by Ivy Layne
Smokey jumped and turned around, letting go of the handle, pressing his back to the locked door in the wall. "Nothing. Nothing, baby girl, I'm not doing anything. I just wanted some fresh air."
"Then what are you doing messing around with the door? It's locked. It's supposed to be locked."
"I'm not messing with the door," he said despite the fact that he'd been doing exactly that, and we all knew it. I was an arm's length away, and I could feel Summer's temper boiling over. I rested a hand on her back, thinking to calm her. It didn't work.
"I swear to God, Dad. I've had enough. I know we said three days, but you need to go."
"I have one more day. I don't have anywhere to go yet. I'm working something out. Tomorrow. I swear I'll go tomorrow. I promise. Cross my heart."
"One more day won't hurt," I said to Summer.
She sighed. "It might. I might kill him in his sleep."
She might have to get in line. Smokey stared at his feet, shuffling them, looking like he was about to bolt past us into the house. I sighed.
"One more day," I repeated. "Then I'm driving you home and leaving you there. Got it?"
Morphing back into a sulky kid, he scuffed the dirt with his shoe and said, "Yeah, sure. I got it." He walked past us, bumping Summer with his shoulder. It took everything I had not to take a swing at him.
Less than a day, I told myself. Less than a day and he'll be out of our hair.
We followed Smokey back into the house, watching as he went down the hall and climbed the stairs to his room.
Summer and I returned to our positions outside the parlor doors. We didn't have to wait long. Cynthia opened the door, eyes puffy from tears, eye make-up smudged, lipstick smeared, her hand in Clint's.
Regal as a queen, she announced, "Clint and I are back together. He'll be moving in."
They swept past us down the hall and up the main stairs, headed to Cynthia's suite to make up for lost time. Summer watched them go with a furrowed brow. "I hope she knows what she's doing."
"Sometimes a guy deserves a second chance," I said quietly.
She turned and smiled up at me. "That's true. Sometimes a guy does deserve a second chance. And do you know what I just realized?"
"What?"
"If Cynthia is in her room giving Clint his second chance, then I don't have anything to do."
"That's a shame," I said, "I'd hate for you to be bored."
"Do you want to come upstairs and entertain me?" she asked.
I kissed the grin from her mouth before I answered, "Absolutely."
Chapter Thirty-Two
Summer
The sounds woke me, muffled and indistinct, flowing around my head in a swirl of noise. Voices. Grunts. The slide of something on wood. I came awake slowly, my brain sluggish. Confused. The sour taste in my mouth made my stomach roll.
Something was off, but I couldn't seem to figure out what it was. Why was I sitting up? Why wasn't I in my room? Where was Evers? My eyes creaked open, lids heavy as concrete.
The sounds in the room were clearer. Voices. A thump. A furious grunt.
Vaguely, I was aware something was wrong.
I shouldn't be here. I was in my nightgown. I should be in bed.
I couldn't move my arms or legs. I sat slumped, head fallen forward, my hair brushing my face.
Concentrating hard, I forced my eyes to open all the way, peering through the curtain of my sleep-tangled hair. The room swam into focus, the scene before me so bizarre that, at first, I was sure I was still asleep.
I was in the bar at Rycroft Castle. I recognized the dark wood paneling, the thick oak bar top the owner had imported from a pub in Ireland, the heavy chair to which my arms and legs were zip tied.
Zip ties? The thin plastic strips were pulled tight, cutting into my wrists and ankles, securing me firmly to the solid oak chair.
A tall, slender man in a dark suit stood before me, a gun in one hand. Three other men, larger and broader, their faces blank, eyes cold, stood arrayed behind him. They also held guns.
As the strangers and all those weapons registered in my sluggish mind, a surge of panicked adrenaline hit me, sending my heart pounding, every instinct telling me to run.
I twitched against my bonds, my brain unable to override my need to bolt for safety. I didn't think the four men had seen my eyes open, the thick fall of my hair giving me some camouflage.
Sliding my gaze to my right, my heart sank as I saw Evers, tied to one of the heavy leather club chairs, zip ties securing his arms and legs to the chair, a wide strip of duct tape covering his mouth. His face was flushed with strain, his eyes blue flames of fury. Behind the crude gag, he emitted muffled sounds of rage.
