Double Down

by Torre, Alessandra

  She looked up sharply, a bit of greasy blonde hair falling out from behind her ear. “Oh, no. This was before. This was at the first place. The warehouse.”

  The door of the trailer swung open, and the paramedic stepped in, followed by the female agent. Agent King held up a hand, signaling them to wait. “A warehouse?” He watched her closely, seeing her eyes jump from him to the paramedic.

  She nodded. “Yeah. A big one. You know. Where all the other girls are.”

  The female agent locked eyes with him, the tension in the room spiking. “Katy, we need you to tell us everything you can about the warehouse and as quickly as possible.”

  Seventeen

  BELL

  I dipped the bowl into the soapy water and heard the living room television turn on. The sponge was slimy, and I added more soap to it, rubbing the stiff side over the ceramic.

  “Your dad is just going to need some time to adjust to things,” Mom spoke quietly, turning on the faucet to drown out our conversation. “He’s never liked your boyfriends, you know that.”

  She was right. Even sweet, perfect Elliot. He had picked me up for our first date, and Dad had slunk into their bedroom and hadn’t talked to me for three days.

  Mom continued. “Plus, Dario is much more man than you’ve ever dated. That’s hard for your father, looking up at a man bigger than him. He can’t intimidate Dario, and—this last week—he’s felt helpless in terms of reaching or protecting you.”

  “I know.” I passed her the bowl and reached for another. “I just wanted one part of this to go smoothly. I was hoping this would be it.”

  She pulled the dirty bowl from my hands and set it in the sink, turning me to face her. I looked up into her face and noticed, for the first time in years, that she was getting old. She had new bags under her light brown eyes. Her hair, which she’d dyed blonde for as long as I’d lived, was streaked with silver. She wasn’t that old. Fifty-three. Too young to be looking at me with such old eyes.

  “What’s different about him?”

  It was a steep question, one that would take a week to answer. I met her eyes and gave the best answer I could. “Everything.”

  It was true. Everything was different about him. Some of it I didn’t want, some of it I loved. But everything about him—the issues, the sincerity, the passion, the love … it was all authentic. I trusted him. That was the biggest thing about him. I lost my breath when he looked at me. I swooned when he reached for me. I loved him, even if I didn’t fully understand it. Even when I hated him.

  She pulled me into her soft chest and wrapped her arms around me. I melted into the embrace. She turned her head, her lips against my ear, and spoke quietly. “We just want you to be happy. And safe. We worry, with everything that has happened with him, that he’s putting you in danger.”

  I pulled away and kissed her cheek. “That’s all done, Mom. I promise. And he’s still wanting to drown me in security. So, don’t worry. I’m safe.”

  “Your heart, too?” She smiled, but I heard the concern in her voice.

  I smiled back. “My heart too.”

  * * *

  THE ONLY

  Robert’s arrest changed everything. She had read the news ticker and headed for The Majestic. Used her access codes to get into the executive garage and behind the wheel of an SUV. By the time she’d started the engine, his shooting was all over the radio.

  Men like Robert weren’t supposed to die. She had failed. She had destroyed everything. For him to be arrested, and then killed? Shot down like a common man?

  It had sent her psyche spiraling in an entirely different direction: rage.

  She shifted into drive and headed to the one place he loved.

  The warehouse was at the center of a gated complex that spanned almost two hundred acres. The gate surrounding it was ten feet high, with an electric wire running along its top edge, every foot monitored by motion detectors and cameras. Its location had been carefully chosen, in the middle of the desert, a stealth approach impossible. Escape, should someone make it over the fence and past the electric current, would involve a lengthy hike through the unforgiving desert.

  In the twelve years since the warehouse’s creation, only one girl had attempted escape. She’d made it to the fence. Burned and shuddered through the electric wires. Fallen the ten feet to the desert rock and broken an arm and wrist. Stumbled about eighty yards before Hawk’s gun had caught her, his crosshairs aimed at her legs.

