My Brother's Protection: A Dark Romantic Thriller

by L. C White

  “Call me when you get there, then check-in every day at eighteen-zero-hundred hours US time, thereafter. Password is margarita night.” I cock my brow at him. “What,” he grumbles. “Who’s going to tap into that?”

  I open the back door of my new midnight blue Toyota truck with fake plates, and carefully lie Amber on the backseat. My fingers sweep her hair from her face as she lets out a faint moan. I linger, arched over her body, looking for signs she’s waking. But she soon settles soundly. I pull a blanket over her body and shut the back door quietly.

  “If you don’t check-in with me, I’ll be here within twenty-four hours,” he says. “I’ll be in Cyprus in a few days, so it may take me longer.” He places the case into my hand. “I know the cops are a no-no, but don’t try and take the world on by yourself.”

  I look down, then back to him. “Thanks James.”

  He hits my bicep in a pally way. “Not how you envisioned retirement?”

  I blow out and gulp down as a sense of regret runs through me. I just hope I’ve done the right thing.

  “Take care in Cyprus.”

  “Yeah, and you stay out of the way a while. Let things lie.”

  I make my way to the driver’s side of the truck as James starts up the engine of his Ford SUV behind me. He does a three point turn and drives away, disappearing around the corner. This is it. There’s no going back from this point on.

  ***

  The truck bounces over the dirt track as I pull up to the cabin. I’ve been here several times with James when we’ve been on military leave. It’s been in James’s family for half a century, built by his grandfather. And throughout the years the Scott family men, have built upon it. It’s a male bonding thing the family have going on.

  I park the truck up before the white porch, and turn back to look at Amber curled up on her side, with the blanket over her head. My attention has been completely taken off the road many times on the two and a half hour journey here. I feel like I can’t let her out of my sight, especially knowing now that her disappearance would have been detected. Trent will be on the hunt for her.

  I shut down the headlights and step out into the dirt. It won’t be long before she wakes and the panic will set in her. I need to get her settled inside. When she finally comes around, she’s got to understand she isn’t a prisoner, she’s under my protection. I need to make her see how fucked up she is. That she can get off the drugs. That she never had to do this to herself in the first place. It’s been eight years, but that time now feels like nothing. I’m once again seventeen and looking out for her. It’s like an automatic response that’s set inside my soul when I’m near her.

  My boots sink into the dirt as I lift her up into my arms to carry her inside.

  I drop the cabin keys on the dusty oak sideboard as I make my way across the creaky floorboards, to lie Amber on the couch. Her skin is cool and I need to get a fire going. I crouch down to the wood store, and begin to stack the dry wood inside the burner.

  The wood burner is now in full flame, and the pipes warm the cabin in minutes. I’m starting to feel it now, the exhaustion that’s built up over this week. I need to refuel my mind and body, even if it’s for only a few hours. I rub my hair as I stand, then hoist Amber up to carry her through to the one bedroom here.

  I lie her down on the pine frame bed. As soon as I slide my hands out from beneath her back, she wiggles, puffing out her lips with a tiny squeal.

  My fingers softly brush over her cheek. “Sleep Amber,” I whisper.

  As though she heard me, she rolls up on her side, pulling her knees up into her belly. I can’t afford sleep, but I need it.

  I make my way to the frayed armchair in the corner of the room, and allow my weary body to drop down and sink. My eyes stay on her face as I blink over and over, determined not to fall asleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Amber

  Tap-tap-tap-tap.

  “I’m up Jenny,” I mumble and moan.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  Oh god, why the hell do I feel like I’ve been hit over the head with a mallet? My eyes won’t open, and my tongue is as shriveled as a prune in the sun.

  Tap-tap-tap-tap.

  Oh shit, I remember. Dwayne attacking Jenny, then turning on me. Or was I wasted last night and dreamt it. I’m unsure, because I feel so goddamn awful. I’d describe this feeling the same as having hang-over flashbacks. Tiny images glinting on and off through a pounding headache.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  “What the fuck is that noise?” I utter, my torso projecting upright as I flicker open my eyes.

