Salvage (Savages and Saints Book 3)

by C. M. Seabrook

  “Moody as ever, I see.” Jasper lifts his coffee mug to the waitress, who walks up to the table holding a steaming pot of coffee.

  The girl’s eyes pass between us, and I can only imagine what she’s thinking as she takes in our appearances. I’m in my worn jeans and a tight t-shirt that exposes the dark ink on both my heavily muscled arms, and a thick beard covers most of my face. An old baseball cap rides low on my forehead, hiding the rest of it.

  I glance around at families and old people in their Sunday best that fill the small diner. Neither Jasper in his ten-thousand-dollar suit, or me looking like I just spent the weekend roughing it in the wilderness, fit in with the church crowd.

  “You two ordering?” the waitress asks, and the sliver of suspicion that had been in her eyes when she’d seated me turns to appreciation as her gaze lingers a little too long on my brother.

  “Just coffee for me, beautiful,” Jasper says smoothly before winking, then hands her the laminated menu. “I’m not staying, but bring him your Sunday special.”

  The girl turns with an exaggerated sigh mixed with a giggle before I have a chance to correct Jasper, even though it’s exactly what I was going to order.

  Aware of every single person that’s entered and left the diner since I arrived, my gaze naturally drifts to the door when it chimes, and a woman walks in.

  A baseball cap is pulled low over her forehead, and a pair of aviator sunglasses that are too large for her face hide her features.

  But it’s not her face or the soft curves I have no doubt she’s hiding under her baggy hoodie that has me locked on her. It’s the way her right hand drifts towards her hip, and the glint of metal I see before she pulls her sweatshirt back over it.

  Warning bells blare within me, and I can feel an energy shift, one that nobody else in the diner seems to notice, except maybe the woman, who momentarily pauses and glances over her shoulder in my direction. Still, I can’t see her face, but I do see the small shiver that races through her body before she continues to follow the waitress to a booth at the far side of the restaurant.

  “You’re heading out already?” I ask Jasper, keeping the woman in my peripheral vision. Her back is to me now, but I can see her hands tremble as she picks up a menu, then pushes it away.

  The last thing I need on my day off is trouble, and this girl has it written all over her in spades.

  “I have to be back in New York before noon,” Jasper says. “Then, I’m heading to Europe. I’ll be there until October–”

  “What about Dad’s party?” Our sister, Quinn, has been planning the surprise sixtieth birthday party for over three months, and her only request had been that all of us be there.

  I should have known he’d find some excuse to get out of it.

  “I have to work. Can’t just play hooky for a stupid party.” Jasper pulls an envelope from the inside pocket of his suit and slides it across the table. “Give this to Dad.”

  I hesitate before reaching for it, ready to argue, but I know there’s no point. He may not look like a Savage anymore, with his ridiculous suits and overpriced haircut, but he’s still as bullheaded and unmovable as the rest of us.

  “Quinn’s going to be pissed.”

  He shrugs, then slides back out of the booth, but not before slapping a twenty on the table. “I’ll be back for Thanksgiving.”

  “You’re a real douche, you know that?”

  A smirk pulls at his lips. “Guess it runs in the family.”

  “Whatever your problem is with Dad, Mom wants to see you. It breaks her–”

  “I’m busy. That’s all.” He places his palms on the table and leans forward. “Just because I don’t want to live in the armpit of America like the rest of you doesn’t mean I’ve got a stick up my ass like you keep telling Abbott.”

  I’m pretty sure it’s our youngest brother’s mission in life to stir shit up between us, so I’m not surprised he told Jasper what I said. I am shocked that they’ve been speaking at all.

  “You spoke with Abbott?”

  Jasper’s lips thin. “I loaned him some money.”

  “You mean you gave it to him.” I rub my palms over my face, then adjust my hat. “You know you’ll never see a penny back. You keep flinging your wallet around like it can fix things.”

  “Better than flashing that damn badge around.” He straightens, his jaw twitching. “He told me you locked him up.”

