Bellamy and the Brute

by Alicia Michaels

  “I don’t understand,” I managed between bites of waffle. “What does East Valley have to do with the ghosts?”

  “I don’t know for sure yet,” he answered. “But what I do know is that something isn’t right about the way East Valley came about. As you know, Baldwin & Co. is responsible for purchasing and developing a lot of the land around Wellhollow Springs, before selling it all off at a huge profit. East Valley was supposed to be my dad’s crowning achievement. A luxury, developed community for people with means—houses that start at half a million, in a gated community, with private schools, pools, clubhouses, tennis courts, gyms, the works. Everyone was excited about it, even the local government, because they saw it as something that could boost the economy. If wealthy people want to live here, it brings more spending power. He worked on his plans for the place for a year or so before striking out to make it happen. There’s only one problem with the whole thing.”

  I raised my eyebrows as he paused to take a huge bite of pie. I tapped my fork against my plate, impatiently waiting for the big reveal. “Well?”

  Swallowing, he took a sip of coffee and wiped his mouth on his napkin. “Baldwin & Co. was almost bankrupt when the project was launched. I’m not sure how or why, but I overheard my dad talking to Ezra about it. Something needed to be done to get the company out of the red, or they would lose everything. Ezra was looking into various solutions, and Dad spent hours late at night locked in his office. I never told anyone what I heard, and I don’t think my mother even knew about it, even though she works within the company.”

  I frowned. “But East Valley is almost finished, isn’t it? Houses are already selling out there. How did he pull it off?”

  He shrugged. “That’s the thing. I have no idea. One day, they announced that Baldwin & Co. would be breaking ground on the land purchased for East Valley, and, within months, the houses started popping up. I completely forgot about what I overheard until I found these photos.”

  “Hmmm,” I mumbled. “I don’t know, Tate. Maybe they figured it out. Sold some of their assets, or whatever it is big companies do to regain their losses. Your dad is a shrewd businessman, just like his dad and grandfather, which is why your family is legendary around here. He didn’t become so wealthy by accident; he knows what he’s doing.”

  Shaking his head, Tate set his fork aside, now finished eating. “I’d be inclined to agree with you, if it weren’t for the fact that there’s simply no way he pulled it off in such a short time. Not with the amount they needed, plus how deep in the hole they were. I mean, maybe he could have raised the money himself for East Valley, expecting the sale of the land and houses to make him the money back plus profit, but even our family finances were in trouble from what I overheard. There’s just no way.”

  I nodded. “So, you’re thinking there was some back-alley stuff going on, and maybe it has something to do with the ghosts?”

  “I know it’s farfetched, but I also realized that not long after East Valley began construction was when the ghosts turned up, and, of course, right after that I got sick. Plus, he changed, Bellamy. I know you don’t know him that well, but he wasn’t always so cold. Whatever happened, it has affected him in some way. Maybe not the same way it’s affected me, but somehow…”

  He trailed off, his face growing pensive as he seemed to try to figure it all out.

  “It could be a good lead,” I relented. “Especially if what you say about your dad is true. I mean, maybe the ghosts pointing at you was a way for them to implicate him.”

  Still silent, Tate stared down into his coffee cup. Realizing what this could all mean, I reached out to touch one of his hands, covering it with mine on the table.

  “You said he changed,” I whispered. “But you don’t think he’s a killer, do you?”

  He shook his head, but I couldn’t tell if he was saying he didn’t know, or if he simply wasn’t sure. “A few years ago, I might have told you no. But now… I don’t know, Bell. He’s not the man he used to be. Now, he’s cold and distant… I don’t know who he is.”

  I inclined my head. “Bell?”

  He glanced up at me sheepishly, as if just realizing he’d shortened my name. “Sorry, it just kind of slipped out.”

  Smiling, I gave his hand a squeeze. He turned it over, putting his palm against mine and squeezing back. “It’s okay. I like it, actually. Bell has a nice ring to it. Ha! Get it? Bell? Ring?”

  He laughed, a wide smile crossing his face, with one side of his mouth lifting a bit higher than the other due to his condition. I found the lopsided grin adorable.