  I see a small black bird tapping on the window ledge outside. There are trees and dense foliage as far as my eyes can see. My chest fills with air; my eyes looking around an old fashioned wood paneled room, with oil paintings and antique furniture. I’m not in my bed. Is this Dwayne’s house? It’s not the style I was expecting. Oh god, I’m thinking too much. I can’t be here. Jeez, he drugged me. Perhaps he’s changed also, and now he’s into kidnapping. Although my wrists and ankles are free. Even the door is slightly ajar. Not a very professional kidnapping.

  My eyes move down onto my body to see I’m still wearing my pajamas, which means he hasn’t toyed with my body while I’ve been out cold. Does this mean he’s a good guy? When I slept on the streets, there were times I’d wake as some smelly addict (like myself at the time) would be trying to cop a feel. Most of them I could fight off, using my feet to kick them away while screaming blue murder. But there was one time it went so far, I had to shut my eyes and pretend to be dead inside. I was taken to hospital. The police were involved. But they never found the guy. I don’t even think they tried. On the streets, it happened all the time. And I was just another hopeless drug addict, looking for a bed for the night, and a kind word. I was a statistic that couldn’t be helped.

  I notice a pile of clothing on the foot of the bed. At the bottom of the pile is a pair of stone washed elasticated jeans. Then there’s a yellow vest and a black t-shirt bra. A pair of black cotton panties, and next to the pile a pair of flat white pumps.

  Why would he do this to me? I know, well I think I know he’s not going to hurt me. But he’s took me away without my consent. Trent will kill him now, maybe even me too. I need to get back to the house. I need my breakfast in powder form. I have to get back and try to pacify Trent. He’ll forgive me. He can use the rack, as long as he allows me back inside.

  I place my feet down on the floorboards and push my body up to stand. I’m flaky and dizzy from whatever Dwayne gave me, and it’s taking me a few seconds to regain balance. I take in air and shake my head, then I head toward the window the bird has just flown away from. I scan the outside area. There’s nothing but goddamn trees out there. Not a building in sight. Where the hell am I?

  My fingers fiddle with the catch on the splintered window frame. My face scrunches up as I turn it and it squeaks; the high-pitch sound resonating off the panel walls. I tug it upward, but the damn thing is jammed. I jiggle the catch even harder.

  “Amber.”

  I spin around fast. My lips part as my eyes widen. My shoulders are arched forward and tense. I can’t shut my mouth, and I’m gasping. Dwayne is standing in the doorway dressed in blue jeans and a white shirt, waiting for me to yell at him or something. He waves a stainless steel spatula at me.

  “Breakfast… well, more like lunch.” He coughs awkwardly and turns to walk away.

  The palms of my hands run down my thighs to my knees, as I keel over to take a breath. He’s making breakfast like this situation is okay, when it’s not. Despite the fact he’s the only man to have ever done such a thing, we can’t revert back to our teen years. He can’t be sweet, kind, or my savior anymore. He doesn’t have the right to behave in such a way with me, and I don’t deserve it. He doesn’t know the kind of woman I’ve turned out to be.

  “Amber,” he calls out, his tone nearly pleading.

  I straighten up and hesitantly walk toward the door.
>
  I’m lingering half-way in the bedroom, and half-way in a rustic style kitchen. My eyes spot Dwayne immediately, transfixed on the way his sturdy firm back slinks as he shakes and flips over a pancake. When we were kids, even though he would fight for me, he still had a cute weedy look about him. But he’s strong now, and muscular in all the right places. He would make some girl the perfect boyfriend.

  “Sit down, Amber,” he says, his back still to me.

  My fingers fiddle before my waist as I quickly make my way to the round pine table, and sit down as though Trent had just ordered me to do so. It’s been instilled into me; first and foremost, I’m to be submissive.