His eyes were drawn to mine like a magnet. I needed no words to understand the message in his furious gaze. Be careful. Do nothing.
I blinked, the only message I could send without giving myself away. To my left, I caught a glimpse of my father, zip tied to another of the club chairs. Unlike Evers, he sat calmly, his mouth free of tape.
I drew in a breath, mind racing, panic clearing the last of the fog, leaving me with a dull headache. We were waiting. For what?
I snuck another look at my father. Something about him felt off. Wrong. Smokey didn't look scared. Not really.
Evers was too angry to be afraid. I didn't have that problem. My heart raced in my chest, thumping in my ears, my lungs cranking down tight until I could barely draw a breath.
But Smokey just looked nervous. Wary. And he wasn't wearing a gag.
I wasn't gagged either, so maybe it didn't mean anything. I kept my eyes down, off of the men watching us, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that I was conscious. My stomach, queasy and sour, twisted hard, sending bile into my throat. I swallowed it back.
Think, Summer. What the hell is going on? Evers, Smokey, and I appeared to be the only ones in the room. Assuming it was the middle of the night, the day staff was gone, leaving Cynthia, Clint, Angie, Viggo, and all of the security staff unaccounted for.
Fear surged in a wave. I struggled to shut it down. No time to worry about them. If they were in trouble, I couldn't help them until I helped myself. I could only hope they were okay.
All at once, it came to me.
Drugged. We'd been drugged.
That thick, cotton wool fog in my head, my sluggish limbs, the twist of my stomach, and the sour taste in my mouth. We'd been drugged.
It didn't take me long to figure out when. Or who.
Dinner and the wine. Flashes of memory flitted through my mind. Smokey lingering in the dining room before the meal. Talking up the wine until we'd all had a glass.
But the guards? How did he get to security? They ate separately, and they wouldn't have had the wine. I hoped they were still alive. I hoped I lived long enough to find out.
Smokey, Evers, and I were here, tied to these chairs because the man in front of us wanted something. I didn't need to know how we got here to understand that much.
The security team, Cynthia, Clint, Angie, and Viggo must be unnecessary, which might mean they'd been taken care of. Permanently. I squeezed my eyes shut at the thought.
Cynthia. Oh, God, Cynthia. And Clint. They'd only just… No. You're not going to help them by getting hysterical. Get your shit together and think.
I recognized the voice that cut through my rising hysteria. "Miss Winters. You've joined us. I was beginning to worry your father got your dose wrong."
He sent a derisive look at Smokey, who shrugged a shoulder and said, "I told you I didn't."
Nausea swelled in my stomach at my father's casual acknowledgment of guilt, at his lack of worry that I hadn't woken. I swallowed hard, fighting the urge to throw up, and raised my head, tossing my hair out of my eyes. The abrupt movement sent my head throbbing.
"You did this," I hissed at Smokey, ignoring Evers' grunt of warning from beside me. Staring at my father, wondering how, after all I'd learned, I could still have hoped he cared about me.
&
nbsp; "You did this. You drugged us. You let them in."
"He did," agreed the man in the suit in an accent I recognized.
He was the one who'd called and left that message at Sinclair Security. The man who'd threatened Evers' mother, promised to come after Evers and his brothers.
This was Andrei Tsepov. My father had betrayed us to Andrei Tsepov.
"His help is the only reason your father is still alive." Tsepov raised his gun and pointed it at Smokey, who, for the first time, betrayed a glimmer of fear in his wide eyes.
"Why are you pointing that gun at me? I'm on your side. I helped. I did what you asked. I did everything you asked."
"Not precisely. I asked you to find what Maxwell stole. In that, you have failed. Again."
Smokey shifted, testing his bonds, moving restlessly. His words stuttering, begging, he said, "I don't know. I don't know what he stole. He didn't tell me anything. I don't know what he took. Man, if you just tell me what it is, I'll find it and give it back. I swear."
An amused chuckle rumbled in Tsepov's throat. "There truly is no honor among thieves. And you, Smokey, have never had even a hint of honor. You're a fool and an addict."