  She was hung in the middle of the warehouse as a warning. Her body had swelled in the Vegas heat. Flesh rotted. Blood collected in her lower limbs and her feet turned black. The smell grew, permeating through every cell, a constant reminder of the display. Flies appeared, and the girls took to facing the back walls of their prisons.

  After a few weeks, the smell faded, but the body remained. Hope withered and no one else tried to escape. It didn’t matter. Now that Hawk was dead, they’d all die anyway. The only question was how and when.

  Claudia pulled open the cell door and glanced over the empty space, one that reeked of urine and feces. Pulling her hair into a high ponytail, she donned a mask, then wheeled the pressure washer into the center of the room, parking it to the side of the large drain hole. The drain was more of a grate, with slats large enough to accommodate bits of body, if Hawk got creative with his disposal. Typically, it was used for circumstances like this. The drain carried the remains into a septic tank that sat underneath the warehouse, one large enough to hold another two decades worth of filth. A useless arrangement, given Hawk’s sudden absence. There would soon be no need for disposals. No need for the burning pit or the instruments, the carefully orchestrated entertainment for their pets, or the training. The leader was gone and continuing the activities without him seemed pointless.

  But before she blew this warehouse to pieces, it would host two final guests. Two guests that would require every bit of training she had ever received from him. Two guests that would receive the full range of the Robert Hawk brutality. It was only right, seeing as they were responsible for his death.

  She switched on the pressure washer, the loud roar of the engine filling the space. Pointing the sprayer at a splash of blood on the wall, she squeezed the nozzle, a combination of bleach and water shooting out of it. Focusing on the streak of crimson, her fury mounting, she began to prep the cell for their arrival.

  * * *

  DARIO

  Dario leaned against the car, the nozzle in the tank, and waited for it to fill. Holding the phone to his ear, he listened to the FBI agent.

  “We’re still questioning her, trying to get as many details as possible that will help us pinpoint a location. But just from scanning through Hawk’s tax registrations, we have five or six possibilities. The man owns more property than God.”

  Dario watched as a pickup truck pulled in, the diesel engine loud as it stopped next to him. He turned his head, shielding the receiver with his hand. “If he was doing anything questionable, he wouldn’t have it under his own name. He’s the king of shell corporations. You’re going to have to get a forensic accountant to dig deep. Look for something big, and something close by. The man hates to fly, so it’d be something in driving distance.”

  Hated. The man hated to fly. It was so odd, talking about him in the past tense. It seemed false—his larger than life adversary gone too easily.

  The FBI agent’s voice crackled through the cell. “We’re on it. I don’t have to explain to you that this is our top priority. Especially with the chance that some of these girls are still alive.”

  He was almost glad Gwen wasn’t here to see this. They had never discussed the rumors that swirled around her father. He’d brought it up once, and she’d stopped him quickly, her face tightening into a stiff glare that he’d never seen before. She’d insisted on his innocence, and he’d let the matter go. Finding whatever horrors existed in this warehouse would have broken her and destroyed whatever remaining faith she had left in her image of family
.

  Ending the call, he hung up the gas nozzle and got into the car, anxious to get back to Bell.

  * * *

  BELL

  Dario was quiet, which suited me. He’d updated me on the girl they’d found in Hawk’s house. Her story and the mental image of a warehouse full of prisoners had my mind working overtime. I’d thought Gwen’s shooting had been a terrible way to die. Now, I was suddenly reminded of all of the more gruesome ways to go.

  We entered Mohave, which is to say that we passed the Dairy Queen and the 35 MPH sign carefully hidden behind an enthusiastic shrub that law enforcement like to pour fertilizer on in their spare time. I tapped Dario’s arm. “Slow down. This car sticks out like a sore thumb.”

  He obeyed, surprising me when he put on his blinker and turned into Becky’s Diner.

  “What are we doing?”

  He pulled down a busy row and idled before an empty spot. “I want to take my girl on a date. I know you had an early dinner, but are you up for dessert?”

