Blinded by Fate (The Ugly Roses Book 3)

by Harlow Stone

  “Thanks Elle, that was delicious. Really,” Denny says, Ivan nodding in agreement.

  “No problem guys. I’m gonna start cleaning up.” I begin to grab the plates and not to my surprise Ryder takes them from me and gives the other men what can only be described as the look before they too start clearing the table. I say nothing as I can’t help the smirk on my face at how well they listen to him, even if the warning was not verbal.

  I follow them up the stairs, only carrying the salt and pepper shakers, and watch as they all load the dishes in the dishwasher.

  Setting the spices down on the stove, I watch them all head to their separate corners; Jimmy and Ivan at the island, Denny to the couch typing something on his phone. Ryder’s arms come around my back. “Got a business call to make, beautiful. I’ll be done in twenty, alright?” he says in my ear.

  I nod my head. He kisses the top of it. “No worries.”

  I watch him head into the spare bedroom and close the door, while I head for a much needed bathroom break.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I look down at the photo on my burner, not at all believing what I see, not sure what to do. I know what I should do but in the same thought I’m terrified to do it.

  The photo is of Ryder outside Jimmy’s shop, he’s talking to Ivan and there is an ‘X’ drawn on his handsome face. I know what it means; I also know that I have an important decision to make. I listen to the men talking out in the kitchen at Jimmy’s. Ryder had a conference call with a client which he took in the spare bedroom. I appreciate the fact he is confidential about his work and I respect the fact that he needs privacy.

  I power off my phone, and put it in my pocket. Opening the bathroom door, making sure no one sees me I go into Jimmy’s room and close the door behind me. I give Norma a decent hug, kissing her on her furry head where she lays on the end of Jimmy’s bed. “Love you pretty girl, be good.”

  My fourteen hole black Doc Martens are still where I left them. I waste no time putting them on. I’m already dressed in my ripped, dark skinny jeans and a long sleeve, loose black top. Once my boots are on, I slide the window open and climb out onto the fire escape. It’s about twenty feet above the ground and the ladder goes down about ten feet to the side of the building where the gate is. I climb down, and let go when I reach the bottom rung, landing in a squat.

  I take off at a run, down the side of the fence and cut through the neighboring business lot, and onto the next street. Once there, I turn right and head toward a place I never wished to go, at least not so soon.

  I don’t waste time letting my emotions get the best of me. I just keep running. It takes about fifteen minutes, and I have no doubt they have noticed I’m missing by now. Running toward the back of the house, I flip over the flagstone and get the key. Unlocking the back door to the garage I see my old girl. I wish I had more time to appreciate her black paint, and refurbished interior. I also wish I had the balls to step into the house my daughter and I once called home. Instead, I reach into the top drawer of the tool box and get the keys for my 1969 Chevelle. I grab the small knife out of the third drawer. It’s not much, it’s about four inches and had been left in the toolbox when my dad gave me the hand me down garage ornament. I stuff it in my boot, along with a screwdriver narrow enough that it looks like an ice pick.

  I jump in my car and pray she starts, but I know Jimmy would have looked after her while I was gone. The engine purrs on the second try and I press the button on the visor to open the garage door. As soon as it’s up enough, I put the car in drive and barely squeeze through before jetting out onto the street, toward the address I was given.

  I think of a million different ways this could go. I calm my nerves a little, knowing I was given two hours to be where I was asked to go. I open the glove box and reach for the map inside. I don’t have a smart phone, nor do I have a GPS on the shitty burner phone. I pull off the street and down another one that bypasses town and has the least amount of houses on it.

  Slowing down, I look at the map. The town I’m told to go is about fifty minutes from here, I just don’t recognize the road name. I wasn’t given the house number and I see that the road stretches for what looks to be about five miles in the country. Now that I have a general idea of where I’m going, I pull back on the road. I was told to text when I was close. I’m assuming I’ll get the house number then.

  Driving with a heavy heart, I think of Ryder. I know what I’m doing is right, and I hope he’ll forgive me. I would never forgive myself if anything happened to him, and if there is more than just Andrew’s brother in on this then it’s possible someone has a gun trained on the building.

  I laugh a little at the thought. A fucking gun trained on the building? When did my life become a Lifetime movie? In what normal person’s life do people have guns—and I’m picturing a sniper rifle—trained on people unless they’re in the middle of a war?

  It’s sad really that the paranoia is taking over, and I’m honest to shit worried that Ryder could lose his life to a bullet for all intents and purposes was actually meant for me.

  Maybe I’m overthinking, and the X on his handsome face was not meant to signify a bullet, but rather some other form of harm done to him. Either way it breaks my heart. He is such a good man, and he deserves nothing but good things. Things I hope to be able to give him, but that depends on what happens tonight.