He shook his head as if he were disappointed in my father, but beneath the act was a black hole of emotion. Tsepov was playing at being human, acting out his feelings, manufacturing the drama. This was a game to him.
We were pieces on a chess board, either tools or obstacles. He knew what he wanted. We could help, or he would move us out of his way. I saw it in his dark eyes. The calculation. The deliberation.
We were on our own, outnumbered, and Tsepov was determined to win.
My father opened his mouth to speak, but I got there first.
Evers wanted me to be careful. To be quiet.
I would have. I wanted to. But I knew without a doubt that whatever words were about to come out of my father's mouth, they would only make things worse.
I wasn't going to die because Smokey was a fucking idiot, and I wouldn't let him get Evers killed.
"He doesn't know," I cut in, meeting Tsepov's dark eyes. "Neither do the Sinclairs. They questioned Smokey already, scared the hell out of him. If he knew, he would have told them. No one knows what Maxwell took. They'll find it if you tell them."
Tsepov stared at me nonplussed, eyes blank and a shade confused. He regrouped and gave a wry shake of his head. "Is it really possible? Maxwell left his boys out of his business? I'm not surprised about this one," he said, nodding his head in my father's direction. "He's an idiot. But I always thought Maxwell's boys were in the game despite his protests they were clean."
Leveling his dark, curious eyes on Evers, he said, "It is true you know nothing of your father's business?"
Evers stared at Tsepov with a glare so hot, so furious, I half expected laser beams to shoot from his eyes. But this was no superhero movie. Instead of being incinerated by the force of Evers' rage, Tsepov shrugged a shoulder, dismissing him.
"I see I may have misjudged the situation. I would have saved some time if I'd been more forthcoming. What's done is done." Shifting from the philosophical to business, he said, "Account numbers. Maxwell transferred money he owed my uncle into new accounts. I want the numbers. I want the money."
His eyes locked on my father, he trained the gun on Smokey's chest. Conversationally, pleasantly, he said, "Now that we have that out in the open, where are the numbers?"
Smokey, finally realizing that Tsepov did not consider him an ally, pulled frantically at his bonds, whimpering, "I don't know, man. I don't know anything about any numbers. If I had them, I'd give them to you. Didn't I do everything else you wanted?"
Another offhand shrug. "Some of it. Most of it. But drugging the guards and the wine doesn't wipe the slate clean, Clive Winters. You are only necessary so long as you are of use. And if you don't know anything about those account numbers—"
"I—I—I—" Smokey flailed for something, anything, that would justify his continued existence. It seemed obvious to me that he didn't know a thing about any account numbers, but Tsepov wasn't willing to work on assumptions.
"Maybe this will clarify your thoughts," he said. Lowering the gun a few inches, he pulled the trigger.
It was loud. On TV, guns sound more like a sharp pop. Not this one. The shot echoed in the room, my ears ringing from the sound until Smokey's wail of agony drowned it out.
A hole had opened in his upper thigh, frayed edges of denim circling a black pit that bubbled and flowed with the gleam of red blood. He'd shot my dad.
A sound reached my ears, plaintive and thin. I realized it was coming from me. I sucked in a breath. Evers growled beside me. I needed to keep it together. I could not fall apart. Smokey was falling apart, and he had a bullet in his leg to show for it.
Smokey wept, tears streaming down his cheeks, snot bubbling from his nose, dripping on his shirt as he sobbed, "I don't know I don't know I don't know oh God oh God please I don't know," the words running together in a mumbled rush until he was no more than a wounded animal whining from the pain.
Tsepov, unbothered by what he'd done to my father, turned his attention to Evers. "And you," he said, easily, "I regret wasting all of our time. I should not have assumed your father's business was family business. But, now that you know, where are the account numbers?"
Evers, the tape still firmly across his mouth, shook his head in a negative. Tsepov raised the gun, training it on Evers' chest.
"No," I shouted, terror driving the words from my mouth. "No, no, he can't find them if you shoot him. He can find them, they just didn't know what you were looking for. Please. He can't help if you shoot him."
