by K Larsen
The Best Friend
K. Larsen
Contents
The Best Friend
Prologue
1. Aubry
2. Mike
3. Aubry
4. Mike
5. Aubry
6. Aubry
7. Aubry
8. Mike
9. Aubry
10. Mike
11. Aubry
12. Mike
13. Aubry
14. Aubry
15. Mike
16. Aubry
17. Aubry
18. Mike
19. Aubry
20. Mike
21. Aubry
22. Mike
23. Aubry
24. Mike
25. Aubry
26. Mike
27. Aubry
28. Mike
29. Aubry
30. Mike
31. Aubry
32. Mike
33. Aubry
34. Mike
35. Aubry
36. Mike
37. Aubry
38. Mike
39. Aubry
40. Aubry
Epilogue
Epilogue
The End
The Tutor
The Therapist
Part I
Untitled
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2018 by K. Larsen
Cover by: Cover Me Darling
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This 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, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
Aubry Clark was thrilled with the direction her life was headed. AC Interiors, her design business, was taking off thanks to high profile clients like Liam Lockwood and Mike Chesterfield, giving her a chance. She could practically taste the success she was about to come into and the steamy cat and mouse games between her and perpetual bachelor, Mike, didn't hurt either.
Until one day, just before sunrise, she went down to the docks to set up a photo shoot she'd dreamed up. She wanted to capture a colorful graffiti wall to use against the minimalist décor she had in mind for an upcoming project. But what she accidentally captured instead, was about to change her life forever.
The click of her camera shutter was the last untroubled sound she heard. When a muffled scream ripped through the air, Aubry turned around.
That was her first mistake.
When men dressed in black, forcefully shoved a scantily-clad girl in a shipping container and set their sights on her, Aubry ran.
Little did Aubry know, her luck was about to run out.
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Dedicated to Ditto and Jencks; my rock stars
Prologue
Twenty-seven days doesn't sound like a long time but it feels like a lifetime. My shoulder blades ache and my nose drips. I can't do anything about it. My heartbeat and ragged breaths are all I can hear at the moment. Twenty-seven days ago, I was happy. My interior design business, AC Interiors, was just beginning to take off thanks to Liam Lockwood, Mike Chesterfield, and friends. I was thrilled. More than thrilled. Nora would know a better word for that feeling but she isn’t here. It’s just me. Alone.
Twenty-seven days ago, I went down to the docks to set up an incredible photo shoot for my website. White against graffiti was going to be a stunning image. Twenty-seven days ago, the click of my camera shutter was the last happy sound I heard. Twenty-seven days ago, I heard a muffled scream. I turned around. That was my biggest mistake. I saw enough to make me a liability. When they shoved the scantily-clad girl into a shipping container, I not only saw them do it, I also saw their faces. So when they set their sights on me, I ran.
I've always put on a good show. Been able to hide almost anything behind a broad, straight-toothed smile. I'm usually the strong one. The shoulder to lean on. The ear to vent to. The one known for being able to let things roll off my shoulders. I’m funny and positive.
At least I was.
Nora can sense when my world isn't right. But she's the only one I've come across in twenty-four years who can. Not even my own mother has that ability. It's why I cling so tightly to Nora. Even though, part of her painful past is also mine. But, I put mine aside to help Nora through hers because honestly, her issues were compounded so much more than my own that if I'm truthful, it felt good to sweep my disheartening past under the rug for a while.
But the past always finds a way back. I do my best to remain strong but in the quiet of darkness my depression rears its head like a phoenix. The sadness I’ve pushed aside for years about the horrible thing my brother did to my best friend attacks me here in the black. The questions that linger about his murder; the fact that he was murdered at all, assault me. Is this random; simply wrong place, wrong time? Or is it more connected than I can imagine? I dream, but they are not the sweet kind. My heart accelerates, thudding wildly in my chest.
1
Aubry
I'm going to die here.
I don't know why I'm so certain of it, I just am. I’m trapped in a room. Thin walls. No windows. Concrete floor. Big steel door. There’s one tiny gap at the bottom where light or shadows rather, make themselves known. I’ve tried every way I can conjure up to escape but it’s futile. There’s a bare bulb that hangs far above me. The bulb, an Edison type, is dim and not constant. It rarely comes on. I know because I wasn’t always blindfolded.
