Rev It Up

by Julie Ann Walker

  “You heard your mama,” Jake said, Franklin cradled in his strong arms, their matching dimples winking in their cheeks until she was forced to look away. “It’s up you go, little dude.”

  “But I d-don’t wanna go to s-sleep,” Franklin cried, his bottom lip sticking out so far it was a wonder the thing was still attached to his face. The doctor had warned her that children his age often became emotional after surgery, after coming down off anesthesia. “And my b-belly hurts, Mama,” he sniffed and tucked his head up under Jake’s stubbled chin.

  Her gut twisted into knots until it ached as much as her heart.

  She checked her watch. “It’s time for another dose of pain meds,” she said, amazed she was still able to function given the nearly overwhelming urge to lay down on the floor and cry. Cry for the physical pain her son was in. Cry for the emotional pain she’d caused Jake. Cry for the spiritual pain she’d suffer only getting to see her son part-time. Just cry, cry, cry.

  Of course, that would help no one. And, as a mother, she didn’t have that luxury. She dragged in a breath to steady herself before striding back to the table to dig in her purse. When she found the liquid medicine, she handed it to Jake along with the plastic measuring cup that’d come with it.

  And this was how it was going to be from now on. This splitting of parenting duties…

  Oh, God.

  She barely beat back a sob of hysteria before gathering her courage once more and calmly instructing, “He’s supposed to get one tablespoon,” she instructed before turning to her son. “You want to finish watching Tangled, don’t you, sweetpea?” she asked.

  He shoved his little thumb in his mouth and nodded, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “The horsh ish funny,” he said around the chubby digit.

  “Yes,” she smiled weakly, leaning in to ruffle his hair and kiss his pale cheek. The smell of her little boy combined with Jake’s beachy aroma was an aromatic assault, reminding her of all the things she loved and all the things she’d already lost and was poised to lose still.

  Joint custody…

  The term sounded profane.

  “That ol’ horse is funny,” she managed, though her throat was clogged with tears. “And I’ll be up to check on you and bring you some ice cream as soon as I call Miss Lisa.”

  Franklin’s tired face crumbled, and he started crying in earnest. “I m-mish Mish Lisha,” he wailed, hiccupping.

  Yeah, I know exactly how you feel. She wanted to break down right along with him…

  “I think it’s time we got this little warrior dosed and into bed,” Jake observed, and she took a step back, nodding, watching the two of them cross the kitchen and disappear into the living room.

  How was she ever going to survive this?

  ***

  When they exited the elevator on the sixth floor of The Stardust Hotel, Rock’s deep, rich chuckle made the butterflies in Vanessa’s stomach once more take flight.

  That’s all it took. One look from him. One word. And she felt like she was plummeting down that first steep hill on a roller coaster.

  Gee, Van, you’re one sad sack.

  Yeah, there was no question of that. Because if any other guy referred to her breasts as funbags, she’d be sorely tempted to land a knee in his family jewels right before she crowned him King Asshole. But Rock said it, and she got all gooey, thinking he was the cutest, funniest thing to ever walk on two legs.

  Ugh. The reasons why she obviously needed professional, psychological help just kept piling up.

  “You okay to do this?” he asked once they reached Johnny’s hotel room.

  In answer, she kicked out of her stripper shoes and reached beneath her skirt for the .38 Special she kept strapped to her thigh.

  “Mon dieu,” he whispered, screwing his eyes closed for a brief second, “that might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  She grinned as she quietly inserted the key into the lock. Before she turned it, he grabbed her hand, shaking his head. “I’m goin’ in alone first. You follow behind me when I give you the all-clear.”

  “Oh, don’t go getting all testosterone-y on me now,” she hissed, frowning up at him. “I can take care of myself. There’s no need for this He-Man crap.”

  “Non. This isn’t a negotiation. I’m—”

  Oh, whatever…

  Before he could finish, she turned the lock, threw open the door and barged into the room, her pistol quartering the area.

