming in agony as I swayed back and forth, floaters forming in my vision. “Get the gun and the knife, the detonator. Get 'em away from him.”
She tossed the pipe aside and picked up the pistol, then went over to her daddy's discarded blade. She kicked the knife to me, then stuffed the detonator in her pocket before going and standing over him, gun in hand.
“Do it,” I rasped, blinking long and slow as I watched her beautiful form aiming the pistol at her own daddy's head. “You wanted to do it yourself, now's your chance.”
She nodded, her eyes murderous as she glared down at her cowering father from behind the big pistol. She put her finger to the trigger.
I held my breath. “Do it,” I whispered. “Do it for Milo, for your mother. Do it for all the lives he ruined.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lydia
“Please, honey, please, Lydia. Don't. Your mother will be real upset if you do.”
He looked so pathetic laying there. Beaten, whimpering, no longer a monster or a psychopath. Just a beaten, wounded old man, hiding in fear from his daughter. Crazy? Sure. But sick, too. His brain rotted by drugs, by paranoia, by age.
Memories of growing up, of him bouncing me on his knee, giving me my first taste of beer, and his laughing at my disgusted face when I tried a sip. Being fourteen teaching me to drive, even though mom didn't want me to learn for another year. His bad jokes over the years. Holding me as I cried after my first boyfriend, Randy Simmons, broke up with me, telling me Randy didn't deserve me. Him kissing the scrapes on my knees after I fell off my bicycle, then putting me back up on the seat, because strong girls got up and kept going. The three of us – mom, me, and him – all taking the boat down to the coast, sailing the gulf.
He'd been a decent man once. Not necessarily a good one. Probably never that. But he'd been a good father for a long while, for whatever that was worth. I remembered that much, at least, from the time before the craziness rotted his brain and turned him against me and my mother. I growled. I tried to pull the trigger, tried to murder him. But it wasn't who I was. Even after all the hard years I'd been through, with all the swindles I'd had to pull off, all the men I'd outwitted, I'd never had to kill anyone.
I wasn't a murderer. I wasn't like him. I never would be.
“I can't,” I said, tears forming in my eyes, blurring my vision. The barrel of the gun wavered before I let it fall loose at my side. “I just can't.”
Kort stumbled up next to me, pulled me into his arms.
“We'll just leave him,” I said. “Leave him so the men can have their go at him, take his money, his drugs. They'll pick him apart now that Tyson is dead and can't control them. They'll see how weak he is.”
Kort nodded slowly as I pulled back from him. He turned to leave, to go back into the Warehouse. Beside us my father tried to get up, to crawl to us, but he stumbled and fell in a heap, wheezing. He rolled over to his back, his eyes just staring blankly at the ceiling.
“Wait,” I said, pulling at his shirt. “We can't go back up there!”
“Where should we go?” he asked, his face pale, a dazed look in his eyes.
“Down to the dock,” I said, pulling back the way the old man had been taking me originally. “His sail boat is down there. We can just slip away.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Let's go.”
I got up underneath his arm and he put as much weight on me as I could bear.
“Lydia, honey!” he called out from behind me. Kort and I stopped in our tracks.
“What?” I growled as I turned back to him. “What?” I realized then that he had something in his hand. I patted my pockets, checking to see if I still held the detonator.
“You know I was a boy scout, honey,” he said as he held up a second detonator, his thumb already on the trigger. “Always come prepared.”
Together, Kort and I watched, helpless, as he cackled and pressed the red button. A second later his wicked laughter was drowned by the sounds of explosions from deep within the compound.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Kort
The ground shook as the ANFO and C4 went up somewhere, probably on the far side of the compound. More quakes as more explosions went off, shaking me and Lydia both as dust fell from the ceiling.
“The boat!” Lydia screamed, grabbing my hand and dragging me off, down the tunnel.
I glanced back over my shoulder, my head woozy. I thought I was hallucinating – I saw a ghost, Milo standing over the madman Joey Banks' body, nodding to me in approval as Lydia and I made our way from those tunnels. My friend’s ghost followed after me as we left, whispering to me how happy he was that I was getting away from there in one piece. That he was happy I'd found a woman I could care for, and that I was getting out of this racket.
“Xander'll think you're dead,” Milo told me as we rounded another corner and light began to show at the end of the tunnel. “He'll never figure it out.”
“Come on,” Lydia screamed as more explosions rocked the tunnels. “Just a little farther, baby! We can get out right there!”
