by LJ Vickery
S.O.S. Wiley
By
LJ Vickery
Published by Weir River Press ―USA―
Hingham, Massachusetts
Original Copyright 2018 by LJ Vickery
Cover Art by Taria A. Reed
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in, or encourage piracy of copy-righted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Vickery, LJ/SOS Wiley
ISBN-10 0989433382
ISBN-13 978-0-9894333-8-9
PUBLISHER'S NOTE:
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to two wonderful people, without whom I absolutely could not have produced such a polished result. Going indie is a great challenge, but when you find the right team, anything becomes possible! Thank you, Kim Young, my wonderful and humorous editor. This journey with you was not only painless, it was a joy! And to Taria Reed, my amazing cover artist, you always seem to read my mind and make my heroes shine!
And I certainly owe tremendous gratitude to the people who read and review every book I write! Thank you, Nikki, Stacy, Marie, Judy, Wendy, Angela, dmcl, and of course, Linda Tonis from the Paranormal Romance Guild. You are all truly amazing!
Prologue
“So the auction isn’t until next week?... Good. You’ll set it aside for me then?” His white-knuckled grip on the phone eased, the cruel, triumphant look Mary received making her shrink even farther into the corner by the bookcase where she cowered. “That’ll be fine,” he continued. “I’ll send someone to pick it up tomorrow.”
He hung up decisively and sneered. “Don’t ever try anything like that again or I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”
Mary acknowledged the threat with a defeated nod, but she knew her brother wouldn’t kill her. He needed her alive to maintain access to the family money. Her money. Because if Mary died, the entire estate would be given to charity. The greedy bastard wouldn’t risk that.
****
It irked Pietro no end that his sixty-year-old sister had been left with control of the family fortune when, at fifty-two, in the prime of his life, he’d been cut out completely. What infuriated him even more was that the money, currently in the hands of lawyers, couldn’t be tapped for huge withdrawals without Mary’s signature. According to the will, the most she could receive without special request was a sum each month just enough to sustain her and the household. It was a generous amount, but one that ran through Pietro’s fingers swiftly.
Their elderly father had known the extent of Pietro’s habits—using coke, major underworld dealing. But what had disturbed the old man most was how much Pietro hated Mary.
And rightly so, Pietro sneered to himself.
From a very young age, she’d received every bit of the approval and love he more rightly deserved. For as long as he could remember, he’d despised his ass-kissing sister, who became especially coddled after the accident. Pietro laughed out loud, which caused the bitch to cower even deeper into her corner.
Yeah. Accident.
When he was only seven, he’d tricked her into riding her bike down a path across which he’d strung a metal wire. It hadn’t cut her fucking head off, as he’d hoped, but it did irreparably damage her vocal chords, rendering her mute. At least he’d never had to hear her goody-two-shoes voice again.
Upon reviewing the old documents, Pietro found out Father had cut him out of his will directly after that incident. The old bastard believed not only would that protect Mary, but stop his money from being frittered away upon his death.
How wrong he’d been. Within days of their father’s demise, Pietro had stormed into the family home to threaten and fire all the domestic help, replacing them with thugs of his own. Once shed of her familiar domestic retainers, he was free to beat his sister if she refused him access to her money…which happened frequently.
He had told her she could be treated like a queen, if she just did what he said and gave him what he wanted. But months later, the fight still hadn’t gone out of her, which he deemed both good and bad. He got a definite high from using her as a punching bag, but occasionally got carried away…and blood was messy. He had to remember to hold back, not hurt her too badly. He couldn’t risk a doctor coming to the house.
But his fucking sister still refused to be cowed. Always resourceful, she attempted several escapes. Each time she was discovered, running, his guards dragged her back to face him…which resulted in painful blows usually guaranteed to assure future submission. Not. So he needed to up his game.
All these months, he’d benevolently let her keep her childhood bedroom, roam the grounds while accompanied by guards, and eat at the dining room table. But several days ago, after being dragged back for the second time that week, he’d slapped her around. When she’d remained defiant, he’d come up with a plan.
At dinner that night, he informed her that a crew would soon be coming to clean out one of the basement rooms. The space―previously used for storage, but outfitted with antiquated facilities installed nearly a hundred years ago for some long-dead servants―would become her new home. He wouldn’t starve her, meals would be delivered by his crew of goons, but she’d never see the light of day again.
****
Mary had watched anxiously from her bedroom window day after day for the truck and crew that would signal an end to her freedom, all the while concocting a daring, last-ditch effort to save herself. Granted, it was a long shot, but what did she have to lose?
Several days later, under the guise of selecting a book from the library, she secreted a small wooden puzzle box into the pocket of her oversized sweater. Her heart quaked, her hands slick with sweat, but she managed to do it without notice of her guards.
Once alone in her room, she penned a desperate plea for help, writing her name and address and imploring anyone who read it to come to her aid. It took only seconds for her to open the box. She knew the trick, so it wasn’t difficult. She’d tucked her note inside and closed it up, but the next step of her plan would be the most difficult.