  Finally, Dwayne turns to face me, but his eyes shy away. It’s so strange to see someone who looks so strong, anxious. Especially a man.

  He places a plate piled with pancakes, bacon, and maple syrup in front of me. There’s enough to feed two.

  “I remembered,” he says, bending over to place a knife and fork on the table, his manly deodorant and the sweet bacon odor, drifting up my nose.

  “Remembered what?” I utter down to the plate.

  My eyes crinkle as a small grin spreads across my lips. He’s right, I would once eat plate after plate of what he’s put down before me. But that was when I was fourteen, before I required a stronger substance to sustain me. Over the years my appetite for food has declined to almost nothing.

  He moves to the opposite side of the table. My eyes follow his brown untied boots, then rise as he pulls out a chair. He sits and his view slowly peers up to me, like he has a hell of a lot to say. He’s not eating breakfast himself, and the feeling in this room is making my insides cramp with unease.

  “Eat your breakfast.” He dips his head at my plate, and again like Trent is dishing out commands, I do as I’m told.

  My grip on the fork is wavering, as I concentrate on cutting up the bacon and pancakes. I need my fix. I can’t sit in this room under this much pressure without my medicine. But still I try, sensing his eyes on me as I lift the fork to my mouth. Dwayne is not going to go out to the nearest dealer for me. He’s giving off the vibe that he hates what I’ve become.

  “Is that why you rely on Trent?” His question makes my heart recoil in my chest, and my sweaty fingers drop the fork.

  I slam my elbows on the table and cover my eyes with my hands. An emotional rage is whirling around inside my head, and my subconscious is telling me to get the hell out of here.

  “I need to go.” I push myself up.

  “Sit down.” Again, even though his voice is soft, it puts the fear of god into me.

  I swallow, nervously looking at his fierce gaze on me, lowering back down into the chair slowly.

  “Amber, you have no need to be afraid here,” he says. “But you need to explain, what happened to you?”

  I don’t talk about my past. Trent knows, and that was only with tick box style questions. It’s difficult to relive it all, with the one good part of my past staring at me. Dwayne.

  “When I left, why did you run away?” he asks.

  “Why do you think?”

  “What about your mom?” He folds his arms over the table.

  “You know what she was like. Even before you came along it was one asshole after the next. She fucked off to find a better life for herself, leaving me also,” I say with a sneer in my tone. “Look, you have to take me back.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “If I have even one ounce of responsibility for what happened to you, I couldn’t live with myself.”

  He was responsible in a way, as was my own Mother. However, Peter Schofield was the one who destroyed my life. But it’s too late, we can’t go back and change things now. I am what I am, and he is what he is.

  “There are other girls in that house… why?” he asks, determined to get his answers.

  “I… I can’t discuss this with you.”

  “Why not?”

  Every time a question comes out of his mouth, I grow more and more irritated. I’m beginning to bubble and sweat. My heart is racing, and I can feel the furious pulse in my neck. I’m refusing to answer, because I’m afraid I’m going to scream at him.

  “He hits you?”

  That’s it. I cannot take any more of this. I return his concerned gaze with an angry scowl.

  “I allow him to hit me!” I begin to pant, each word I say sounds breathy. “Do you want me to tell you what sort of woman I am? I drank alcohol every day from the age of fifteen. For a brief time I worked as a lap dancer to fund my coke habit, until I was caught stealing from the bar.” I watch his face tense up in shock, his chest swelling rapidly. “I’ve worked in bars, lived on the streets, men have took advantage of me, and I’ve had a near miss with a deadly STD. So… so you can think what you like. You should have never took me from the one place I felt safe.” I swallow down as tears fall over my lashes.

  “So Trent was your knight in shining armor.” He shakes his head down. “You can’t see it, can you? He uses all that hate you have for yourself, and all the bad things that have happened to you, to his own advantage. He’s a dangerous man. A killer. A sadistic corrupt evil bastard who will kill you, Amber.”

