by August Red
He's fucking late...
Sitting in his usual private spot in the back booth, he presses his back into the wooden seat, leaning his legs against the booth opposite him. Bikers fill the roadhouse along with a mix of underage teens and the occasional roadie.
He’s so fucking tired, thinking straight is becoming an almost impossible task. He tried to sleep but tossed and turned. He ate but didn't have much of an appetite. And now, drinking, something he's always enjoyed, does nothing for him.
Nothing feels right anymore. That click in his head where he knows he’s okay, where he’s glad to be home and away from all the troubles, never comes. He survived death. He should feel on top of the world. But where is the bliss?
He sighs, biting down, grinding his teeth together with the intent to break something. The unease stirring inside him... it has nothing to do with the job.
He left her. Alone. Unsafe. Unprotected. And he just... left her. The girl is completely in the dark stumbling around, looking for answers to questions she’s got no clue about and he just left her. With nothing.
And now he’s being sent back.
To kill her and her whole fucking family.
Again, why the fuck should he care? He doesn’t care. But… no matter how hard he tries, he can’t erase the fact that she saved his fucking life.
And that he vowed to never harm a woman… not after…
“Fuck.” His hand comes down, slamming the table, the beer rattles, spinning on its bottom. Judas watches it spin a couple times before wedging his fingers between the glass and ceasing it.
“Bad night?"
He rolls the bottle cap between his fingers, not acknowledging the woman over him, not needing to. “Tiff."
She's been eyeing him all night, like every night he shows his face here. And like every other time she takes his drink order, giving him attention, she does little to hide the allusion that she wants a lot more than that.
“Tina. You know it's Tina.” She twists to lean her hip against the edge of the table where he’s lounging. “I've told you a hundred times,” she teases.
“And you know you don't care.” He looks up, his usual detailed appraisal of her replaced with a nod. “So why act like you do?"
A flirtatious grin spreads across her crooked lips. “Missed you these past weeks. Where you been, baby?” She leans a bit more forward, lending an inviting sight for Judas to peruse her fake inked breasts. “You’re not seeing someone behind my back, are you?” she purrs.
“You know I don't do relationships.” His eyes slip a second for a view of her cleavage. “Tina,” he enunciates, before bringing the bottle back to his mouth.
She hovers closer, twisting her dyed red hair between her fingers as her hip brushes his shoulder in a blatant undertone of need. He's been anticipating this all evening the minute he locked eyes with her. She always flirts with him and they usually hook-up at some point in the night for a quick dirty fuck.
And tonight, for some reason, he's never wanted her so bad. He wants to be with her, hear her cheap outfit rip as it hits the floor, right before he fucks her against the wall; fast hard slams that will knock her heart into her back and give her a lock jaw for a week.
Judas knows it’ll be easy. He banks on it. But when he sweeps his gaze over her and feels nothing, waiting for his body to respond as it stalls on the edge, all that consumes him is coldness. The flare of desire he expects never ignites. He frowns at her, her eyes heavy with makeup, encouraging a reaction. He tosses the cap aside and orders another drink.
What in the fuck is wrong with me?
His words come out shorter than he intends, “Another beer.” His reply douses the simmering moment, cutting off her pursuit of his earlobe, her teeth grazing the shell.
“Baby, what's the matter with you?” she purrs, nipping his cheek and leaving a red stain from her ruby lips. “Someone cut your dick off?"
“The fuck?” he says, itching the side of his newly shaved face.
Her hand comes up on her hip. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?"
“Nothing,” he shrugs, placing the empty bottle on her tray. “Just thirsty."
The thick crowd of bikers and groupies part, and at last, the guy he's been waiting for arrives. His blonde eyebrows are knitted together and he has this look that tells Judas he isn’t exactly thrilled to be called here.
“Hey, man,” he calls to Judas, who’s ignoring the waitress throwing daggers at him.