Knowing I’m going to die makes me wonder, how do you measure a life? Most days of a life are unremarkable. They start and end with no true memory made. Most days have no lasting impact. So, is it the accumulation of memories and experiences or is it the lives you’ve touched? Or the lives that have touched you? It’s not money. I can tell you that much. It’s is nice to have while you’re alive but, as they say, you can’t take it with you when you go. Is a life well-lived shared coffees, laughter and hugs, or is it something else? Lord knows I have plenty of time to think in here. Most days I decide that love is what matters most in one's life. If you loved and were loved—fiercely, then, all the other memories and experiences happen naturally. Others I try not to think. Those are the times life doesn’t matter at all.
The first few days in this hellhole I screamed until my voice gave out. The cold seeped through the concrete floor into my soul. The blackness made my heart race and panic scampered up my spine. Every time that damned door opened I fought. I fought and screamed and pounded until I couldn’t any longer. I just—couldn’t. It didn’t do me any good.
The smell of feces and urine is nauseating. I’m cuffed wrists together at my belly secured to a waist chain. I'm blindfolded as well. My hands barely reach my mouth and no higher. I'm able to see through the blindfold just enough to notice shadows and the way the light changes. It's how I keep track of time passing.
The door squeaks open. Heavy footsteps approach. A shiver runs through me. Dinner time. Someone brings me food twice a day. In the morning, a peanut butter sandwich. In the evening, a tuna sandwich and a bottle of water. I hate tuna. I hear the tray slide on the floor. The boots recede. I shuffle slowly in the direction of the sound. The door closes. Latches. Locks. The space echoes with
the sounds. My toe hits the tray and I stop. I drop to my ass and eat. Why bother keeping me alive? Why not just kill me? I don't understand what the endgame is.
The first week, there were Russian words being yelled outside my cell. Familiar terms I recognized from movies and books. The door popped open, and in a rush, three men were inside pinning me against the back wall. The third, a squat, acne scarred man approached me curiously. Taking me in toe to head, exploring, analyzing, as if he were gathering clinical evidence. I spit at him when he came close enough. He grabbed my cheeks roughly and whipped my head left, then right—inspecting. A wave of nausea bubbled in my gut.
"She's a little older, but we’ll make due." He released my face. I stretched my jaw and licked my lips.
"Just kill me," I said.
He laughed as he exited the room. "We don't kill income, precious."
The burly men pinning me to the wall released me. I kicked out, but missed them. They drew their intimidating black rifles and backed away from me until they reached the door. When it shut and latched, I was alone again in the cold, dank, darkness—alone with just the occasional flicker from that damn dim bulb.
Trapped.
I lean back against the wall. My hair is matted and I reek. I wiggle my nose to adjust the blindfold slightly. Trying to stay mentally sharp, I listen for hours each day but there are no discernable sounds outside the others. No train horns. No birds chirping. Nothing. I saw that in a movie once. The victim managed to get a phone and make a call from the trunk of a car, she had to listen and try to describe the sounds. They found her. I, however, am apparently not as lucky. This is no movie.
The last song I heard was Woman, by Kesha. My power jam. I was so amped up, singing along to all the words. The last person I talked to on the phone, Mike. The last Snapchat I sent was to my little sister, Aimee. The last friendly face I saw, Nora. What are they all doing right now? Is my mom surviving? Losing two kids might kill her. Is Nora helping them out? Comforting them? Aimee is deeply sensitive and feels life intensely. It physically hurts thinking about her and what my disappearance must be doing to her. I try not to think about it too much. It’s difficult to picture my mom in pain—again. Mentally, I’m heaving myself through a bramble bush, catching on every single thorn. Emotionally, I allow my mind to linger on Mike and the flirtatious game of cat and mouse we played. I lament the fact that I never acted on it, never told him I wanted him. You learn just how many regrets you have when you don’t know how much longer you have to live.
The truth is, I’m still in shock. I know I am. I can feel the panic pounding through my veins, my thoughts are scattered. I see myself as if from afar, taking in the frailty of my frame, the sagginess of my skin and the frown on my face. A body locked away—stolen. The very idea of trying to stay vigilant has become absurd. I know I shouldn't eat the food. Should steer clear of the water. I know it could be contaminated or drugged, but if the choice is as simple as live or die, I choose life.
I’ve got a chill that never leaves. The concrete floor is unforgiving and frigid against my skin. I drink the bottle of water. The cold wetness against my hot throat sends a chill down my spine. I constantly feel on the edge of a cold. Hot flashes and chills and fatigue plague me day in and day out.