  “You are so corny.”

  I snatched my hand away. “Whatever.”

  He laughed again. “It’s cute. I like corny.”

  My smile faded and laughter died in my throat. He liked corny and wanted to give me a nickname? And I was wearing lip gloss and had styled my hair to look good for him. This could not be happening. I could not develop a crush on Tate Baldwin.

  Clearing his throat, he leaned back in his chair, lowering his hands to his lap. “Anyway, I think I should dig a bit deeper on this—maybe try to dig up whatever I can find on the family and business finances that year. The money had to come from somewhere. Maybe that can be our next clue, and it will lead to another piece of the puzzle.”

  “That’s a great idea,” I said quickly, jumping at the chance to breeze past the tension that had suddenly manifested between us. “Meanwhile, I’ll stay on my present course. If I can figure out who those women were and how they died, I might be able to tie them to your dad or Baldwin & Co. and East Valley.”

  The waitress approached then with our check. I reached into my purse for my wallet, but before I could fish out any money, Tate had slapped a twenty on top of the receipt, adding more for a tip.

  “Here,” he said to the waitress. “Keep the change.”

  “Thank you,” she chirped, taking up his payment before stuffing it in her apron and taking our plates.

  Frowning at him, I dropped my wallet back into my purse. “I said it was on me.”

  He shrugged. “I know. Guess you need to be quicker getting your wallet out next time.”

  Next time. He thought there would be another ‘time’. Of us. Eating together. And talking.

  Relax, I chastised myself. He probably just means the next time we meet to talk over evidence.

  Standing, I stretched, groaning as my stiff muscles protested over being seated for so long. Tate followed suit, rising and putting his hands in his pockets. Arms over my head, I caught his gaze, my face going hot when I realized that my top had risen a good two inches or so and that his gaze had dropped to my exposed stomach.

  Quickly fixing it, I forced myself to speak even though my mouth had gone completely dry. “Yeah, well, next time I’ll order half the menu and leave my wallet at home,” I joked.

  Tate laughed, but it was forced, his own face going red. Did he realize I’d caught him looking? Was there something about what he’d seen that appealed to him?

  I didn’t think I wanted to know the answer to those questions, so I began walking toward the door, forcing him to follow.

  “So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said as we approached the front of the diner. Pausing with one hand on the door, I glanced out into the night, dread curling in my gut at what I found.

  Standing around Tate’s car were Lincoln and two other guys from the football team. They seemed to be waiting for something, with Lincoln even leaning against the passenger door of the car.

  “Shit,” Tate muttered, coming up behind me and glancing out at them. “They recognized my car. Maybe if we just go sit back down, they’ll go away after a while.”

  I turned to glance at him, saddened to find anxiety written all over his face. “Do you think I’m ashamed to be seen with you or something?”

  He hesitated for a moment before answering. “No?”

  I nodded. “Damn right, I’m not. Unless you don’t want to be seen with me?”
<
br />   Tate frowned. “Of course that’s not the problem. It’s just…”

  “Hey, it’s Tate the Great!” one of the guys boomed from outside, having seen us through the glass door.

  “Damn it,” Tate groaned.

  The other two guys perked up, glancing our way. Left with no choice now that they’d seen us, I pushed the door open and stepped out into the night with Tate on my heels.

  “What’s up, man?” Lincoln said, his face fixed with a wide smile as he approached us with his friends flanking him. “Where you been?”

  Pulling his hood up over his head, Tate lowered his eyes. “Nowhere, Linc. Just… been sick, is all.”

  Inclining his head as if trying to see through Tate’s hat and hood, Lincoln came closer. “Too sick to take your best friend’s calls… but not too sick to hang out with the ice queen here.”

  Rolling my eyes, I folded my arms across my chest and moved to walk past him. “Nice to see you too, Lincoln.”

  His hand shot out and closed around my arm, halting my progress. “Is this how it is?” he muttered, giving me a pull until I was almost pressed against him. “You blow me off, but you’ll go out with him?”

  “Don’t touch her!” Tate bellowed, already moving in our direction.