Judas unzips his leather jacket, tossing a cold glare at Tina who’s having a hard time taking the hint. “You're late, Luis."
“Vladimir wouldn't let me go till I checked the warehouse guards had made the rounds. He's being extra paranoid lately for some fucking reason.” Luis darts a look between Judas and the sassy red-head. “Red Lion, babe."
“Baby—” she starts.
Sighing, Judas pretends not to hear her childish whine. “He said Red Lion. Still waiting for my beer."
She kisses her teeth as she digs for her pad. “Whatever.” She turns to Luis, using her charms on him instead. “If you get done early with him, c'mon over to the bar, cutie."
“Hell yeah,” Luis replies.
A whiff of perfume permeates the smoky atmosphere just as Tina leaves for the bar. Luis’s eyes trail her long legs, all the way up to her mini-skirt. Judas smacks the backside of Luis’s head.
“Put your dick back inside.” Judas leans in, his hand splaying on the wood of the table. “You get it?” he asks quietly.
Luis eyes the crowd around them, his hand pulling the papers out of his leather jacket. “Yeah, all here. The house in Falconlake is the best place. Tate’s sorted it all out."
“Good.” Judas nods. “Everything's set then?"
“Leave in three days."
Judas clears his throat and points his finger at Luis. “You know there's no turning back after this."
“I know, okay,” Luis replies, his answer quick and steady.
“No going back. Once we get a hold of them—”
“Judas, I get it. I wouldn't do this unless I thought it right. I'm there, one hundred percent. I owe you."
“Yeah, you do. So don’t forget it.” Judas stands and grabs his jacket. “7:00 AM. Have the SUV parked behind back."
“Got it."
Judas stands, patting him on the shoulder. “We're doing the right thing, Luis.”
Heading out of the roadhouse, the door swings and bangs shut behind Judas, and he leaves without looking back.
Yeah, they're doing the right thing, all right.
But why does the right thing feel so wrong?
BLANK. BARE. VOID. Her mind is like a tomb.
Belle stares into the empty space of her former room. Her brain can’t grasp on to any sort of reality. She’s leaving everything behind. Her gaze drifts to the rug, then up to the wallpaper she always wanted to change but never did. She can’t think of one good memory she has of her life here.
Except… dark, devilish eyes.
“Isabelle, come on!” her mother bellows from the stairs. Moisture wells in her eyes and the burning lump in her throat tightens her throat. “Isabelle! Did you hear me?"
“All right! I'm coming.”
She doesn’t look back as she closes the door and glances at the stairs that lead to the attic.
Some doors are better left unopened.
The torment of her reality is hell enough. The memories… Judas… It all needs to stay buried along with everything else.
She descends the stairs, her worn sneakers scuff across the rug, her stride in pace with her regrets.
“Standing there and day dreaming isn't considered help, Isabelle." Her mother aims her finger at the box near the foot of the stairs. “While you were upstairs lolly-gagging, your father and I have been working. What is the matter? Honestly, Isabelle, I don't have the patience. Not today.”
“Sorry,” is all Belle can mumble.
She grabs the box and leans the full weight of it i
nto the middle of her frame, waddling outside as she shifts the heaviness of the box. Belle may not know where she’s going, but it really doesn’t matter in the end. A place doesn’t change who you are.
She eyes the blue rental minivan like a death trap. “I don't see why we can't take our own car,” she says to her father, who continues to sort through the boxes.
He’s been acting strange this morning, giving her the cold shoulder like he’s upset with her. She doesn’t know why.
“A lot of people use rentals when they go on vacation."
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing. When my boss realizes we're not coming back, it will be a lot harder to track a rental under an alias name than the family car. This is safer."
“Right… safer,” she mumbles.
He leans on the box before standing to his full height and sighs. “What's the matter?"
The question triggers her frustration but she lets it simmer. “The fact that you can actually say that with a straight face scares me, Dad."