I never saw the short Russian again. But the guards rotate. It’s every third day that I see the same man bringing me my food. Tonight, it will be the smallest man and I’m prepared. I’ve smeared myself with my own feces from the bucket in the corner. I heard the boots first, followed by the click of the deadbolt releasing. I waited by the door. It swung open. When the man stepped in I was close enough to see his eyes widen when he didn’t see me. I swung, connected with his jaw. The crack of knuckles on bone made me cringe. Pain darted up my arm but I didn’t stop. The tray of food dropped to the floor. He clocked me square in the forehead and I stumbled backward. The man cursed in Russian and charged me. I dropped to my hands and knees. He tripped over me and I crawled, my palms slipping on the concrete, slick with my feces. I was out the door before he could get ahold of me. The hallway was long and dimly lit. Doors lined it for at least fifty yards. I scrambled to my feet and ran. Two men at the end of the hall shouted at me and drew their guns but I didn’t care. I kept running.
A burly guard tackled me. When he realized what I was covered in, he let out a slew of profanity and let go. I laughed maniacally. I only made it a few feet from them before he caught me again. I knew right then that was it. A finite moment in my mind, the end.
They threw me back in my cell. Later they came with a hose and I got a frigid shower that I didn’t want. Then, they cuffed and blindfolded me.
Someone enters. Small shoes come near me. I can just see them from under my blindfold. Must be a small man. My feet are probably bigger than his. This makes me laugh. Someone grabs my arm. I try to yank it away but I’m not strong enough. A pinch in the crook of my arm makes me cry out. The shoes recede. The door closes. Latches. Locks. A warmth washes over me and for the first time in weeks I feel like smiling. I swear I can feel sunshine in my veins. I sigh and lie on my back. The warmth dissipates eventually. Time creeps along too slowly. I have nothing to focus on but the sounds of my fellow inmates screaming. They make awful sounds, like someone is peeling off their skin. Tears. I feel tears everywhere. I focus on my breathing. When that doesn’t work I start humming. Loudly. Listening to the other girls makes me realize that silence is a luxury.
What are they doing to me?
2
Mike
The doorbell rings, startling me. Glancing at the clock, I furrow my brow. I’m not expecting anyone. On the other side of the glass pane of the front door is Detective Salve. I give him a quick chin lift in greeting as I swing the door open.
“Hey man, what’s up?” I ask. Salve blinks vacantly at me a beat before stepping inside.
“I’m here on official business.”
“Huh?” I ask and then nerves settle into my gut. Salve looks around my place. Aubry said my place was sterile, void of any personality. Official and cold. Is that what Detective Salve sees? I will myself to calm down. I have allotted for this. I have a ‘Go’ bag in my plane. I have cash, enough for three lifetimes, if need be. I’m golden.
“When was the last time you spoke to Aubry Clark?”
Now it’s my turn to blink blankly.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “She was all worked up over a new design theme idea. She gets so into her work that she doesn’t answer her phone or texts.” What the hell is he asking about Aub for anyway?
“Mike, I need to know. Think.” His Adam’s apple bobs with his words. I gesture for him to follow me.
“What’s this about?” I ask as I lead him to the kitchen where my cell rests on the counter. I pick it up and look through my texts and call log.
“She’s been reported missing.” He glances around the large sparsely-decorated kitchen.
“What? When?” I ask. Shock stiffens my limbs. Salve nods toward my phone. “I, um,” I stumble, “Last text and call was the sixteenth.” Aubry’s missing? Missing. A knot forms in my gut.
Salve sighs and scrubs his face with his hands.
“And the last time you saw her?”
I shrug. “I don’t remember. Maybe the tenth? Was that a Saturday? I think we spent Saturday together. But Salve…”
Salve frowns. “Mike, I’m going to need you to come to the station for questioning with me.”
“What? Are you serious?” My eyes widen.
He shakes his head. “I wish I wasn't.”
“Why can’t we talk here?” I tap my fingers against the countertop.
Salve’s eyes hold no judgment as he says, “You’re the last person she called.”
So what? How does that help her? I squeeze my cell in my hand. “And?”
“Come on, Mike, don’t make this harder for me. Just cooperate and you can go back to your day,” he says and scrubs a hand over his face. Understanding slaps me in the face.
“Holy shit, I’m a suspect?” I blurt. Salve only stares at me. Furious, I storm into my room, jam my feet into sneakers and return to the kitchen. “Okay let’s get this over with,” I say.
“Hey, I didn’t say I liked this, Mike. It’s my job.”
My shoulders slump. He’s right and I’d be pissed if he wasn’t doing everything possible to find her. “I know, man.”
Salve follows my car to the station. The drive feels surreal. Too quick, but simultaneously too slow. The scent of orange peels invades my nostrils and I sense I’m being watched, by Aubry, which is ridiculous, because she’s missing. She perpetually smells like orange peels. It is something I make fun of her for—often. I’m craning my neck, trying to find the source of the scent when blue police lights flood my rear view.