by K. L. Savage
All I wanted to do was marry Daphne.
“Sorry, brother. I’m only doing what is best for ye,” Skirt tells me right as he throws his professional UFC fucking fist through the air, slamming the brass knuckles against my jaw.
“Wayne!” Daphne screams my name, my real name out of fear as I fall into the fence, becoming someone else’s victim for a change.
My own brother.
“Wayne? Shite, how did I not know that?” Skirt nails me again in the stomach. “How did I not know anything about yer past?” he says with a bit more resentment than I thought he’d have. He hits my jaw with his other hand. A smooth uppercut to the jaw has blood spewing out of my mouth. “Ye say we are family, ye call me yer brother, but I know nothing about ye,” he says bitterly, kneeing me in the stomach next. “I would have fought ye demons with ye, Tongue.” He grips me by the thick of the hair, yanking my head back.
I know I look weak in front of Daphne, but I know I’m not weak. I’ve won a thousand wars, but this battle, this is a defeat I deserve to feel.
“Fight me,” Skirt sneers, throwing me across the ring. I slide through my fallen opponent’s blood, soaking my jeans and clogging my fingernails.
“No,” I croak, spitting, and feeling the side of my mouth swelling. No one has ever gotten the upper hand on me.
But this one time, this one time, I’m not going to fight.
“Fight me!” he roars, slamming his foot against my ribs, but I know it isn’t as hard as he can kick or hit. He is going easy on me. “Why?”
“Because” I spit again. “Because I deserve this.”
“Ye don’t,” Skirt chokes, gripping me by the back of the head again. “Sarah is okay. Reaper is pissed. He wants his punishment, but come home, Tongue.”
“Not until he says.”
Skirt sighs in anger, curling his lip in displeasure from my answer, then knees me in the face. The crowd roars when their favorite Scotsman pours blood. When Skirt fights, he always wins.
Always.
“Why?” he asks, again, slamming down against the dirt. I inhale a cloud of dust, choking, tasting the earth sticking to the inside of my mouth. The grit of the sand lines my gums. He slams his fist across my stomach again and Daphne cries my name. “We would have helped ye. We would have taught ye how to read and write. We would have—’
“Don’t,” I sneer, pushing him off me. I stagger to my feet. I point a finger at him, nearly crying again. I don’t like crying. It confuses me. A man like me does not feel that deeply. I don’t know how. “Don’t you dare talk to me about my Uncle or what you saw in my drawings. You invaded my privacy.” I throw my fist in the air next, slamming my knuckles against the side of his face. “Those were my secrets. That was my pain.” I elbow him in the gut, take him by the back of the neck, turn around, and sling him over my shoulder, throwing him onto the ground in a pool of blood.
It splashes around us. Half of his face is covered in blood reminding me of a true warrior. His kilt is ruined, and the silver of his sword is swirling with red.
“That’s it. Get mad, Tongue. Let’s see how crazy ye can get.” Skirt wipes the blood off his mouth, flashing his white teeth at me.
I crack my neck, holding in the need to snap Skirt in half. The restraint is hard. He has no idea how badly I want to break, but the sane side of me knows Skirt is family and we are being forced to do this to each other.
I pick him up by his neck the edges of my vision blurring, the madness winning. All it will take is a quick flick of my wrist and he’ll be dead.
“No! He’s your family. Wayne, look at me. Look. At. Me.” Daphne’s desperate voice has me turning my head and Skirt is clawing at my hands, trying to make me let go of him. My eyes seek sanctuary, finding her blue eyes staring back at me. Even through her fear, even through her pain, she’s giving me her strength. “He is family,” she says again.
I tighten my grip around his neck and Skirt’s face morphs into my Uncle’s. All I see is him sneering back at me, hating me, judging me, making me look at him in women’s clothing. I see a man that touched me, used me, hated me, hit me, burned me.
I hate the man in front of me.
I want him to die.
“Look at me,” Daphne is on the other side of the cage, gripping the fence, and coming eye to eye with me, hoping to calm me. “Look at me, Comet.”