I stumbled over my feet, almost went down. Milo and Lydia dropped beside me, helped me struggle back up. “Thanks, Milo,” I grunted.
“Milo?” Lydia asked, then abruptly shook her head, clearly deciding it didn't really matter right then. “Kort, let's go!”
We hit the rear door at a shuffling run, the bright light piercing our eyes as more explosions went off behind us, rolling like the most insane thunder I'd ever heard. The ground shook again.
I glanced around at the little dock that poked out into the tributary, at the boat there. “Can you . . . can you sail this thing?”
“Of course,” she said. “He taught me how.”
She got me on board as she untied the boat from the dock and pushed it off. I collapsed onto the deck, my face staring up to the sky. Plumes of smoke rose hundreds of feet in the air, so high into the sky that no one would ever be able to ignore this place ever again. Milo's face came into view one last time, leaning in over my vision.
“Don't worry,” he said as more explosions went off in the compound we were quickly leaving behind, “you'll live. And, Kort?”
“Yeah Milo?” I asked the sky.
“Thank you. I can rest easy now.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You're welcome.”
“Kort?” Lydia asked. “Are you talking to me?”
“No. Just a friend.”
And then I closed my eyes.
Epilogue
Lydia
Six months sailing on a boat ought to drive anyone a little crazy. And yet, six months later sailing with Kort and I felt like I could live my whole life with her on the water. As I dropped anchor in the little cove for the evening, I knew I'd made the right decision. No more running, no more hiding. Just living and sailing. Kort and I still checked in on dry land every
couple weeks, and we'd followed the news after the Warehouse went up in a ball of flames, but no one ever mentioned us, and no one from his outfit ever came looking for him.
I relaxed in the cockpit of the boat now, a romance novel spread on my lap while Kort rummaged around below deck. I didn't need the romances the way I used to, I'd had enough adventure to last me a lifetime. But they were still fun to read. My man came clomping over the deck on his bare feet and came into the cockpit, bottle of chilled champagne in one hand and two flutes in the other. He'd switched to just board shorts with no shirt, and his tan was rich and dark, making his smile somehow even brighter. Scars crisscrossed his body. A few old were old, but many were new – still purple, and reminders of what we’d escaped.
“Champagne for the lady/” he asked, a smile dancing on his lips as he began to pour a glass of bubbly for me.
“Well, don't mind if I do,” I said, putting my book aside and taking the offered flute.
“You know,” he said as he finished pouring his glass and set the bottle aside, “it's amazing how this boat seems to have everything we need.”
“Really?” I asked with a grin. “Because I can think of one unnecessary thing here, especially since I got my new load of novels.”
“Oh really?” he said, leaning back against the cockpit wall, his eyebrow raised. “What that might?”
“You,” I teased, rising from my seat and pressing my body into his, running my hands over his naked chest and abs. “You can still barely sail, and you eat more than twice your body weight.”
He laughed as he pulled me into his arms, his hands finding my lower back and beginning to massage my sore muscles. I lay my head against his chest, just listening to his even breathing and the thump-thump of his heartbeat.
He reached into his pocket and rummaged there for a moment. “One thing I did find down there, in a secret compartment,” I leaned back a little and looked up at him, then down at his hand, at the little box resting in his palm, “was something that might not be absolutely necessary.”
I looked back to his smiling face, then back to the box as I covered my hand with my mouth.
He opened it up, revealing a diamond ring. It was beautiful, a solitary stone on a band of gold, at least a carat.
“Would you?” he asked.
“Do you even need to ask?” I grinned up at him, threw my arms around his neck. “Yes! I'd love to!”
He pulled my lips to his, kissed me again, long and deep. As we kissed, he pulled first one hand behind my back, then the other. I wasn't sure what he was doing, but I didn't struggle or fight his strong arms. He reached into his pocket, and there was the sound of metal rubbing on metal as he reached back behind me, his tongue now pushing into my mouth.
I felt the cuffs as they locked over my wrists, securing them together. I shivered a little at the memory of the first time I'd had these on, of those nights in the motel.
“Found one other thing down there, too,” he replied with a sly grin.
The cove grew darker as he stripped me of my clothes. The quarter moon rose as we made love. We weren't finished till well after it went back down.
THE END
[Bonus Content – Novel #2] AFFLICTED: A Dark Bad Boy Romance
Here’s one more surprise!
I’M AFFLICTED WITH THE NEED FOR CONTROL.
Koen
She chose the wrong man to beg for help.