  “I didn’t press charges, even though I should have. The kid is toxic. You’re just enabling him by giving him money. What he needs–”

  “Is to get out of that godforsaken town.”

  “Why, so he can turn into a pompous ass like you?”

  The tension that’s been mounting for years between us simmers too close to the surface, and more than a few heads turn in our direction.

  I lower my voice. “You can fly off to wherever it is you go, but it doesn’t change where you came from.” Before I have a chance to bite my tongue, I add, “Or that you lost the best thing in your life by leaving.”

  His nostrils flare, and I can see I’ve hit too close to the truth, which is maybe the real reason he stays away.

  I’m about to apologize, try and take my words back, when he growls low under his breath. “And you can arrest every dickhead in Port Clover, but it won’t change the fact that you couldn’t save the girl. I guess we’re more alike than you want to admit.”

  He adjusts his suit. Shoulders squared, face stoic, no one would guess the pain I’d seen flash in his eyes for a brief second before he masked it with the same cocky-ass expression that seems permanently cemented on his face.

  “Good talk as usual, little brother.” He turns and walks out the door, towards the Lexus LC that’s parked on the side of the road. Another one of his toys he uses to fill the gaping hole in his chest where his heart used to be.

  But then, I guess it’s no different than me using work, or Abbott using alcohol and drugs to mask the emptiness of our shitty lives.

  “He left?” the waitress says, giving a small pout before placing the plate of eggs and bacon in front of me. She then pulls out a piece of folded paper from her apron, which no doubt has her phone number on it. “Would you mind giving your friend this?”

  I grunt and lift my mug to her. “Not happening, sweetheart. But you can bring me a refill on this coffee.”

  Her cheeks flame red, and she fidgets for a moment, muttering something that sounds like asshole under her breath before refilling my mug and sauntering away.

  The woman is all hips and boobs, totally Jasper’s type, but I’m not playing matchmaker for his sorry ass. Plus, my focus is back on the girl in the far booth. Each time the door chimes, I see her jump slightly, her hand going for the weapon I know she has concealed under her hoodie.

  I’m off duty, and this isn’t my town, but the cop in me can’t walk away, because I know nothing good is about to go down here. I can practically feel the girl’s fear vibrating off her. It’s more than just fear, it’s desperation. Like a squirrel trapped in a cage, her movements are jerky, her gaze unfocused.

  I pull out my cell, about to call the local police, let them deal with whatever trouble she’s in, or about to get herself into, when she turns a certain way and I catch her profile.

  Fuck.

  My breath leaves me like I’ve been hit in the chest with a baseball bat. Because, for a second, I swear I see a ghost.

  I try to shake off the feeling, but it wraps around my throat, squeezing the last ounce of air from my lungs.

  Lorelei.

  It’s not the first time I’ve thought I’ve seen her. When she first went missing, it happened all the time. A flash of brown hair, similar stormy gray-blue eyes, or a haunting laugh would have me paralyzed with hope. Until reality came crashing back down on me, reopening the wound that never quite healed.

  She’s gone. Dead or alive, she’s never coming back. It’s a mantra I’ve had to keep repeating to myself over the years, because there’s always
a piece of me that would never, could never, believe it.

  Maybe it’s that damn sliver of hope that has me shoving my phone back in my pocket before calling the local sheriff. And I’m glad I do, because when the bells chime again and she glances over her shoulder, I see her.

  Her.

  Her.

  Her.

  My heart remembers to beat again, and it’s a violent force inside my chest.

  Her gaze skims over me, hesitating briefly, but even though I know she doesn’t recognize me, I know it’s her.

  Lorelei.

  Chapter 2

  Lorelei

  “If you’re only ordering water, I’m going to have to ask you to free this table up for paying customers.” The wiry, grey-haired server scowls down at me, holding a steaming pot of coffee in one hand and a tray of dirty dishes in the other.

  The woman’s voice is raised, and a few heads turn in my direction before going back to their dull conversations, ignorant of the danger I’ve brought with me.