  The other two blocked him off, each grabbing one of Tate’s arms to hold him back. They struggled to keep him away, but succeeded, using their bulky bodies to keep him from Lincoln and me, laughing as he fought against him.

  “Leave her alone,” he growled, his voice low and shaking with rage.

  “Whoa!” Lincoln laughed. “What’s this, buddy? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this over a bitch. Though, I guess I could understand in this case. Lindsay was a dog, but this one…” He trailed off, pulling me closer and pressing his nose against my hair. “Mmmm, this one’s cute and she smells good.”

  I cringed, shudders of revulsion running down my spine. “It’s called soap. Maybe I can teach you how to use it sometime. I’ll show you just where you can shove it.”

  Pushing me away from him, Lincoln scoffed. “Smart-ass mouth, though,” he muttered, ignoring me now for Tate.

  I stumbled a bit, but I didn’t fall, watching as Lincoln advanced on the two guys holding Tate. “Lincoln, don’t!”

  Ignoring me, he paused just in front of Tate, his smile turning into a sneer. “Let’s see what all the fuss is about. Are the rumors true about you being a deformed freak?”

  “No,” Tate cried, panic creeping into his voice as Lincoln reached up to pull his hood down. “Stop!”

  I made a move toward Lincoln, but he used one beefy arm to block me, still wrestling to pull the hood back with his free hand, while Tate struggled to keep it on.

  “Oh, it must be really bad if you won’t let…” he cut off in midsentence, now holding Tate’s hat in his hand.

  The hood had fallen away, and the bright lights coming from the diner hid nothing as he stood there, exposed to them all.

  Lincoln’s mouth fell open, and then laughter began to pour out as he tossed the hat aside, clutching his stomach as if it hurt from laughing so hard. Tate clenched his jaw and glared at him, redness flooding his face. A vein began to throb in his neck, and I thought he might blow a gasket any second.

  “What the hell happened to your face, man?” he managed between laughs. “You look like shit!”

  Refusing to reply, Tate simply stood there, unwilling to look away now that they’d gotten a full view of his face.

  “Is this what you like, Bellamy?” Lincoln taunted, casting a glance at me. “Ugly guys turn you on? Here, let me make him uglier for you.”

  The punch happened so fast that there was no way Tate could have prepared for it. Thrown off balance as Lincoln drove a fist into his face, he fell to one knee, jerking his arm out of one of the guys’ hold. I gasped, watching as Lincoln took another swing, catching Tate in the jaw with an uppercut this time.

  “There,” Lincoln spat, circling Tate while his friends backed off, leaving him lying on the ground. “How’s it feel, hotshot? You might still be rich, but you ain’t shit anymore! How’s it feel to know you’re not as good as you thought you were? You’re no better than the rest of us!”

  He lifted a foot to kick Tate, but I rushed toward him, grabbing his shoulders and pulling with all my might until we both toppled back onto the ground. I rolled away before he could fall on top of me, struggling to my feet as Lincoln sprawled on his back, an enraged roar tearing from him. Before he could get up, Tate had risen and was on him, pressing a knee into Lincoln’s chest before returning punch for punch. Blood splattered the pavement as Lincoln’s head was thrown left from the force of the blow. Tate raised his fist to go back for more, but the other two boys stepped in, each grabbing Tate under the arm and dragging him back so Lincoln could stand.

  “Stop it,” I cried, following them as they pushed him against the car, trying to hold him there for Lincoln to keep pounding on. “That’s enough!”

  “Let him go,” Lincoln bellowed, stumbling toward him. “And get the hell out of my way.”

  The guys obeyed, backing off and watching with glee as their idiot friend advanced on Tate—who came away from the car, wiping his bloody nose on the sleeve of his hoodie before putting his fists up.

  Lincoln swung first, catching Tate in the chest. Grasping his wrist, Tate twisted until Lincoln spun around, his arm at a painful angle.

  Tate yanked up on it, causing an audible pop and snap, which mixed with the sound of Lincoln’s pitiful screams. He fell to his knees, and Tate released his arm, but he didn’t stop there.

  “Tate, no,” I urged, hoping to talk some sense into him before this went too far.