I force myself to look at Daphne, not that my mind is helping me realize that I’m not with my Uncle, but my heart is guiding me. My Uncle’s face is staring at me too when I look at her, but one thing powers through the haze, one thing that has never happened before.
Her blue eyes.
When I see them, my Uncle’s face fades away, and the glasses appear on her face, her red pouted lips have my mouth watering and my cock hard.
“There you are,” she whispers, pushing her fingers through the gaps of the fence. “There’s my Comet.”
I reach my free hand out to touch her, and when our fingers glide together, I’m taken back to the bookstore when I grabbed the book from her hand. Daphne.
I let go of Skirt, and he falls to the ground, gasping, choking, and coughing. He rubs his throat, then crawls to the side of the fence and leans against it. “I thought ye were going to kill me.”
“I thought I was too,” I answer honestly and his eyes round for a minute. “You have her to thank for your life.” I step forward and lean against the fence, wrapping her fingers around mine. “Thank you. I love you, Daphne. I fucking love you.” I can’t stop the words flowing out of my mouth as I regulate my breathing, trying to come back down from the adrenaline rush.
“I love you too,” she says, just as the lights go out and the metal of the garage door clanks, showing a dozen flashlights.
“Vegas Police Department!”
“FBI!”
I don’t give a fuck about the law, but what I do care about is why I can’t feel Daphne’s fingers anymore.
“Daphne?” I call out her name in the dark. “Daphne!” I shout.
“Fuck, we need to get out of this ring before they find us!” Skirt whispers as he pulls me away from the fence.
“No, I’m not leaving her. Daphne!” the lights come back on and it’s too late for me and Skirt. We have red lasers pointed at us that are attached to rifles.
“Get on your hands and knees! Now, drop the brass knuckles.”
“Okay, okay,” Skirt says, holding his hands up in the air to show we are innocent.
Jokes on him.
I’m anything but innocent, and I don’t see Daphne, which breaks that little bit of sanity that was left in me. I dive to the left, sliding against the dirt, and grab the gun from that Andrew tried to kill Daphne with, aim, and fire.
I expect them to fire back and I feel a blazing heat in my thigh. It’s a flesh wound. I aim the gun at each cop and fire. I have ten rounds left and ten cops.
I can’t miss.
They drop like flies. Skirt army crawls through blood and dead bodies, grabs one of the swords, and stick it through the fence, gutting a cop where he stands, but not before he can get one last shot in, piercing me right in the shoulder. The gun drops from my hand and it’s the most pain I’ve ever felt.
I can’t feel my arm.
I try to flex my fingers, to grip the gun, but they don’t move. They are paralyzed.
Still, it doesn’t compare to the fear gripping thought that Daphne is injured. “Daphne?” I try to call out, but the searing pain grips my vocal cords.
“Aye, Tongue? Ye, okay? Yer fine. Yer going to be fine. Fuck, that’s a lot of blood. I don’t know if it’s yours or the rest of the dead bodies.”
“Daphne,” I wheeze and dig my nails into his forearm. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Find her!”
“No time, Tongue. We have to get out of here. Calvary is on the way.”
“No, I need Daphne.” Grunting, I roll to my side, my thigh burning and the hole stretching even further
. “Comet!” I somehow manage to shout, but she doesn’t answer me. “Comet!” I roar, slamming my fist down onto the ground. “Why isn’t she answering, Skirt?” I wince when I roll over again and try to get up. I try to put my weight on the arm I can’t feel, but I fall, and my shoulder hits the ground, radiating pain through my veins. “Skirt, please, look for her. I swear to God, I’ll owe you my life.” I’m not below begging when it comes to Daphne. What if she is hurt? What if she is scared? I need to find her.
“Okay, okay. Don’t move.”
I deadpan him, agitated.
He falls back before climbing up the fence. “I’m sorry. Ye know what I mean.” He scurries up the fence and jumps down on the other side. Skirt cups his hands around his mouth and shouts for her, “Daphne! Daphne? Ye, here?” his Scottish accent echoes throughout the mostly empty room.