  Rock let loose with a string of French curses, but he was barely a split second behind her, both of his guns up and ready and sighting around the room. Once he realized the place was empty and she wasn’t in any immediate danger, he turned and barreled toward the attached restroom. She heard the shower curtain rings squeak against the rod as he yanked the curtain aside. Then he appeared in the bathroom door, his face like a gulf hurricane.

  “Damn,” she cursed. “So no Johnny?”

  He didn’t waste any time laying into her, breaking out a thesaurus’s worth of words for dumbass, but she waved him off as she padded toward the rumpled bed.

  Picking up a creased photo, her blood began pounding in her ears.

  “Oh, shit,” she breathed, turning it around for him to see.

  ***

  Jake looked down at the face of his drowsy son, his heart nearly bursting with a love he’d never known.

  It was an amazing feeling. An overwhelming feeling. A scary feeling.

  He was a father. He had a son. A little boy whom he was responsible for shaping into a good, honest, loyal man.

  “You getting tired, little bro?” he asked, brushing a lock of soft hair back from Franklin’s brow.

  “Nuh-uh.” Franklin shook his head against the pillow as his big, gray eyes drifted closed, and his plump little thumb found its way between his lips.

  Jake smiled and tiptoed from the room, partially closing the door behind him. The pain medication was fast-acting, and he was glad for it. Because every time Franklin’s face scrunched up, his little cheeks draining of blood, Jake felt like someone shoved a hot knife in his gut. And considering that was his reaction after only having been a father for one day, he couldn’t imagine what Shell must be feeling.

  Shell…

  Damn, we sure made a mess of things, didn’t we?

  With a heavy heart, he lumbered to the guest bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt and tiredly dragging it from his shoulders as he pushed through the door.

  A sound in the corner had his head whipping around. He had just enough time to register he was wasn’t alone and drop his shirt to the floor while simultaneously reaching for the pistol in his waistband…

  But he wasn’t quick enough.

  A muzzle flash blazed through the darkened room a split second before agony exploded in his head, and he knew no more.

  ***

  “Come on, come on,” Rock growled. “Pick up, Snake…Merde!” He resisted the urge to throw his phone out the window of Christian’s Porsche as he and Vanessa sped north on the highway toward Lincoln Park.

  “Michelle isn’t answering either,” Vanessa said from her position in the passenger seat. “Her phone goes straight to voice mail.”

  She grabbed on to the dashboard when he swerved around a slow-moving Peapod delivery truck but didn’t utter so much as a squeak. The woman might look fragile, what with that small Latina frame of hers, but she was turning out to be incredibly tough.

  When she’d stormed into Johnny’s hotel room like Captain frickin’ America, zut!, he’d nearly vomited his own heart.

  “Try her home phone,” he instructed as he shifted into a lower gear, working the pedals.

  “I don’t have that number. You try her at home. I’ll call Boss.”

  “Oui,” he said as he cut across three lanes of traffic, the Porsche’s fat tires clinging to the asphalt like they were coated with glue.

  Christian might have a terrible eye for sensible clothes, but Rock could totally get behind the Brit’s taste in vehicles. />
  He quickly thumbed through his contacts on his phone as he flicked on the Porsche’s blinker and took the next exit in a squeal of burning rubber. Keeping one eye on the road and one eye on the old lady in the Caddy who could barely see over the steering wheel in the lane beside him, he found Shell’s information. Pressing the number for her land-line, he held his cell phone up to his ear.

  “Sonofabitch!” he cursed when the old lady changed lanes without looking, effectively cutting him off. He had to work the wheel, gearshift, and pedals as he listened to it ring on the other end. And he prayed to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in anymore that she would answer…

  ***

  Michelle was in the middle of scooping chocolate chip ice cream into Franklin’s favorite Mickey Mouse bowl while leaving yet another message for Lisa—she’d already checked her email; there was nothing, and now she was really worried—when her land-line call-waiting sounded.

  Thank, God, she thought right before she clicked over. “Lisa? Where the heck are you? I’ve been wor—”

  “Listen, Shell—”

  “Rock?”