Later, while they ate their evening meal, the box hidden in her pocket, she meekly implored her brother to let her have a look at where she would be incarcerated. Not only did he agree, he did so with a nasty satisfaction.
“We’ll head down after we eat,” he said. “I’ll take you myself. Even though it’s not cleaned out yet, I’m sure you’ll be able to envision your new home.” He’d sounded downright cheerful.
Mary, already quite familiar with the enormous basement, knew exactly what she needed to do. Once Pietro ushered her into the oversized room, ancient bathroom attached, she began running her hands over suitcases and piles of old clothing, making her way to a series of shelves she knew would hide her lower body. Surreptitiously, and shaking with trepidation, she transferred the small wooden treasure from her pocket to a box that held old cameras. She said a small prayer. The note was her last hope. When Pietro sent her into nightmarish isolation, she’d never again have an opportunity to escape.
****
From behind the curtains in her room, she watched with grim satisfaction as the auction company came to clean out the basement. She fixed her gaze on the bulkhead door below, examining every item removed. When the box of cameras made it onto the truck, she heaved a huge sigh of relief. Her little crumb would make its way into the world and would land, well… She didn’t know where, but
the small flame of hope that lit in her chest would have to sustain her.
****
Her back against the bookcases, Mary wiped a small trickle of blood from her lip and felt the last of her resolve fade away. How could she have known Pietro would do a thorough inventory of all their father’s possessions? How could she imagine he’d notice the absence of one small box? But, despite his drug-addled brain, he had. He’d beaten her until he learned where it had gone and what she had planned. Now, with this phone call, his thugs would retrieve the box before it went up for auction.
All hope leached from her body, along with the blood that ran from her injuries.
Her optimistic little crumb had turned stale.
Chapter One
Wiley shoveled french fries into his mouth as he watched the building next door with interest. Cars came and went at a rapid pace, with more people staying than leaving. Curious. He craned his neck to get a better look.
Auction Tonight, a small, half-hidden sign proclaimed. Wiley used a napkin to wipe his greasy fingers, swallowing the last of his fish and chips. What the heck. With time on his hands, he might as well take a peek.
After paying for his meal, he walked out to his car, then pulled out of the miniscule restaurant parking lot and into the busy venue for the auction. He grabbed the first spot he saw, instantly happy―when he stepped out onto a patch of rough, lumpy ice―he hadn’t been relegated to the far reaches of the rather large expanse. The lot had been plowed after the last snow, but not successfully. Clearly, the auction held enough appeal that patrons, young and old, didn’t find the uneven terrain to be a deal breaker.
He felt a frisson of excitement far different than what he experienced in his job. Search and rescue, with its inherent dangers, gave him ball-clenching exhilaration. This was more like a tingle in his fingers. Anticipation. What would he find within?
Stepping though the door, a hushed buzz assailed his ears. A crowd milled about in a room to his left. A sign to his right told him to register.
Okay. I’ll give it a whirl.
“Hi. I’m new here,” he said to the young woman behind the desk. “I—”
Without looking away from her computer, she stuck out a hand. “License,” she cut him off in a monotonous voice.
Not getting a warm fuzzy feeling from her, Wiley almost turned and walked out, but the hum from the main room inexplicably drew him back. Not wasting another word on the taciturn female, he withdrew his wallet, tugged out his license, and placed it in her outstretched fingers. She looked down at it, blinked, and looked up. Her mouth fell open.
“Nice to have you here, Mister…Prancingdeer,” she told him breathlessly.
Her reaction was nothing new. Wiley knew he had a pretty face, as well as an imposing body. The two, together with his obviously Native American last name, usually stopped women in their tracks. Sometimes he thought he should shorten it back to Deer, as it had been the previous five generations, but he liked the ancestral connection of his full name.
“Thank you,” he nodded, taking his ID from her proffered digits. “Now, I go in and…” He paused, hoping she’d regain her equilibrium enough to tell him what to do.
“Oh.” She snapped her eyes back to her screen, realizing she’d been staring. “Just go in and have a look around. See if anything interests you. Some people make a list of items they want to bid on and what they want to pay. That keeps you from getting caught up in a bidding war.” She dared look at him again and unconsciously licked her bottom lip. “Uh, the auction starts in twenty minutes, so you’d better hurry.”
“Thanks again.” Wiley gave her a wink, causing her cheeks to redden. He smothered a chuckle. If the guys were here, they’d give him a ration of shit.
Walking into the room, Wiley grew disappointed. Old leather chairs, worn kitchen tables, and tall, unadorned bookcases lined the aisle. He gave them a cursory glance, shuffling along with the crowd. The next two offerings weren’t any better. A couple quilts his grandmother would have cautioned as beginner’s projects. A lane opened ahead of him. He skirted the stack of framed prints he certainly didn’t need hanging on the pristine walls of his brownstone apartment and headed for the lighted display cases against the far wall. They looked a little more promising.