  I squinted at the diner and fought back my smile. “At Becky’s Diner?”

  He managed to look hurt. “What? Not fancy enough for you?” He twisted in his seat, looking up and down the quiet street. “I hate to break your heart, but I’m not sure what other options we have.”

  “Becky’s is fine. I’m just not sure you want to pick this night of the week to eat here.”

  He pulled into the spot and turned off the ignition. “Meaning what?”

  I grinned and cracked open the door. “You’ll see.”

  In Vegas, you gamble. In Louisiana, you eat crawfish. In Mohave, you play trivia at Becky’s on Monday night. Other than fucking, racing dune buggies, and chasing kids … there’s not much else to do. It’d been two years since I last stepped foot in Becky’s, but I pushed open the door, and it was exactly the same.

  The scents of beer, grease, and perfume-laced body odor.

  A collective din of noise, voices and clattering utensils against dishes.

  Babies with unwiped drool waving food-covered hands in the air.

  A floor that was slightly sticky underfoot.

  Tables crowded, ringed with t-shirts, big hair, and baseball caps.

  We stopped in the doorway and Brenda freakin’ Bishop was the first one to see me.

  “Bell Hartley, is that you?” She jostled to her feet, her pregnant belly swinging, and held out her arms.

  I hugged her and waved to the others at her table. “Hey Brenda. Jay. Jimbo. Annette.”

  They nodded, knocked around their chairs in an attempt to make room for us, then gave up.

  “Who’s your friend?” Annette Torres gazed up at Dario with fascination, a look that earned her a scowl from her husband.

  I pushed Dario forward, catching sight of an open table near the back. “This is Dario. We’re gonna grab that table before it’s taken. Good luck, guys.”

  Between the door and the table, we were stopped twice more. Two more introductions of Dario, two more hugs. By the time we made it to the empty two-top, I was reminded why I confined my Mohave visits to my parent’s small scrap of dirt.

  “Popular girl.” Dario picked up a menu.

  “Not really. But you’re gossip gold, so everyone’s going to want to have something to share.” I leaned forward and gently tugged the menu out of his hand. “On trivia night, the normal menu’s dead. The only thing they have is burgers. With cheese or without. With fries or not.”

  “Trivia night?”

  As if on cue, the kitchen door swung open and a three-hundred-pound bowling ball of a man, dipped in gold eyeshadow, daisy-print coveralls and bright yellow cowboy boots, waltzed into the room. A general cheer went up, and Dario’s mouth twitched.

  “Who is that, exactly?”

  I smiled and lifted my hand, waving to Sally, the bartender. “Oh, that’s Becky.”

  “That’s Becky?” His grin widened, and I fought the urge to kiss it.

  Becky dragged his stool to the front of the restaurant and straddled it, withdrawing a bedazzled microphone out of his front bib pocket. I reached into the ceramic pot in the center of the table and pulled out an answer form and tiny pencil.

  “Trivia night with Becky.” Dario read out the title on the answer form and watched as I carefully wrote the date on top of the answer sheet. “Well, this should be interesting.”

  Interesting? I smiled to myself. He had no idea.

  Eighteen

  “We need a name.” I stared at the blank line at the top of the form, my mind void of creative spark.

  “Just put Bell and Dario.”

  I frowned at him. “It needs to be something else. Something…”

  Something … something that didn’t scream Bell Hartley is back in town and in a relationship in giant capital letters. Not that I was ashamed of it. But prancing around with the guy who cut John and Johnny’s balls off was probably …not a good idea. This was Mohave, after all. Gossip spread quickly, and we already had enough of it buzzing around the room as it is. Dario’s foot bumped mine as he settled into his seat, and I stared at the blank line.

  Becky bellowed into the microphone, the feedback screeching through the room. “Trivia starts in five minutes, folks! Put your food orders in and get your cobwebs cleaned outta those skulls! Tonight’s prize is a $25 gift card to Kevin’s Guns and a free appetizer!”