  “Oui, chère, now listen closely, and don’t interrupt.” The tone of his voice had the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. “Johnny knows about you. We found your picture and your information in his hotel room and—”

  The sound of a gunshot exploded overhead, and her entire world came to a screeching halt.

  Franklin…

  She dropped the phone and raced into the living room, jumping over the toy fire truck in the middle of the rug and banging her hip against the end table upon landing. It sent the glass lamp sitting on top smashing to floor, but she gave it no mind as she sprinted to the stairs.

  Franklin…That’s all she kept thinking over and over again. My boy…

  She’d only made it halfway up the staircase when a dark shadow appeared on the landing above. Instinctively, she jerked back, her foot slipping on the tread below causing her to lose her balance and land in a heap on the cold, hard tiles of the foyer.

  Scrambling to her feet, she wasted no time trying to determine if she’d broken anything in the fall—with the surge of adrenaline racing through her system, she wasn’t feeling anything anyway—as she attempted to make out the man’s face in the shadows.

  She couldn’t. It was too dark with the hall lights off.

  Of course, there was one shape she had no trouble discerning, and that was the distinctive outline of the pistol in his hands.

  It was pointed straight at her head.

  She threw her hands in the air as she glanced past his shoulder and screamed, “Franklin!”

  She choked with relief when he called, “Mama?” His voice was high and frightened, but that didn’t matter because it was his voice. His sweet, sweet little voice. “What happened, Mama? What’s that noise?”

  Her heart tripped over itself even as she sent a prayer of thanks skyward. And then she realized exactly what it meant that her son was still alive and well and asking questions…

  Oh God, Jake. Oh, sweet Jesus…

  “If you value your son’s life,” the man—Johnny?—hissed, slowly descending the stairs, “you’ll tell him to stay exactly where he is.”

  She opened her mouth, but she couldn’t speak.

  Jake’s dead. Jake’s dead. Jake’s—

  The thought raced around and around inside her head, endlessly spinning until bile crawled up the back of her throat and the room began closing in on her. Then the sound of Franklin’s voice dragged her back from the edge of darkness.

  “Mama!” he screamed again, and she was reminded her son was still alive. She had to keep it together, stay strong and smart for his sake.

  She managed to swallow in order to yell, “S-stay in bed, sweetpea! I dropped a pan, that’s all. I’ll bring your ice cream to you in a little bit. Just watch your movie!”

  “Nicely done, Mama,” Johnny jeered, his face coming into view when he reached the middle of the staircase and the light from the foyer washed over him.

  He looked exactly like she imagined he would. The quintessential Italian mobster complete with slick dark hair, swarthy skin, leather jacket, and an expression that was 100 percent sociopath.

  He’d have been handsome if it weren’t for the pure, black evil shining in his eyes.

  “Back up,” he commanded, “into the kitchen.”

  “My son—” she started, but he cut her off.

  “Little Franklin will be just fine as long as his mama plays nice.” At the look of horror that washed over her face, he chuckled dryly. The sound was like a snake moving through dead leaves. A shiver raced down her spine in response.

  “W-what do you want?” she managed, slowly backing toward the kitchen, wracking her brain for a way to save herself and her son.

  Or, perhaps, just her son…

  If she screamed at him to use the fire escape ladder stored beside his toy box to climb out his bedroom window, could he do it with his injury? They’d practiced the maneuver a lot, and each time he’d accomplished it with no problem, but he’d been healthy then. Or maybe she should yell for him to get up and run for the front door. But would she be able to wrestle with Johnny long enough to give Franklin a fighting chance? And would he actually leave if he saw her struggling with a strange man, or would her little warrior try to help?

  “What do I want?” Johnny grinned, flashing a set of bleached teeth that were startlingly white. “Just to have a little fun.” The way he said the word fun made it sound filthy. “Don’t you want to have some fun?” He crudely waggled his tongue before winking.

  Jake had a small armory upstairs. If she could just get past Johnny, she might be able to—

  “I can see those wheels turning in that pretty head of yours,” he taunted, still herding her toward the kitchen, “but I can assure you there’s no escape. You see,” he moved his free hand up to his shoulder in order to remove the duffel bag she hadn’t realized he was carrying, “I have all the things that go bang-bang right here in this little bag. That guy I just popped sure liked his guns, didn’t he?”