“I already apologized. I'm doing what's best for this family, Isabelle. You know I'm doing this for all of us—that is something I won't apologize for."
She feels like she's talking to a distant stranger than her father. She finally makes herself face him. “This isn't what's best and you know it. What's best is to stay here and live in our home. Toby should have a stable home and I should be going to Stan—”
“This is not helping!"
“Don't pretend you're doing what's best! We're running because we have to. Because we have no other options and the kicker is you haven't even told us why. Why, Dad? Why're we doing this? Tell me!"
“What are you two shouting about?" her mother asks, rushing down the staircase with a plant pot in her hand. "Stop it, the neighbors will hear."
Her father's cold gray eyes never leave Belle, the weight of his stare cracking the fragile atmosphere like it’s leaning on thin ice. “Your mother's right."
Belle ignores them both. “What's wrong with you?"
“I'm not sure what you mean, Belle."
Belle...?
Her father never calls her Belle.
She ventures closer, skating around the unknown elephant-in-the-room, not knowing how to get around it. “Dad, what's going on? You're acting weird." She tries again, confused, wanting answers to questions she’s in the dark about. “Did something else happen? You're acting different. Why?” Her voice is edging close to desperation.
Her mother sighs. “Isabelle, stop being hysterical." Neither of them seem to notice or take in the words of the woman standing in between them with a plant in her hand.
The small thread of control snaps inside Belle. Her father's gaze grows more and more unapproachable, like she's standing at one end of a dark tunnel and he’s at the other end. She’s reaching out, trying to hold on, and he is… It's like he isn’t even there.
“Answer me!”
Her father's readied silence breaks the awkward hold unfolding around them. “How could you?" There is no misinterpreting the venomous sting of his accusation.
Faltering, Belle glances between her mother and father, her eyes moving in slow motion. “Dad… What—”
“How could you be so naïve? How could you allow yourself and the rest of this family to be put in danger like that?” Belle is caught-off-guard, her chin wobbling as tears rise and fall over her eyelids.
“Dad, I don't know... I don't understand... Mom?” She chokes back the urge to scream, a pleading look dying at her mother's gaze.
“Don't look to your mother for help.” The look her father gives her in that moment will haunt her forever. “I know about the man you're seeing."
“The man I'm seeing…?” Her words fade between them.
Does he mean…?
Oh God…
“No, Dad, no, it's not what you think… I-I was just—”
Her brain, her throat, her lungs, are all too cramped to speak, to explain.
“Emmett Irving came to see me at work.”
Emmett…? No... he wouldn’t have… He wouldn’t dare tell Dad what happened between us... He wouldn't dare...
Her father fishes for something in the back of his pant’s pocket. When he finds it, his stare, if possible, grows darker. He whips it out, yanks Belle's hand toward him, and slaps it in her trembling palm.
“The man… the man you are seeing…" Belle looks down, blurry eyed. The images in the photograph take shape, color splashing across the photograph as her father's words ring out like an alarm, "He was sent here to kill me.”
Chapter FIfteen
THE TRUTH FORCES THE UGLINESS of reality down Belle’s throat like a captive at the mercy of his captor.
The picture lays flat in her palm, shaking like a leaf in the wind. Dread weighs down on her, chaining her heart to the ground, and she finds her words caught on her tongue.
There is an explanation. There is a misunderstanding somewhere between the lie of Judas being her lover, and being a killer. She just has to find it, and to do that, she has to be calm, rational.
Everything she is... or used to be before.
She licks her parched lips, coming back to the present moment, and realizes her parents are staring at her, hard and unforgiving.
“Isabelle… explain yourself," her mother implores.
She’s on trial, and the judge and jury have already convicted her. She pushes past her father, releasing herself from the small hovering circle they’ve formed around her.
“I know that man, yes… He… uh… he needed my help.” She hates how feeble she sounds. “I helped him. That's all. It's not what you think.” A half-suppressed laugh cuts through her nerves, though the last thing she feels is any sort of mirth.