I swear to god when I get out of here, I’m going to kill Maximo. This was all his fault. I never should have agreed to fight for him. I never should have never walked her through these doors. Even I know that most people that come into this casino to fight never come out.
“Shit, Tongue!” Reaper’s voice yanks me out of my regrets. The metal of the fence grinds the headache forming in my head. Black dots turn my vision to static as I search for Reaper. I’m surprised he is here. His boots land next to my head and sand flies, making me close my eyes from the sting. “Damn it, Tongue. What happened? Skirt dialed us 911. I have no explanation. It’s a fucking bloodbath in here.”
“Daphne,” I clutch his shirt with my good hand and yank him down. “Please, if you can push your damn hate for me aside, find her. She’s…she’s…”
“I know buddy. She’s your Sarah,” Reaper pats my chest. “We’re going to get you out of here. God, you look like shit.”
“Skirt beat the shit out of me.”
“You let him?” he asks, then snaps his fingers at Tool. “Get us out of here. He can’t climb the fence. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes looking for these cops, and we can’t be here.”
“We need to clean. We can’t leave DNA evidence,” Knives says.
“That’s going to take too long. DNA is everywhere.”
“Daphne!” I say with impatience. What the fuck do I need to do for people to get off their ass and look for her?
“We have to do what Boomer will do,” Reaper states. “We’re going to burn it.”
“Burn down the casino again?”
“You have a better idea, Knives?”
“Nope,” he pops the P. “I’ll call Boomer to see what he would do.”
“Jesus Christ, Knives. Get fucking gasoline, get a match, light the place on fire. Use your fucking head.”
“Got it, Prez. Sorry.” Knives runs out the garage door to get the supplies.
“Reaper, I can’t feel my arm. I can’t feel it.”
“It’s okay. Doc will fix you up, alright? This doesn’t get you out of your punishment, you know.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I chuckle, then groan when the jostling from my laughter pulls at the wound on my shoulder. “I just wanted to marry her.” That burning in my eyes tell me that losing her will kill me.
She’s my sanity and without her, the thread keeping me human will break. My soul will be lost, and I’ll be damned.
And I won’t care.
“Tool is getting us out of here. I promise, we will find her, Tongue, okay? My Enforcer isn’t going to live the life he’s been living anymore. No more being in the corners and if she brings you out of them, then that’s all I could want for you, Wayne.”
I squeeze my eyes shut when sweat drips down from my brows. “You knew? All this time?”
“Yeah, I knew. That’s all I knew, I swear,” he reassures.
My chest rises as I inhale, nodding, and relieved that’s all he knew until lately.
“I’m sorry for not trusting you,” Reaper says. “I’m sorry for invading your privacy.”
“Okay, step back! It’s falling,” Tool hollers his warning as apart of the ring falls to the ground with a heavy bang.
“Let’s get out of here,” Reaper says, then points his chin at Slingshot. “Come get the other side of Tongue. Son of a bitch, he is heavy.”
Slingshot runs to my side and lifts me. Reaper throws my dead arm around his shoulders and my knees buckle, but I keep myself up. Fuck, being shot hurts. “Daphne?” I stumble over my own two feet over the fence on the ground.
“We can’t find her,” Skirt runs to my side, sweating. He has dried blood on his face, a bruise across his cheek, and his knuckles are purple from the brass. “I looked everywhere, Tongue. We searched high and low. Maximo is gone, along with his goons. The only people in the casino are the ones gambling.”
I’m going to kill Maximo for taking her and when I do?
I’m going to take my fucking time.
Bit by bit, cut by cut, piece by piece, he will know my wrath.
Holy Moly.
I feel drunk.
I sit up and smack my head against something hard and unforgiving. I blink, trying to gain some form of sight, but it’s dark.
Really damn dark.
My heart rate kicks up when I realize it isn’t my vision that’s the issue; it’s the space I’m in. I pat my hands along the carpet. It’s thin, cheap, and scratchy. A whimper escapes me, but I swallow my panic just in case someone can hear me.
Deep breaths. Everything is going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine.