  I adjust my baseball cap lower and shift in my seat, painfully aware of the gun digging into my right hip.

  Every cell in my body screams to run. But I can’t. Not when Farkas holds my life, my heart, in his sadistic hands.

  “Well?” The waitress clucks her tongue at me.

  “I’ll...I’ll have a coffee,” I mumble, pushing the ceramic coffee cup in front of me towards the edge of the table, even though I can’t afford the buck-fifty it’s going to cost me.

  She purses her lips and fills my cup before turning, clicking her tongue again. I don’t blame her for being frustrated. The small diner is busy with families, and more people continue to pile in.

  Good people. Decent people. People who know nothing about the cockroaches that scour their city, preying on the vulnerable and the weak, who manipulate the law with their dirty money and take whatever they want without consequence.

  I take a small sip, but the hot liquid feels like acid as it burns a path down my throat. It’s been almost three days since I slept more than a few minutes at a time, but the caffeine only makes me more jittery. I’m running on fumes and adrenaline. But I can’t sleep, can’t stop, not until I get the rest of the money.

  And after selling my car for a fraction of what it’s worth, I have nowhere to sleep even if my brain would shut down and allow me to. Fear is my main motivator now, the only thing that keeps me moving, keeps me from breaking down.

  I’d become careless.

  Allowing myself to forget about the evil that lurks in the shadows, waiting to devour and destroy. But I’d made a life for myself. Sure, I was currently out of work and a month late on rent, but I was in a place I thought Farkas would never find me.

  After all this time, I thought he’d forgotten. Thought I was safe.

  God, I am a fool.

  My hands shake as I lift the warm mug to my lips and take another sip.

  It’s my fault Farkas found me. I never should have allowed the photographer to take a picture of me last year.

  “You should celebrate this moment.” Patty, the woman who’d become the closest thing to a mother I’d ever known, wrapped a thick arm around my shoulders. Tears that were always so quick to come tumbled over her cheeks. “You’ve put our little town on the map with your cake designs.”

  Filled with pride, I’d watched the photographer snap pictures of the extravagant pastry and cake display in the front of Patty Cakes, Cookies, and Confections, a display I’d spent weeks creating, which had earned the store a blue ribbon in the state bakery fair.

  “These are really great.” The photographer snapped a picture of a four-layer cake of the Mad Hatter's tea party, with a life-like fondant Cheshire cat grinning down from the top. “They look too good to eat.”

  A smile tugged at my lips, because it was one of the most common comments I got when people came to pick up their orders. I was proud of what I’d accomplished.

  “Can I get a picture of you standing beside this one?” The man started to snap pictures of me before I agreed.

  “I, uh...”

  “Go on.” Patty gave me a little shove. “Enjoy this moment.”

  I had. For a brief second, I’d forgotten why I wore baseball caps and fake, heavy-rimmed glasses to hide my face. I’d grinned at the camera with the confidence of someone who hadn’t stolen money from Bence Farkas, then lost it in the chilly waters of the great lake.

  It was Patty’s husband, Merv, who’d found me all those years ago after I’d washed up on the shores somewhere between Port Clover and Harristown.

  I’m not sure how long I’d drifted in the cold waters after my boat capsized, but I wouldn’t have survived if I hadn’t been wearing the lifejacket I’d found under the steel seat when the storms started raging. I also wouldn’t have lasted another day if Merv hadn’t taken pity on me, bringing me back to Patty, who’d cared for me like I was the child they’d never been able to have.

  They’d taken me in. Fed me. Gave me a job at the bakery. Gave me hope when I had none.

  But like everything else in my life, they were taken from me. First Merv from a heart attack, then Patty only a few months ago from cancer I hadn’t even known she was battling. The bakery shut down, and while she’d hoped I’d be able to take over the business, I didn’t have the money to keep it afloat.

  And I’d become careless. Going to banks to apply for loans. Using my real name.

  Stupid.