  I look right into his eyes. “You weren’t there. And… and maybe dying wouldn’t be so bad after all.”

  “I’m here now.”

  “Well, I don’t need you now. I needed you then.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Dwayne

  I want her to rage and throw passion at me with those distraught gorgeous brown eyes of hers. I want her to blame me, hurl things at me, hit me even, if it makes her realize the fuckin truth. To me it’s like watching one of those frightened women in Afghan who were raped repeatedly, kept prisoner, and used in unthinkable ways. But still they would protect their captor. It’s a form of Stockholm syndrome that could end in a deadly way.

  “I’m sorry. I was a stupid kid in love.”

  She doesn’t respond, other than to stand up and storm over to the kitchen cupboards.

  She opens each one, slamming them shut. She even goes as far as to climb up onto the work surface, to look on the top shelves.

  “Where’s the fridge,” she snaps in a deranged manner.

  “There isn’t one. There’s a cooler store.” I swivel in the chair to get a better look at her.

  “Is there no goddamn alcohol in this… this shed?”

  There she is. The girl who once told me and my dad to fuck-off. Feisty, determined, and kind of strong. I shouldn’t like seeing her so desperate and angry, but in a way I do.

  “God,” she hisses up to the ceiling, her fingers clutching the worktop. “Why have you brought me here?”

  I’m going to tell her the god’s honest truth. I’ve come this far.

  “When I saw you at that ball, it tore me up seeing you with another man. Then I saw you were unhappy, and that changed something in me.”

  She interrupts and says, “How the hell would you know how happy I…”

  “Let me finish.” I stop her saying another word. “I’ve been all over the world.”

  “Well goody for you,” she utters under her breath.

  “I’ve seen danger and trouble plenty in this world. But Trent.” She rolls her eyes at the mention of his name. “He’s sinister. I couldn’t let it go, because Amber… I’m still in love with you. I always have been. And I’m so fuckin sorry for leaving you.”

  Her agitation is taken over by sorrow. “But you left.”

  “I had to, because if I didn’t, I’d have ended up no better than my dad.” I tilt my neck back as a swelling in my neck descends. “I didn’t want to take advantage of my vulnerable fourteen year old step sister. I couldn’t risk one day you hating me for it.”

  “Yeah well,” she snivels. “Look where we both ended up.”

  She makes her way back toward the bedroom. I reach out to take her hand.

  “Forgive me.”

  She snaps her hand away. “Dwayne,
right now love don’t change a damn thing.”

  She slams the bedroom door shut, leaving me staring at the pancakes she hasn’t even touched.

  ***

  I’ve given her some space. She’s not going anywhere. She doesn’t even know where we are. Hasn’t even asked. It’s been an hour, and I’ve not heard a peep. I’ve cleaned up all the mess I made in the kitchen, but still my head aches with worry. How the fuck does a guy like me, one who’s become: thick skinned, hard, and efficient, talk sense into a girl like Amber: damaged, addicted, and despondent. Make her see that this big world isn’t all bad. I was the Staff Sergeant to fearless men. I gave out orders and they followed. I trained and pushed them over the edge. I became ruthless, and damn, I was good at my job. I’m finding it fuckin infuriating that this girl from my past won’t listen.

  I lean against the worktop, watching the bedroom door while drying my hands harshly with a tatty towel. Maybe I made a mistake. I should have let her live how she wants to fuckin live. If she wants to live in the gutter and die young, I should let her. I’ve lost my mind. I don’t even have a goddamn endgame, other than putting a bullet through Trent Moore’s head. But then I’d still have Amber to deal with.

  I toss the towel into the sink and walk to the bedroom door. I need to know she’s okay in there, and hasn’t done anything stupid.

  I tap three times on the door. “Amber, can I come in?” She doesn’t answer. “Amber,” I call out again as a gaping hollow of dread takes hold of me.

  I open the door swiftly and all movement and words fail me. She’s standing there before the window with her back to me, in the underwear I bought her, dancing into the jeans.