  Oh, Jake. I’m so sorry. So unbelievably sorry you only got to be a father for one day… “What was he expecting? A zombie apocalypse? Or did you guys know I was coming?” Johnny cocked his head and eyed her speculatively before shrugging. “Doesn’t matter. Because along with confiscating his little arsenal, I was also careful to remove all the knives in your kitchen.”

  She glanced over her shoulder to see her empty knife block.

  “So, since I’m the only one with a weapon,” he waved his pistol from side-to-side when she turned back to him, “I’m calling the shots.”

  Her hip bumped against the edge of her kitchen table, halting her retreat.

  “Now turn that chair around,” he ordered, “and have a seat. It’s time for the games to begin.”

  “Mama?” Franklin called, and she was forced to admit she was out of options. Her only hope now was that she could keep Johnny occupied long enough for Rock to get here and save her son from whatever fate Johnny had planned for him.

  Oh, she knew that line about Franklin being fine as long as she played nice was nothing but bullcrap. From everything she’d heard about Johnny Vitiglioni, he wasn’t in the habit of leaving witnesses behind. Of course, he didn’t know the cavalry was on its way.

  And she planned to use that to her advantage…

  “Mama!”

  “Don’t you get out of that bed, young man!” she yelled, hoping her tone sounded stern instead of terrified. “The doctor says you’re supposed to stay in bed, and I swear if you step one foot out of it, I’m giving you a spanking!”

  She’d never given Franklin a spanking before, and she hoped the threat of one would scare him enough to make him mind her.

  Please, God, she prayed as Johnny smiled evilly, uncoiling a length of rope in his gloved hands, please let him mind me. I don’t want him to see this…

  ***

  The world c
ame back to Jake a little at a time…

  First there was pain. Terrible, burning pain in the side of his head.

  Then there was light. A weak shaft that fell across his face and hurt his eyes when he opened them to blink in blurry confusion at the fixture burning out in the hallway.

  And finally there was realization. He wasn’t dead. He’d been shot. In the head. But he wasn’t dead.

  Huh…

  Gritting his teeth against the excruciating agony, he reached up and—

  Well, that’s good. His muscles actually responded to his command, which meant he wasn’t paralyzed. A fine start…

  Running his fingers through his hair, he encountered blood. Lots of it. But there didn’t appear to be any holes. No wet, soggy void for his finger to dip into. His scalp, on the other hand, was a mess. It was ripped in a deep gash and part of it was hanging away from his skull like some sort of gruesome earflap.

  Disgusting, to say the least. But in the grand scheme of things, and considering he’d be a corpse if that bullet had hit him one inch to the right, it wasn’t so bad.

  He started cataloging the rest of his body parts, testing his limbs, when it suddenly occurred to him just exactly what had happened.

  Yes, he’d been shot. That he knew. Case in point: the pool of blood and ripped scalp. But what he’d forgotten for a moment was that he’d been shot inside Shell’s house.

  Where she and Franklin…

  Sonofabitch!

  He pushed up from the hardwood floor and slipped in the puddle of his own blood before managing to gain his footing. Reaching into his waistband, he discovered his pistol was gone and bent to check for his reserve weapon despite the fact that the move sent a thunderbolt of agony blasting through his skull.

  Nada. Nothing but an empty leather ankle holster…

  Not wasting one moment, he ran toward the closet where he’d stored the rest of the weapons he’d taken from the Black Knights’ armory only to discover his duffel bag missing from the top shelf.

  “Fuck a duck!” he hissed, flying across the room, feeling the seconds piling up against him. He skidded to a halt when he saw the scarf draped on the edge of the mirror above the dresser. Barely giving his gruesome reflection a glance—yeah, he could be an extra in a slasher film—he pushed the flap of torn scalp firmly against his skull and then quickly wound the scarf around his head to hold it in place when he remembered…