He let his eyes travel over an interesting array of trinkets. There were tobacco tins, doorstops, advertising signs, and several trays of old marbles. He might be interested in a few things for his bare mantel…if the prices were right. Taking the woman’s advice, Wiley withdrew a pen and a scrap of paper from his pocket and jotted down a note or two.
Crossing to some long tables, he saw several women pawing through boxes of tangled jewelry, probably hoping for diamonds and gold. Smirking, he meandered to the next opening and picked up an old book on the history of Boston. That might be fun. He’d lived in Brookline for a couple years and knew nothing of local lore. But would it matter? His foray to the South Shore of Boston hadn’t been to find an auction. He’d spent every Sunday for the last month scouring the outer suburbs, hoping to find a small house with a decent piece of land he could call his own. He placed the book back in place.
About to call it quits, he took one last gander at an especially busy table and drew in a sharp breath. No way. It can’t be.
His feet moved of their own volition. As he elbowed his way forward, his heart sped up. There it sat. The one toy he’d wanted as badly as his next breath when he’d been six or seven years old. A Jurassic Park Command Compound in its original box.
Holy shit…
Wiley’s mind flew back to when he’d been a kid at Christmas, several months after the movie came out. He had one thing on his list, and this was it. A friend’s older brother had received the set for his birthday a month earlier, and although Wiley hadn’t been allowed to touch it, he’d coveted the Command Compound for his own.
That Christmas, he tried not to show his disappointment when he received a couple dinosaurs, a few action figures, and a jeep from the movie, but his father had known. He’d taken him aside and explained that it had just been too expensive. That maybe next year…
The following year’s finances hadn’t been any better in the Deer household, so Wiley eventually gave up dreaming. But his palms now itched to pick up and hold the longed-for toy.
He thrust his hands behind his back and reverently examined the box. A few small dents and rips dotted the surface, but nothing that impeded the amazing graphics on the bright red box. Electronic, the words proclaimed. Over a hundred phrases. Wiley remembered two of those vividly. “Compound secure!” and “Send help!”
He swallowed a lump as he gently opened one end and peered in. Empty. He must have made a noise, perhaps one of disappointment, because his nearest neighbor nudged him with an elbow.
“The rest is over there,” the guy said, pointing toward another table. Wiley’s heart started beating again.
“Thanks,” he murmured and moved toward the indicated spot, as if sucked in by a gravitational pull. Once again, bodies parted…and there it sat. Perfect. Gray, blue and beige plastic, just as he remembered, and it looked to be fully intact. Dare he reach out and push one of the three red buttons, just as he’d longed to do as a child? No. Not here. Not now. It would call attention, perhaps draw more bidders. He’d do it when he got home. There could be no mistaking it. He would offer however much it took for the toy to be his.
Wiley almost laughed at his visceral need and wonderingly tried to analyze it. Hell, it took no digging at all to recall that those crucial two years of his childhood had been the happiest time of his life, despite the family being strapped for cash. Being the youngest, it was the only time within his conscious memory that all his siblings lived at home. And he, doted on by everyone, reveled in the attention and love.
By the time he reached his eighth year, his brothers and sisters―six of them, all at least a decade older―started heading off to forge careers or start families of their own. The house slowly turned quiet, and
the joy had never been quite as great again. Not to say that his parents hadn’t coddled him as their late-in-life gift. They certainly had. But being doted on by two busy, aging parents couldn’t hold a candle to the rough-and-tumble adventures he had with his siblings.
Wiley became aware of people taking seats and knew he should follow suit. He walked toward the back, perusing each row, noting chairs were either taken or saved. A small group of folks stood at the back. He thought he might have to join them when a seat in the last row, three in from the aisle, appeared to be available.
“Excuse me.” Wiley bent down and spoke to the whiskered gentleman on the end. “Do you know if that seat is taken?”
The man elbowed his wife in the ribs. “Jan, honey. Is that one saved?” He pointed at the chair next to her.
“I’ll find out,” she offered, taking a quick look up and down Wiley’s tall frame. A smile appeared on her wrinkled lips. “No hardship sitting next to such a fine-looking young man.”
Wiley fired her a grin powered by all eight cylinders. He’d flirt if it got him a seat.
“Miss?” Jan questioned the woman in the fourth chair, who rummaged in a bag on the floor in front of the space in question.
“Yes?” Her head popped up.
Wiley’s gut was pierced by an arrow of excitement not unlike the one he’d experienced finding the Jurassic Park toy. Stunning was too mild a word for her. Dark, arched brows rose above deep, ebony eyes. Her dusky skin, as smooth as the finest silk, lay over high, exquisitely shaped cheekbones. And framing that perfect picture, long, straight and shiny black hair hung in a loose ponytail over her right shoulder. As Wiley watched, lush and naturally red lips turned up slightly as she waited for Jan’s question.
“This gentleman wants to know if that seat is saved.”