  Apparently, we’d passed the point of no return, because Tate ignored me, putting a foot against Lincoln’s chest and pushing him to his back. Then, kneeling over him, he drew his fist back and let it fly. Once. Twice. Three times. Then more… until Lincoln’s groans faded away, and blood stained Tate’s knuckles. Until I began to grow afraid he’d kill him.

  Rushing toward them, I grabbed Tate’s arm before he could take another swing.

  Turning his head to glare at me over his shoulder, he screamed, “Let me go!”

  “No,” I yelled back, tightening my hold. “It’s over, Tate. Look at him! Look at yourself.”

  At my last words, he seemed to notice the blood coating his knuckles. Glancing down at Lincoln, he grunted in acknowledgement of my plea. Standing, he shook his hand, causing droplets of blood to fly.

  “Get up,” he growled, staring down at Lincoln’s prone form. “Now.”

  Cursing under his breath, Lincoln obeyed, struggling to his feet. Clutching his arm, which now hung at a weird angle, he glared and spat a stream of blood onto Tate’s shoes.

  “You dislocated my shoulder, you asshole!”

  “I’ll do worse than that if you ever touch her again,” Tate replied, hand still curled into a fist at his side. “Apologize to her.”

  Lincoln glanced from Tate to me, then back again, as if trying to estimate whether he could get away with not following the order.

  Tate grabbed his injured shoulder, giving it a squeeze, driving Lincoln back to his knees. “I said apologize!”

  “Shit! I’m sorry! I’m sorry, okay?” he squealed, squirming to get out of Tate’s hold.

  Nodding, Tate released him, and then went to retrieve his hat. “Get the hell away from me. Next time, she won’t be able to stop me, so I suggest you keep your distance.”

  With the help of his friends, Lincoln was on his feet, walking toward his truck.

  “This isn’t over,” he called over his shoulder from across the parking lot. “You both better watch your backs!”

  Tate watched them go with narrowed eyes, his nostrils flared as his chest heaved with barely contained wrath. Once they’d driven off, he paced toward his car, leaning back against the hood and pressing the sleeve of his sweatshirt against his nose. Groaning, he tried to stop the flow of bloo
d.

  “Damn it, that hurt.”

  Coming toward him, I reached into my purse and retrieved a pack of tissues. “Here.”

  He flinched away from me when I came close, trying to help by pressing the tissue to his nose. “Don’t,” he hissed. “Don’t touch me.”

  Brows furrowed, I backed away as he’d asked, uncertain why him pulling away made my chest ache. “Tate, I’m just trying to help.”

  Yanking his hood back over his head, he shook his head. “I don’t need any help from you. You got that? Stop trying to fix me or make me whole again! I don’t need it, and I don’t need you!”

  My mouth dropped open as I tried to digest what was happening. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about you and your bright ideas,” he snapped, now pacing back and forth. “’Oh, it’s okay to go out to eat at Charlene’s, Tate, no one will be there to see you.’”

  Sighing, I ran my hands over my messed-up hair. “I had no way of knowing they’d come here. I was just—”

  “Just don’t,” he said, pausing to glare down at me. “Whatever you were doing or trying to do, just stop it. I didn’t ask you to try to make a project out of me. I don’t like going out in public, I told you that already, but you just had to drag me out and turn me into a spectacle.” Whirling away from me, he stomped toward his car, fishing his keys from the pocket of his jeans. “Go home, Bellamy.”

  Without waiting for me to respond, or to see if I even made it into my car, Tate threw himself behind the wheel and slammed the door. Seconds later, he sped off with a screech of tires, leaving me standing in the dark parking lot, alone.

  I was pissed. Being left alone in a dark parking lot—my heart pounding like a sledgehammer, hands shaking, and my nerves frazzled beyond repair—had filled my veins with molten hot lava. Instead of finding an outlet for the feeling, I stifled it, stomping to my car and getting inside before making the short drive home. Once there, I was grateful Dad had gone to bed, or I might not have been able to face him without having a breakdown. I spent an hour trying to calm down, showering and changing into my pajamas, snuggling in bed with a book, and then giving it up in favor of Netflix.