I try to calm the blood rushing through my ears, but the only way to do that is to calm my heart. A tear leaks from the corner of my eye when I hear the bass of speakers pounding beside me from music. I know we are moving. And by the size of the space I’m in, I’m in a trunk.
I’m going to die.
“No, you aren’t going to die,” I whisper to myself. I have too much to live for now. Tongue’s face appears in my mind, menacing and intimidating, yet fiercely beautiful and loving. I need to get back to him.
I slide my palms along the curve of the trunk, trying to find a latch, or something that can get me out of here. I don’t feel anything. “Come on!” My eyes fill with hot tears and fall one after the other as I search for the taillights next. I remember watching a video in high school about being trapped in the trunk of a car. Something about taillights. I can’t remember. I know I can somehow loosen them or push them out to stick my hand out of the hole to flag down a car.
Why is it in stressful situations, I can’t seem to remember anything? I even took a few self-defense classes. Look at the good that did me. The lights went out in the underground garage and someone wrapped their arms around me and what did I do?
I blanked.
I couldn’t think of anything. All I knew was that it was dark, and someone was touching me. How useless could I be?
And now I’m in a trunk.
Just like my high school health teacher warned us about. I knew I should have paid for the few extra classes, but I wanted this classic first edition of Oliver Twist which cost an arm and a leg, so I didn’t take the classes. I got the book instead.
I’m starting to wonder about my priorities.
When I get out of here, the first thing I’m going to have Tongue do, is teach me how to think on my feet.
“Oh!” I say when I feel the taillight, but I can’t find how to push it out.
And that’s what I get for reading in health class while I should have been more focused on the video.
Squeaky brakes sound and the car comes to a stop.
Holy Moly.
This is happening.
Do I fake being asleep? Do I play dead? What do I do? What’s about to happen? I only have a few seconds of peace left before the person comes around and takes me out of the trunk. I need a weapon.
I wish I had the freaking knife Tongue wants to make me. I’d keep it strapped to my thigh, right where he cuts me and licks me, so I know he is always there. I rub my fingers over the thin scab along the cut betw
een my legs, wishing he were here right now.
I love him.
God, I hope he is okay.
We have finally found each other after a life of being so lost, we can’t be pulled apart now, but that’s life isn’t it? Life can only be so good before it’s bad.
Balance.
I’ve never been good at balancing.
A door slams shut, and the vibrations of the engine stop when the driver shuts off the car. In hurried motions, I feel around for a weapon, a tire iron, a damn shoe, a water bottle, anything someone throws in the back of their car but there isn’t anything.
Oh, wait! I wrap my hand around something long, skinny, and round. It feels like a stick or a rod of some sort. I hide it against my side and the trunk unlocks. The one thing I want to see is the face of the man who took me.
But I don’t get the chance because when the trunk opens and the night is revealed, the man is wearing one of those creepy baby masks with a hint of blush on the cheeks and a smile that would give someone nightmares.
He grips my arm hard enough to bruise. It isn’t like when Tongue touches me, bites me, cuts me, because it’s what we both yearn for. I need him to mark me like that so I can feel his love for me, so I can see his love for me.
This man is hurting me.
“Come on, kitty. We have a long walk.” He yanks me out of the car and my injured knee hits the inside of the trunk, right against the latch, and I bite back a cry of agony. I keep the stick to my side as he drags me out of the vehicle, and when my feet land on the ground, I fight.
And I fight like hell.
I lift the weapon in the air and slam it against him. “You bastard!” I keep slamming the wooden stick against his head, neck, then shove the end in his stomach. When he grunts, doubling over in pain, I do what every woman does when they need to run. I swing the rod between his legs and nail him right in the damn crotch.
He falls to the ground, cupping his cock, and I freeze, watching him gag from the pain scorching his balls.
Holy moly.
That worked.
Shit. Run, you fucking idiot!
I drop the rod and run down the dirt road. I’m surrounded by desert, rocks, and trees. I follow the road, deciding it’s the best bet to stay on a path. Paths are good. They lead in…a direction which is better than where I was before.