  From my duffle bag, I pull out the letter I’d found wedged under my windshield wiper three days ago. A newspaper cutout accompanies it, falling out and fluttering onto the table. It includes the picture of me standing beside the Cheshire cat, red marker creating a bullseye, the center dot on my forehead, and the words above it in block letters, FOUND YOU.

  The note isn’t signed, but it doesn’t have to be. I know who it is from.

  ANNABEL’S DINER, HARRISTOWN. NOON, SUNDAY. BRING THE MONEY. ALL OF IT! NO COPS, OR THE KID DIES.

  Fingers trembling, I fold the note and place it back in my bag beside the plastic bag of bills–my life savings, the money from the loans, and everything I’d been able to pawn. It isn’t even close to the amount I owe, but I’m praying it’ll buy me some time to get the rest. I just have no clue how I’m going to do it.

  Every time the doorbell chimes, signaling someone coming or going, my heart rate speeds up.

  Since I walked into the restaurant, a heaviness, like a weight pressing on the back of my skull, has settled on me. It’s a feeling like I’m being watched. But then again, paranoia has become my constant companion since I found Farkas’ note.

  I scan the room, catching a pair of dark, intense eyes locked on me from the shadows of a far booth. The man is large, and bulging, inked biceps stretch the fabric of his tight, black t-shirt. He rakes a large palm over his thick beard, then pulls his hat down over his face, a movement I’m all too aware of, since it’s become a signature move of my own. And I know the man doesn’t want to be seen.

  Is he one of Farkas’ men?

  There’s something familiar about him, something–

  I gasp, jumping in my seat when a tall, lanky stranger slides into the booth, sitting across from me, and tosses a backpack beside him.

  He grabs the coffee cup from my hand, drains the contents before placing it back on the table in front of me, then drags a hand back through his cropped blond hair.

  “You got the money?” he asks, his voice shaking almost as violently as his fingers, which begin to strum nervously on the table. His gaze moves around the room, and he pulls at the collar of his polo shirt, loosening the top button. His throat bobs, and he looks almost as terrified as I feel.

  “Who are you?” This can’t be one of Farkas’ guys. He looks like some frat kid on a job interview.

  “Doesn’t matter who I am.” He places his forearms on the table and leans forward. “Do you have the money or not?”

  This isn’t how I imagined things going. But then, my stepfather never did an
ything conventionally. “I want to talk to Farkas. How do I know–”

  “Keep your voice down.” He leans back, grasping something behind him. The movement has me reaching for my own gun, but as my fingers wrap around the handle, I pause when he slams a few Polaroids down in front of me. “I was told to pick up the money, and to show you these. That’s all I know.”

  My breath gets stuck in my throat when I see what the photos are of. Or rather, who.

  My heart.

  My life.

  Wearing the same Iron Man t-shirt and jeans he’d had on when I’d dropped him off at school three days ago. He’s got his knees tucked under his chin, brown eyes staring defiantly at whoever took the pictures.

  My brave boy. Sitting on a stained mattress surrounded by ripped, yellowed wallpaper, his hair sticks up at odd angles. An old handheld gaming device and a bunch of comic books are beside him, and he looks more angry than scared. But it doesn’t stop my own fear from gripping my lungs and forcing all the air out.

  “If you hurt him–”

  “Look, lady.” The guy leans closer and hisses. “I’m sorry about your kid, but I’ve got my own ass to worry about. Do you have the money or not?”

  “I...” I inhale a deep breath, trying to steady my rapid pulse, needing to keep a clear head. But it’s impossible. “I have some of it.” I pull the cash from my bag and push it across the table. “There’s thirteen thousand–”

  “Shit.” He grabs the money and shoves it in his backpack, his eyes darting around the room. “Are you fucking insane? Don’t flash it around like that.” His gaze refocuses on me and he frowns. “And that’s not even close to what you owe–”

  “I just need some time. I can get the money–”

  “You better hope so. You have no idea what these guys are capable of.”

  I know better than most. It’s why I ran away.

  He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a flip phone, one of the disposable ones you can buy at any convenience store, and pushes it across the table. He starts to shift out of the booth.