Her father turns to her, still very much seeking, waiting. “How did you meet him, Isabelle?"
“I… well… I kinda stumble into him… He was hurt and I helped."
“Helped? How?”
“He told me not to tell.” She drags her hand through her hair, swallowing the panic that keeps dimming and flaring in her. “I know it looks bad. I know I did something behind your back and now—especially now—it seems like it can mean something, but Judas—”
The name blazes a black fire of hate in her father's eyes. It stops her cold.
“Judas?” he asks. “So it's Judas. Judas and you are lovers? Is that what you’re telling me? You have become lovers with your father's killer?”
She doesn’t recognize her own father in that moment.
“No he isn’t… Dad, I…” She jumps to free herself of words that are caging her, but nothing surfaces.
Judas isn’t a cold-blooded murderer. He isn’t...
A criminal, yes, but a murderer? Why hadn’t he killed her to get to her father then? Judas had plenty of opportunity to murder them all. But he didn’t.
“Did you bring that man here?” He doesn’t wait to ask again. “Did you?!"
“I found him here."
Her mother’s gasp pushes her father's rage over the edge. “Here?! In my home! Why, Isabelle, why didn’t you tell me? Goddammit!"
“It-it isn’t… it's not that simple. He was dying, bleeding from a shot. I found him in the attic and he needed help. He didn’t hurt me… he never meant to hurt… He told me this gang—"
“Dear God...” Her father crumples the picture in his hands before dropping it. “Carolyn, it’s him. He’s the one who broke into my office, I just know it."
“Broke into your office? Dad?” Belle moves closer, but her father's look pins her in place.
“There was a break in—the night you went to that party—it was a message. A message that Mr. Kulich is sending someone to me. To finish the job."
“Why would Mr. Kulich want to kill you?” Belle’s small voice pushes.
His eyes don’t leave Belle. “Sometimes your life becomes expendable in this line of work whether you’re on the right side or not. I was no longer useful to his organization and Judas
as you call him—"
“No...” Belle refuses to believe any of this, shaking her head. “No that can’t be—"
“Judas Bane,” he speaks over her in a hiss, stepping toward her, “is Vladimir Kulich's number one illegal cage fighter. But he’s also an enforcer. He's a hit man, Isabelle. For a Russian crime lord.” He crushes the photograph with his shoe. “He was sent here to kill me and probably the rest of this family, do you understand?”
Russian crime lord…? No I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of it.
Her mind races to play catch up, trying to connect the word ‘killer’ to the man who saved her. The man who… kissed her. But the more she tries, the more impossible and unreachable the desire becomes.
“I don't understand…” she murmurs, her voice falling apart, her whole being falling apart. “Why would he…? It doesn't make sense... None of it makes any… sense."
“It doesn't have to. It's the truth. Judas Bane played you, Isabelle. You got in the way and now he's probably on his way to finish the job—Shit! Carolyn. We have to get out of here." He looks firmly at them both. “Where’s Toby?” he asks her mother.
“He’s…”
“Carolyn!”
“He’s... he’s still sleeping in his room, Spencer.”
“We're leaving. NOW."
Belle has never seen such a look pass her mother's face before. It’s a nightmare coming to life, and she’s the one to put it there.
“I'm sorry.” Belle moves forward. “I'm so sorry… He lied… I thought… Please, Dad.” She goes to reach out for his arm, but he yanks it away.
“We need to go. We don't have time for this."
But Belle doesn’t hear him. All she hears is her own naivety taunting her. She pictures the hundreds of times she could have warned her parents, the hundreds of times she should have known something was off...
‘You have no idea who I am and the things I’m in to. There’s evil that has never touched you, Belle, and it flows in every vein of my body…’
So this is what you meant…
This all lays on Belle’s shoulders. It’s a burden that’s going to break her.
She’d been used.
Again.