  It’s past nine in the evening when I reach the road. I turn my phone back on and text the number given to me that I’m close. A bunch of texts and missed call alerts beep through but I ignore them for the one I’m looking for. The number 2273. Not wanting to be a complete idiot, I forward the texts to Cabe with the title ‘I’m sorry’. He’ll know what I mean, and he’ll be the quickest to figure it out. It also gives me a fifty minute head start.

  I leave the phone on but put it on silent and stash it under the seat. I don’t want to be left out here to die and I know he’ll be tracking me. I drive down the road which has now turned to gravel. I note that it’s noisy, and I also note you can see headlights for miles. There is a forest to my left and to my right there are mostly fields, broken up between some remaining trees.

  I pass a few country houses, a farm or two, and after a mile of seeing nothing, I come across my destination. It’s set back from the road, with long grass that hasn’t been cut in ages and a scattering of trees. I turn down the drive. There is a lone light on the porch that is past looking rugged but outright falling apart. The steps have caved in and there is a shutter hanging loose on the front. The house itself is not so poorly beaten; the paint is peeling on the wood sided home but it’s fared better than the porch. There is a barn beyond that to the right, and a shed straight ahead. I see the shadow on the porch and park the car about thirty feet from the house and turn the ignition off, followed by the headlights. I don’t miss the flash of steel at the man’s side before he’s once again cast in shadow.

  Not knowing if I’m incredibly stupid or just plain fucking dumb, I get out of the car. I don’t do it for myself. I do it for Ryder, for my family, for my friends who I wish no harm to come to. He walks into the house, not waiting for me. I’d find it odd but then again I’m here, and it doesn’t get any odder than that.

  I’m here after all this time, wanting to know who the brother to Andrew is. I pray that I find out before I die. Or I pray that I’m able to kill him before he has the chance to hurt anyone I care about.

  I take a wide step onto the porch, ignoring the broken boards that used to be called steps. There is a small light on inside the house and I see that it’s not as shabby as the outside either. Its floors are filthy, and the decor looks dated but it’s held its shape.

  I step into the home cautiously, ready to crouch and dig into my boot. Unfortunately I don’t get the chance before something heavy hits the back of my head, and I fall to the floor.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I feel warmth on the back of my neck.

  Blood.

  I’
m cold and reminded of the last time I felt a similar sensation. I come to quickly, hating the feel of concrete under me. My heads hits the wall behind me and I let out a shocked cry at the pain, blinking my eyes a few times to regain full consciousness.

  “Well hello, ‘bout time you woke up. I was about to throw water on ya.”

  I freeze at the voice, wondering how life could be so cruel to me. Wondering how three times in a year I have found myself in a room filled with cold concrete and a man with evil eyes.

  “What the fuck do you want, Braumer. And how’d you get my phone number?”

  The useless bastard shakes his head at me, not at all pleased with my language but enjoying the banter.

  “Ya had to give it when you were questioned at the station,” he says, shaking his head. “Thought you could get away with it all, you worthless cunt, didn’t you?”

  I wiggle my wrists behind my back, coming to the conclusion they’re zip tied. Harder to get off than rope but not as noisy as handcuffs would be.

  Keep him talking.

  “I don’t know what you think it is I’ve gotten away with, I’m just wondering why you’re here instead of the infamous twin brother.”

  Braumer’s eyes light up.

  Good.

  “How the fuck do you know about him?”

  He leaves his position of leaning against an old table by the wall and storms in front of me, grabbing the front of my shirt and yelling in my face. “You know the little shit? Tell me!”

  “I don’t know who he is! I just know there were two of them! I told you that when the dead flowers were left on my porch!”

  He looks into my eyes, his evil ones searching for the truth. He nods and let’s go of my shirt, grabbing onto my hair instead.

  “I put the fuckin’ flowers there, a little way to let you know I was coming for you. Then ya went and took off! You thought you got away with it, killing him! I know you fucking done it! I know you did!”

  I have no idea why he cares. “I’m not sure why the answer to that question is so important to you. Your retired, let it lie.”

  This earns me a backhand across the face.

  “LET IT LIE? He was my fuckin’ retirement plan! Him and that mental brother of his! Now what the fuck am I supposed to do? Huh? That fuck was obsessed with you, I’ve no idea why.”

  He paces back and forth in the basement and I do all I can to avoid the shakes that want to take over my body.

  “Well Braumer, pretty sure I’m here to die aren’t I? Might as well enlighten me because I have not one fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

  He shakes his head. “Of course you don’t you stupid bitch. Andrew knew how to play the stock market. Made a penny while he did it too. Not enough to show for, but he was waiting until he could find a way where he wouldn’t get caught taking too much. I covered his ass for years, bailin’ him out whenever he got caught buying blow down on Thirty Second Street. Had a temper too, but I got those assault charges dropped as well before his name had a chance to appear in the system.

  “Looked after my boy, and he was gonna look after me until you went and fuckin’ killed him! Now what do I got, huh? Shawn’s useless, half-wit fuck that he is.”

  I’m reeling.

  Stock Market.

  Greed.

  Looked after my boy.

