DIRTY DADDY

by Evelyn Glass

  She opened her eyes too fast, and a bright light seemed to tear her vision apart. The last thing she could remember was darkness, and then a fruity smell, and a sense of vertigo. She’d been drugged. Like Mia had been.

  She squeezed her eyes closed until the need to be sick passed, and then opened them again, more slowly this time. She blinked and kept working on her assessment of her body. Her hands and feet were free, not bound.

  The motion of the car stopped, and she pushed herself up, scrabbling at the door handle, only to realize it had been broken off. She felt metal slice into her palm, but she didn’t allow herself to notice the pain. She slapped hard at the window, willing it to break under her hand; all she managed to do was smear her blood on the glass.

  She turned to the other side, her heel ready to kick out the glass on the other side — her feet were still bare, she doubted she could actually do it, but she wanted to try, she wanted to say she’d tried everything — and it finally occurred to her that cars had drivers. In fact, the driver of this car was turned in their seat, watching her with — it was hard to determine an emotion looking only at a person’s eyes, but she thought amusement was the most likely candidate. The person wore a bandanna over the lower half of their face, like an Old West bandit, and their eyes were crinkling with amusement. In another world, she might have smiled back at the warmth and light in those dark blue eyes. Now she wanted to scratch them out.

  But the chemicals hadn’t worn off, and she was suddenly dizzy, trying not to vomit. She pushed her eyes off his face, focusing on a small hunk of metal dangling from the rearview mirror. It took a moment to make it out, but the concentrating was good for her brain. It looked like the casing of a small bullet, with a star pattern scratched into the butt end, where the hammer hit. If she had it in her hands, she thought she would’ve been able to tell if it had been fired. Who carried a bullet with them in their car? Unless it was a reminder — but of what?

  Her stomach flipped even harder, and she would’ve given in and puked all over his upholstery if she’d been surer of what was coming next.

  “I’m really sorry,” the figure in the front seat said. His voice was masculine and much kinder than she’d expected for someone who had, presumably, kidnapped her and thrown her in the back of a car, transporting her to points unknown. “This wasn’t ever supposed to involve you. Or the kid, really. This whole thing has gotten way out of control. You seem like a nice girl. I’m going to cross my fingers you make it out of this whole thing okay.”

  She stared at her kidnapper, trying to make all the words line up in a way that made sense. “You — you drugged me and put me in a car, and drove me who knows where, and now you’re telling me you hope I make it out of this okay?” She shook her head, then realized that moving her head was a terrible idea, and held still. “If you want me to get out of this okay, I can give you some pointers on how to help make that happen.”

  He laughed, and it was a merry sound, not the slightest hint of coldness in it. Somehow, that made it even creepier.

  “I like the way you think,” he said, “But no. I’ve got a job to do, and I’m a man of my word. And they’re expecting you.” He gestured with his chin, and she glanced out the window. The car was parked outside of a big brick warehouse, the sort that was ubiquitous outside the city. Her stomach tied up in knots and she tried to swallow hard and keep the panic where it belonged.

  “Cassidy,” Emma managed to choke out. “My friend. You were messaging me from her number, weren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Snagged her phone yesterday. She left it at the daycare. Didn’t think it’d be so useful. I got lucky.”

  The warehouse door opened, and two big, burly men were walking towards the car. Emma felt her heart begin to slam against her ribs. She meant to hold still, be brave, but her body scooted across the car as if she could somehow get away.

  “Hey,” the man said, capturing her attention again. “The kid. Is there something wrong with her breathing?”

  Emma felt her blood run cold. “Mia? She has asthma. What’s wrong?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t panic,” he said. “She’s okay, and I promise you, no one wants her dead. They just need leverage. Does she need medicine?”

  Emma nodded frantically. “If she’s wheezing. Yes. Her inhaler. It’s in her backpack. Which is at my house. At—”

  He cut her off, laughing again. “I know where you live,” he said, and the sound was more sinister than she’d ever heard in her life. The words were light and kind, but the meaning behind it…

  And then the door behind her opened, and she spilled out into the bright sunlight. There was no more controlling her roiling stomach, but she took satisfaction in the way her would-be captor had to jump and hop to avoid the splatter of her vomit. She pushed herself up to her feet and managed two stumbling steps in the hot sun before hands grabbed her, picking her up and hauling her inside. Where at least, she noted, it was dark.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dean

  Dean tried to choke back the fear and panic as he sped away from the safe house, the two guards behind him in their unobtrusive vehicle. Emma was gone, and they hadn’t seen a thing. Inside, there were no signs of a struggle, but her phone was gone. The back door was unlocked. She had left.

  He should have woken her up before he left. He should’ve told her what was going on – the terrifying call he had received. He should’ve done something, anything differently. He should’ve protected her. The third name on his conscience weighted like an anvil made of iron. He’d tried calling her phone three times, in rapid succession, only to have the call go instantly to voicemail each time. It was turned off, or his number was blocked. Honestly, neither result would’ve particularly surprised him. What had he done to earn her trust? Nothing, not really, just yanked her from one terrifying situation to another.