  Dario snorted and I shot him a glare.

  “Come on. Think of something.”

  “What about The Gamblers?” he suggested.

  I made a face and he laughed.

  “What? We are risk-takers. Everything about us has been a risk so far.”

  A risk we, and others, have paid for. I shook my head. “It’s too obvious.”

  “The Risk-Takers?”

  I curled up my nose. “Sounds like an eighties band.”

  I scratched the back of my hand. “What about a poker term? Or—”

  “Double Down,” he suggested.

  It wasn’t terrible, though it did sound a little dude ranchy. Still, the origins behind the title raised my interests and I met his gaze. “Why Double Down?”

  He leaned forward. “It fits us. You could have given up when Gwen died. Or kept the stakes the same. But you didn’t. I didn’t. We risked more. Raised the stakes. Emotionally, went in deeper. At least, I did.”

  “Me too.” I looked down at the page. Doubling down was a blackjack term. It’s when you had a risky hand that had the potential to be strong, or the potential to be disastrous. Instead of riding the hand out, you double your bet. And in doing so, you wager everything on the next card. That card determines your outcome—and is statistically more likely to tank your hand than win it.

  It did fit us. On paper, we were a losing hand. Yet we’d both stayed in and, as he said, risked more.

  I wrote Double Down on the line, then looked back up on him. “That’s good.”

  “You like it?”

  I nodded, and when he tugged on my hand, pulling me in for a kiss, I didn’t fight it.

  * * *

  DARIO

  She was intoxicating. When she laughed, it pulled at something inside of him, each instance unraveling one more loose thread that held onto his pain. When she looked at him, the way she was right now, her gaze drifting over his lips, her eyes heavy with need, it lit a fire in him in a way no one had ever done. He reached over and picked up her hand. Turned the delicate wrist over and pressed a kiss against it. She curled her fingers around his jaw and all he wanted was a lifetime with her. Mornings in bed. Calls from her in the middle of his day. Her body curled against his at night. Her, in an evening gown, in Paris. Sandy and sunburnt in Exuma. Pregnant and glowing in a doctor’s office.

  It was endearing, how competitive she was. It had been a surprising trait to encounter. Tiny fangs and claws had sprung out, her focus intense on winning a useless gift card and free appetizer they would never use. And they weren’t going to win. Whoever wrote these questions was a sadist, evidenced in
point by the current query.

  “You’re useless.” She tapped the tip of the pencil on the page, trying to think of an answer for the question Becky had just asked. “Come on. THINK.”

  He shook his head. “I told you. I don’t know anything about Madonna.”

  “Shit.”

  She put her head in her hands and stared down at the page. “Her first husband. I know this. It’s not Guy Ritchie. There’s no way she didn’t get married until then.”

  She peered at him as if he was deliberately withholding the information. “Come on. Think of anyone she dated in the eighties.”

  He laughed. “I’m thirty-seven, Bell. I barely knew what marriage was in the eighties. And I definitely wasn’t paying attention to Madonna.”

  And shit, in Louisiana? His dad had played Hank Williams, Jr and creole music. If someone had put Madonna on the juke box, they would have gotten thrown out of the bar.

  She slumped in the seat and picked up her soda. “We’re going to lose.”

  Her gaze connected with his, and he smiled. Her dejection mellowed, her lips turning up at the ends, and that look, the one that made his dick stand on end, came back to her eyes.

  “Oh… yoo hoo!” The man with the gold eyeshadow tapped the microphone. “Put those pencils down, because it’s time for the next question and this one is a show-stopper.”

  Dario nodded for the exit. “Let’s get out of here.”

  She lifted one adorable shoulder in a shrug. “It’s probably best. We don’t want to embarrass these guys with our awesome score.”

  “Such a giver.”

  She laughed. “You got cash?”

  Dario nodded, sitting forward and pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. Thumbing through the bills, he grabbed a few and tossed them on the table. He stood and her hand found his, tugging slightly as she led the way out of the restaurant.