The sound coming from Evers was somewhere between a growl and a moan of despair. I couldn't bring myself to look at him, to see his fury aimed at me. I knew he wanted me to be quiet, to let him handle this.
Too bad. I was not going to sit there with my mouth shut while Tsepov shot him no matter what he wanted me to do. Tsepov lowered the gun to his side and looked at me consideringly. To the goon on his right, he said, "Yanev, release her. Bring her here."
The man holstered his weapon and circled the room to stand behind me. The snick of the knife opening was loud in the suddenly-quiet room, my father's noise reduced to whimpers and occasional sobs. The plastic ties on my wrists and ankles pulled tight as Tsepov's man knelt by my side, smelling of onions and too-strong cologne.
One by one, the ties fell away. He closed a meaty hand around my arm and yanked me to my feet. My arms still secured behind my back, I stumbled as he dragged me across the room to Tsepov. Coming to a jerking halt, I was turned until I stood side-by-side with my captor.
Reaching out a hand, he stroked a finger across my cheek. At my instinctive recoil, his eyes narrowed. "Who would have thought Smokey Winters would have such a beautiful daughter? I've seen pictures, but they didn't do you justice."
His finger pressed up on my chin, lifting my face to his. "If we can't come to an arrangement for the account numbers, I can make use of you. You look like a cheerleader. All this blond hair. Those blue eyes. Still young enough to have a tight little body. Very popular overseas."
Dark, soulless eyes trailed down to my toes, taking in every inch of skin exposed by my silky nightgown. My stomach clenched hard, saliva pooling in my mouth. I could not throw up on this man. Knowing what he was implying, what use he planned to make of me, I wasn't sure I could stop myself.
Across the room, Evers let out a sound of such rage, such frustration I wanted to weep. Instantly, my nausea slid away. I had to hold on. Evers was going to lose it, tied to that chair, temporarily helpless.
I wasn't going to make it worse. He wouldn't let anything happen to me. A ridiculous thought, considering that he was unarmed and zip tied to a chair. It didn't matter. Evers wouldn't let anything happen to me. I just had to hang in there, keep Tespov from shooting anyone else, and we'd figure out the rest.
Tsepov dropped his hand from my face. As if we were frien
ds, he slipped an arm around my waist, turning me to face my father and Evers.
"Here we are, the two men in your life before us. Your father and your lover. You're a smart girl. What do you think? Is your father lying? I find it hard to believe he has the mental discipline to withstand pain, but you'd be surprised what people will do for money."
He flicked the gun in Evers' direction, sending a shaft of ice into my heart. I wanted that gun pointed anywhere but at Evers. "Maxwell's boy, well, if he wasn't working with his father, then I'll believe he doesn't know where the numbers are. But he's resourceful. Useful. I only need one of them. You tell me, which one can solve my problem?"
Tsepov lifted the gun and pointed it at Evers, then slid it past my empty seat to settle on Smokey, who flinched and whimpered. Then back to Evers, who leaned into the room, his eyes on fire with rage, cold with fear, arms straining so hard on the plastic ties blood trickled down his wrists. The fear wasn't for himself. It was for me.
Tsepov swung the gun back and forth, a faint smile on his face, waiting for my answer. I spared my father a look, saw his fear, his weakness, and beneath both, love. Somewhere in his heart, my father loved me.
I knew to the depths of my soul that he'd never imagined his actions would put me in so much danger. He was stupid and foolish and selfish, but he wasn't malicious.
I didn't have to think.
Maybe I should have.
Maybe I'm a horrible person for making my choice so quickly. So easily.
I didn’t care. My head and my heart knew exactly what to say.
My eyes locked to Evers, hoping he could read in them the words I'd never spoken aloud, I gave Tsepov my answer.
"Evers. You need Evers. He'll get you what you want."
Warm breath brushed my ear. "Good girl. That wasn't so hard, was it?" Then, turning his head, "Yanev."
Black fabric dropped over my head, cutting off my vision, trapping my sour, humid breath, the sound of my panting breaths filling my ears. A cold hand closed over my breast, squeezing hard enough to draw a gasp of pain from my tight lungs.