I’m not the one she wants.
She’s looking for a saint, a nice guy.
But the closest I’ve been to a bleeding heart is when I ripped the organs from my enemies’ chests.
And yet, here she is.
She’s a queen of chaos spinning webs of lies.
But every time I try to dismiss her, she finds a way to stick around.
Fine. Have it your way, princess.
If you’re going to be here, you’re going to do things my way.
You’ll kneel when I order it.
Strip when I ask.
Moan when I command.
This is my world, and as long as you’re in it, you will do exactly as I say.
Jace
I didn’t ask for any of this.
I didn’t ask to be a working girl.
I didn’t ask to watch my pimp murder my little brother in cold blood.
Most of all, I didn’t ask to run away… straight into the arms of Koen Baldwin, the man responsible for this entire sickening operation.
But I never had a choice.
I belong to Koen Baldwin from the moment I meet him.
He’s a sinner, a bastard, a killer, a rogue.
He’s the reason I’m in this nightmare.
So, with nothing left to lose, I’ve got one mission in mind:
I’m going to do whatever it takes to get my revenge.
I’ll sleep with Koen.
I’ll help his business.
I’ll rally his men.
Hell, I’ll wash his goddamn laundry, if that’s what he wants.
But at the end of the day, I’m going to do just one thing:
Send Koen Baldwin to hell where he belongs.
Chapter One
Jace
I twisted the knob of the hotel room door, my face, lips, and body already set in the “You're the most handsome man I've ever met, and no, I'm not just saying that because of the money” style I'd been practicing for the past four years.
I cocked my hips out to one side, arched my back, and pouted my glossy lips. My heavy eye lids dropped another fraction of an inch, making sure my John would get to fully experience my bedroom eyes before we even made it that far, and I ran a hand through my auburn hair to muss my tresses up a little more. Nothing quite like giving them that “just fucked” look before they even get you out of your dress.
“You're early,” I said with a smile as I swung the door open. “I wasn't expecting you for-”
“Jace? Oh my God, I knew that was you in the lobby!” My words caught in my throat as the boy on the other side of the door pushed his way past me and into the room. Dumbfounded, I just watched him as he came into my room. “I just knew it was you!”
Finally, I found my words, despite my shock. “Tommy?” I asked, my mouth finally working.
My little brother, Tomlin Spears, had just pushed himself into the hotel room where I was about to fuck a random stranger. I hadn't seen him in going-on four years, ever since I'd run away from the house the night of Momma's funeral. And, wow, he'd changed. He'd grown almost a foot, it seemed, and his face had started to really look like our Daddy's. Same cheek bones, same strong jaw, same dark brown eyes. Now sixteen-years-old, he looked down at me for the first time in our lives.
My heart leaped for joy even as it sunk deep in my chest. He had no idea who I really was anymore, or what I had to do to make it in this world.
Four years can be rough, especially when you start that time by living on the streets. I'll say one thing, though. Paying for rent by working on your back is a hell of a lot easier than living under an overpass. Especially when the rains start up in spring.
He looked around the room, taking the whole thing in. “Sis, you're doing real well here, ain’tcha?” he asked as he ran a long, graceful hand through his tussled brown hair. I'd gotten Momma's dark red hair, he'd gotten our Daddy's brunette. We'd both gotten her lips, though, the little cupid's bow.
“Tommy,” I said, going over to him, my legs wobbling a little in my high heels, “you gotta go. You gotta get outta here.”
“Why?” he asked. “Think Jeremy's right behind me or something?”
“Well, yeah,” I said. Jeremy Brantley was our abusive stepfather, the one I'd been running from after Momma died, and the thought had occurred to me. But only mildly. My bigger concern, honestly, was that I was on a job just then. The next man at my door was going to be either my next John, or my pimp Sven. It wouldn't do to have either of them walking in while Tomlin was here, even if he was my little brother.
“Don't wor
ry, sis,” he said, coming over to me, arms outstretched for a hug. “He's in jail, and he ain't coming back. Bastard's going to prison”
“What?” I asked, shocked for the second time that night, as my brother took me into his arms and gave me a huge hug, the type of hug I hadn't felt in years. It was the type of hug only a kid brother can give an older sister. Warm and strong, with no judgment or malice. The kind of hug that told you the hugger couldn't care less about your past, or that you may have let them down all those years ago.
It was just the kind of hug that said, “I love and miss you.”
I rested my painted-up face against his chest, felt some of my base and powder come off on his shirt.