  He forced himself to push the panic and fear out of his mind and reach for something calmer and more relaxed. He was sure she wouldn’t have left with anyone else, and he’d worked hard to keep her from becoming a target. The odds were in her favor that she was safe somewhere. With Cassidy, maybe. Tucked up in a blanket with a hot tea, shaking her head at ever having gotten involved with someone like him. He would try to believe it, focus on it. Maybe it would be real.

  But he couldn’t shake the worry. Maybe something was wrong, and that she’d been tricked out of the safe house, and she was now being held by the same person who had Abbey and Mia. But why? Why would someone do that? What possible benefit could Emma carry? Other than being used against him.

  The only person who had any kind of idea how much each of these three people meant for him was Connell. No one else even knew who Emma was. He was going back to talk to Connell, and he wouldn’t leave without an answer this time. He had to know what was happening.

  He turned his bike into the small lot in front of the garage, then rode more slowly around back, to the big warehouse building that held most of the “official” buildings belonging to the Night Titans. There were a lot more bikes than there should’ve been. Models and colors he didn’t recognize.

  Except after a moment, he did recognize them, at least some of them. They were choppers and Hondas and Harleys that belonged to the Scorpions. It took everything he had to calmly park his bike, not just ditch it in the dirt and run into the building at full speed. He didn’t have a weapon on him anyway, and running in like that would just get someone — probably him — killed. But he definitely moved with purpose, and without delay.

  When he yanked open the door of the garage, all eyes turned to him. Including Connell, who was sitting on his worn stool near the bar, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. Connell’s gaze shifted as well, but he didn’t stop talking.

  “The kid was already dead when we got there,” he was saying, and another man was shouting over him.

  It took Dean a moment to recognize the burly, bald man as Marv Dickerson, the President of the Scorpions. He was older
than Connell by a few years and older than a lot of his club. He was the kind of burned brown that happened when someone who was glow-in-the-dark white spent too many years under the sun and in the wind. His bald pate was speckled with moles, and he wore a ratty looking beard that spilled down over his broad chest.

  “The kid was alive when he left our house,” Marv was shouting back at Connell, “and he was alive when our house was burned to the ground. I know he got wild yesterday, but coming at us like that? It can’t stand, Henry.”

  Marv said Connell’s given name like a slur, twisting the word up to make it uglier than it was on its own. Dean started to push forward, almost expecting to see Connell hit his feet and fly at the older man. Instead, he shook his head softly, pouring both of them another shot of something pungent and a warm reddish brown.

  “Let’s not do it like this, Marv. I know you want to push this over the edge, but we don’t have a part in what’s going down here.”

  Marv started to say something else, his hands tight and twisted at his sides. Dean found himself twisting up, ready to scream. He couldn’t watch his friend be hit, not right now. The only thing he could think to do was to shove himself forward, pushing people out of the way, turning himself into an angry missile that was pointed forward and grabbing all the attention in the room.

  “Hey!” he shouted. Marv didn’t jump, but he did turn, directing his gaze towards Dean. Dean got right up into his space, ignoring Connell, who finally hit his feet to put an arm between the two men. “You want to talk about coming at people, tell me what happened to my sister-in-law and my kid. Tell me what the hell you’re doing here.”

  Marv sucked his teeth and then spat on the floor — but away from the boots of everyone around him. “Kid, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Dean pressed against Connell’s restraining arm, but not hard enough to actually break the hold. He could’ve done it if he’d tried, but that wasn’t the point. The point was just to redirect Marv’s irritation. “Three women have gone missing from my life in the past twenty-four hours, and I want them back. Fred said you were up in arms about something, and it’s pretty fucking obvious that you think you can take me out and get what you want. I’m not some fucking pawn to be controlled by you or your goons. Tell me where the women are, and everything else will take care of itself.”

  He expected another denial, but instead, he saw Marv catch himself, glancing down — farther down than Dean had initially realized, Marv had a solid six inches on him — at the other man.

  “Tell me the names,” he said, his voice rumbling and dark.

  That was much more than Dean had expected. “Abbey and Mia Jenner,” he said. “Emma Mills.”

  Marv looked over Dean’s head. It took a substantial amount of focus for Dean to keep his own gaze focused on the other man’s face, and not follow his look to see what Marv was looking at. After a moment, the big man nodded.

  “I might know something,” he said, “But you’re going to need to earn it.”

  His heart clenched at the thought of anyone knowing anything.

  “Whatever you want,” he said before he thought better of it. Bargaining would have been the best choice, but the truth was that he would do anything necessary to get Mia and Abbey safe again. And Emma. Even though he didn’t know if anything was wrong. His gut, whether he liked it or not, told him that something was wrong. And he’d yet to go too far wrong by listening to his own instincts.

  Marv started to grin, and it wasn’t even remotely good.

  “Well, all right,” he said, and Dean heard Connell’s quiet groan behind him. “Looks like we’re going to settle things like men after all.”