  Oh my god.

  “You’re their father? That makes no sense?”

  He loses his temper, much like his evil son, and flings a chair across the room.

  “It fucking well does!”

  I yell back. “You’re their father? Yet they were abandoned at birth? I don’t fucking believe it.”

  Heavy footsteps head my way before he crouches down in front of me, his gut hanging over his pants. His breath smells of scotch and his balding head is covered in perspiration.

  “Believe it. I hadn’t been on the force too long before I met my Lucy,” he sneers.

  Licking his filthy lips, he continues. “No good whore is what she was. Mother kicked her out for whatever reason and she was running drugs to keep a roof over her head. Wrong place wrong time, and I taught her what it was like to be on the street. I taught her real good. She was in love too, some cook from a diner. I remember her beggin’ me to stop ‘cause they were gonna get mar-ried,” he sing songs, shaking his head in disgust. “But I took one look at the sorry bitch and knew she was headed for a life of bein’ a street rat.

  “Every time I busted her, I had her. Never charged her for the drugs either. Once she started doin’ them she was no fun, never screamed ‘cause she was too high. Scrawny bitch. Ended up pregnant with my boys too. Fuckin’ hell, eh?”

  I swallow the vomit that’s rising in my throat, wondering how someone can be so evil. I also let it run through my head that as much as I hate Andrew and all that he did, neither he nor his brother stood a chance in this life. Not with this man as an influence in their lives.

  But he wasn’t in Shawn’s life, was he?

  “Never got to raise my boys. Couldn’t very well walk in to the hospital and announce myself the father of two kids to an underage fuckin’ crack whore. Not me bein’ a cop. Thought about adopting, but after Andrew went to his grandmother’s I knew that bitch wouldn’t roll over for me. Took one look at the other runt in the box fightin’ for his life and wanted nothing to do with the kid. Doc said he’d be mental, not all there. That ain’t my boy.”

  This sick fuck doesn’t deserve the air he breathes, and suffering the loss of my own child, one I would have loved no matter how she was born, makes me sicker. I can’t hold it back.

  Leaning to the side, I vomit all over the floor. Braumer jumps back to avoid being covered in my sickness. I wipe my mouth on my shoulder and look up at the sorry excuse for a human being.

  “You’re sick. Leaving him is most likely the best thing you could have done for him, Braumer. But what of Andrew? What made him see your side of evil?” I tilt my head to the side, waiting for his answer.

  “He was smart! That was my boy, the one you fucking killed! Shawn took off after that, not that the runt would get me any fucking money anyway. Kid’s too fucking straight laced, but I’m teachin’ ‘em. That old fostor woman made him the way he is. If she’d ever let him outta the house without her I woulda’ got to him. But he was stuck on that old bitch like glue, little pussy that he is.”

  I’m trying my damndest to keep up with all the information. The blood running down the back of my head has slowed, but I’m still not one hundred percent. I hear a thud upstairs. Braumer whips a gun out of the waistband of his jeans and points it at me. I remain still, hoping like hell it’s someone here to help, but at the same time hoping nobody gets hurt aside from the man in front of me.

  “Don’t move and don’t fucking make a sound. You do, you’re dead.”

  I already know I’m dead, but I don’t tell him this. I watch his feet go up the stairs until they are no longer in my vision. As soon as he’s out of site I arch my back trying to bring my arms down underneath my rear so I can pull them closer to my boots.

  The tie is tight, so tight and higher up on my wrists than they should be. I wiggle, trying to move it lower when I hear a commotion upstairs followed by a thud. I struggle, bringing my legs up behind me but I hear footsteps start at the stairs. I give up and shove myself back into the upright position before he catches me reaching for the weapon he doesn’t know I have.

  I see Braumer’s feet first, followed by another set that seem to be more dragged than helped down the stairs. The legs are limp, barely co-operating.

  “Got what you wanted I guess didn’t ya, cunt? Here’s who you’ve been tryin’ to meet. Kid won’t kill a damn grasshopper but thought he’d try and save ya by hittin’ me in the head.”

  I watch as a smaller, more innocent version of Andrew is unceremoniously dumped on the floor. His clothes are a mess, his shirt is stained and he’s skinny.

  Shawn Flynn

  He catches himself before his head hit
s the floor. His eye’s look around frantically until they land on me. Pain and sadness turns into hope before they close, and he slumps the rest of the way to the floor.

  I look for signs that he’s hurt. His breathing is shallow and his hair is mussed behind his temple suggesting Braumer whacked him the same as he did me.

  “Stupid little shit. Shoulda’ locked him in better,” Braumer says, heading over to the table he was leaning against. It’s more like a work bench among the cold concrete walls. I’m thankful there are no pictures of me here. Just a cellar-type basement in an old home. Shelves line the far wall with boxes of lord knows what. The rest is bare aside from the work bench.

  Topping up the glass on the bench with what I assume is scotch from the smell on his breath, he turns around, glaring at me.