  ###

  The urge to sit down, put his head between his knees, and just wait for this fucking day to be over was near overwhelming, but Dean kept himself on his feet. There was so much more to do. He knew the primary enforcer, the sergeant-at-arms, for the Scorpions. He was a small guy, white but deeply tanned, who kept his head shaved clean, and had tattoos around his ears and the back of his head that always put Dean in mind of that race on the Trek shows. Ferengi. The guy had bad teeth, too. It fit. He was always waiting for the dude to start spouting off about females. It took a minute for him to pull the guy’s name out of his rattled brain. Something completely English and boring. Dave, or Sam, or Tom. Went by the name Rat, and apparently hated it, and was always trying to upgrade. It never seemed to work, though. Always came back to Rat.

  Rat was shorter than him by half a head, but Dean had seen him fight before; the guy was quick, good, and mean. It was a nasty combination. On a good day, Dean’s heavier weight would put the guy out cold, but as tired as he was, it might be a much more even match.

  No one bothered clearing tables or making a ring of cheering men, that shit was only for the movies. Marv and Connell both found good spots to watch, and Dean took a minute to find a glass of water, rinsing his mouth out a few times and tossing some back just to keep his mouth wet. Even with all of that, he expected Rat to at least wait until there was an official start to the fight. Instead, the moment he turned towards the other man, there were fists flying at his midsection. Rat got in two solid hits to the ribs before Dean stumbled back, his chest wheezing as he tried to catch his breath. When Rat came at him again, he spun, catching the smaller man in a headlock and bringing his knee up to catch Rat in the solar plexus twice. Rat coughed and reeled, rearing back. He managed to toss Dean into a pillar, catching his shoulders on the hard edge.

  Dean could feel the tight burn in his muscles after just those few hits. He was way too tired for this. Dammit, he should have played the whole thing smarter. Offered Marv something real in exchange for the information instead of blindly agreeing to the fight. Brought in their own sergeant, or asked Connell to let him appoint a second to fight for him.

  He pulled his head back in the game and shot a punch at Rat’s face. Rat ducked easily and caught Dean right on the mouth. He felt his lip split over his teeth and coughed as Rat took a single step back, shaking out his hand. He’d clearly been aiming the punch badly. Maybe Rat was as tired or distracted as he was. That’d be a blessing.

  Dean took a moment to collect himself , get his hands into a better stance, and balance himself properly between his feet. When Rat came at him again, he landed a solid punch to Rat’s chest, knocking the smaller man back onto the billiard table. Before he could right himself, Dean went in for a choke. It was dirty, but he was already winded and tired, and Rat hadn’t exactly started the encounter by emphasizing fairness. The smaller man pushed up, his hands pressing up at Dean’s face, and he was very strong, but he didn’t have enough leverage to move him. Which is probably why he grabbed the billiard ball instead.

  It happened so fast that Dean hardly realized what was happening. He saw Rat’s hand close on something and move rapidly through the air, and then stars exploded in front of his eyes. He fell backward, shaking his head and trying to reorient himself. He pulled his arms in and managed to fend off the worst of the assault from Rat, but felt hard punches land in his kidneys. He realized he was hanging off the edge of the billiards table. He brought up his elbow to try and catch Rat in the face. He missed, but he got enough clearance to stumble to his feet again. He managed to hit Rat hard enough with an uppercut to the jaw that the man stumbled back, nearly taking a knee.

  Rat put his hand inside of his boot. He brought it out holding a knife. He dropped into a fighting stance as simple as that, flashing the blade through the air. Dean let his gaze flick quickly towards Connell and Marv. The two men sat on their stools, clearly not about to stop the fight. Connell looked tense enough to chew lead, but Marv had that same shit-eating grin on his face.

  Dean didn’t have a concealed weapon. He had no doubt that Rat was done, and was ready to gut him if it came to it. He didn’t know what he’d done to earn the man’s ire, but that wasn’t the point right now. He needed this fight to end before he was dead.

  He waited until
Rat came at him, and when he did, he stepped to the side of the stab, catching Rat’s wrist as it went past, and taking just a moment to make sure his position was right before he brought his forearm down on Rat’s elbow. The snap was loud, gut-wrenching, and incredibly satisfying. The other man screamed, and the knife clattered down onto the wooden floorboards.

  Things happened after that. Blurry things. There was a chair under his ass, and someone giving him some whiskey, and a cold compress that was pressed to his face. Rat was carted off, screaming about his fucking arm, that son of a bitch had fucked up his arm. Someone — maybe Marv, maybe not — pointed out that when one didn’t want a fight to escalate, one didn’t pull out a goddamn knife. Dean couldn’t bring himself to track it all too clearly. His head was still spinning, and he worried that the smack to his head had concussed him. He had shit to do. He couldn’t be out of it now.

  After a little while, the mental air seemed to clear. He found a bottle of water by his hand, and he drank a bunch of it, the cold refreshing him further. He rinsed his mouth out — his split lip was stinging madly, but he thought it was clotting, slowly — and looked to see Marv still watching him with a small smile.