by Cora Brent
Taylor would have been finished with work nearly an hour ago. I removed my phone from my back pocket and realized I must have accidentally switched the ringer off after my call with Deck. I wasn’t a fan of of feeling an object pulsating next to my ass so I never kept it on vibrate. That was why it took me so long to learn that within the last twenty minutes Taylor had tried to call me three times.
The general sense of unease I was carrying around with me these days skyrocketed.
“Shit,” I swore.
Deck frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t know yet.”
But something was wrong. I knew that instinctively even as I waited for the call to connect. Taylor picked up immediately. She was distraught, trying to speak through broken sobs.
I was vaguely aware that Aunt Jenny had popped her head outside and asked if I wanted to stay for dinner.
I also knew the light was fading as the sun went down and that Uncle Deck intently watched me.
But everything else in the world became secondary to the horror that was being communicated in my ear.
I tried to swallow and couldn’t.
“How bad is he?” I heard myself ask.
I was going to kill someone.
I was going to scream.
I was going to put my fist through the nearest wall.
Deck was now alarmed. “Kellan. Give me your phone please.”
In a dream state I handed it over because Uncle Deck would know what to do. Uncle Deck could fix this somehow.
Blood roared between my ears. My heart seized with terror and my fists clenched with the need to inflict violence on whoever had hurt the people I loved.
Through my haze I heard Deck’s voice speaking into my phone.
“Taylor, listen to me. Do not speak to the police yet. You know nothing. You saw nothing. Keep quiet until we show up.”
Aunt Jenny’s hand squeezed my shoulder. Her husband, looking more grim than I’d ever seen him, rose from his chair and quietly asked her to please call my parents and inform them that they needed to meet us at St. Luke’s Hospital immediately.
Deck beckoned. “Come on, Kel. I’ll drive.”
I followed Deck into the house but I didn’t have the patience to wait for him to collect his shoes and his keys. I sprinted out the front door and peeled out of the driveway an instant later, paying no mind when he shouted my name. I flew through the streets with only one word playing over and over and over in my mind.
Thomas. Thomas. Thomas.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Taylor
You know those rare moments in life when a sense of foreboding, a premonition of sorts, catches up to you out of nowhere?
Later on, long after I opened the door to the apartment and stepped into hell, I would wonder what happened to that instinct for danger when I needed it.
At first I only saw Thomas. He was sitting rather primly in a kitchen chair that had been moved to the living room. He was facing the door, as if he’d parked himself there to wait for me.
My arms were full of food and my keys were stuck in the door as I nudged it open with my foot.
“Could use some help, buddy,” I called, wondering why he was perched there like a mannequin.
Thomas leapt to his feet. “Taylor, run!” he shouted but I had no time to think about the command or anything else because a strong hand closed around my forearm and yanked hard.
I stumbled, dropping bags and sodas all over the floor while the door slammed shut at my back.
“Now don’t you dare scream,” warned a voice that didn’t sound angry, only bemused. “Or you’ll be wearing your boyfriend’s brains all over your pretty face.”
Paul Crestwood stepped out from behind the door where he’d been waiting. He held a gun in his hand. A gun that stayed pointed at Thomas’s head while he casually strolled to the other side of the room. He stopped a few feet to the right of Thomas and grinned at me as if we were old friends.
“How nice of you to finally come home,” said another voice. This one I instantly recognized. And hated.
I turned and faced Peter Crestwood, a.k.a. Petri Dish. He smiled at me as he dangled a phone in the air between his thumb and forefinger. The bright red case was familiar. It was Thomas’s phone.
Peter was enjoying my speechless shock. His smile widened as I struggled to comprehend the scene.
He shook the phone at me. “I figured you’d come running back here like a bitch in heat the second loverboy over there promised you’d get fucked.”
I swallowed and found my voice. “You sent that text.”
He was obviously proud of himself. “Sure I did. I know exactly what a little slut like you likes to hear.”
My heart thudded in my chest. The air smelled like tacos, which seemed like a strange enhancement to a life or death situation. I took a step back and my foot kicked a bag of fallen food. The door was within reach if I dared to make a run for it. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t go anywhere while Thomas was being held at gunpoint.
“Yoo hoo, Taylor,” called Paul Crestwood, presumably to remind me that he was still in the room. He waved at me with the hand that did not have a gun trained on my boyfriend’s brother. “It would be the height of rudeness for you to leave this party before dessert is served. After all, you are the guest of honor.”
My eyes met Thomas’s. He raised an eyebrow. He was silently asking what he should do, if he ought to lash out and overpower Paul in the hopes of seizing the gun before Paul fired it.
I responded with a single shake of the head. The barrel was trained directly on Thomas at the moment and I didn’t know if Paul was unhinged enough to pull the trigger. I refused to take that gamble with Thomas’s life.
Paul rocked on his heels and flipped the gun around his trigger finger. He was having fun, performing a carnival trick. If you passed him on the street you’d never guess that he was dangerous. He dressed in thousand dollar suits, was average height and slight built. He resembled a benign car salesman with a prematurely receding hairline. I’d never known anyone more terrifying.
My mind raced in twenty different directions.
I needed to focus.
They must have been here waiting when Thomas arrived home. He didn’t appear hurt, at least not yet. The Crestwoods were under the impression that my boyfriend was Thomas, not Kellan. After all, Thomas was the one who’d appeared when Peter confronted me outside the apartment. And it was Thomas who showed up at Closet Exchange the day Sierra hunted me down at work.
Willing myself to remain calm, I tried to think.
Thomas was big and he was strong. If could distract the Crestwoods and get Paul to point the gun somewhere other than at Thomas’s head, then Thomas might have an opportunity to take him down. As for Peter, I’d seen no evidence that he was armed. If a fight came down to pure muscle I’d put all my money on Thomas against the Crestwood brothers.
I did not know what they planned to accomplish here but I had a feeling any prospect from their demented minds would not be to my liking. I needed to buy some time.
“So where’s Sierra?” I asked my brother-in-law. “Is she hiding in the bathroom?”
My sister hated me. I knew that. Did she hate me enough to send the Crestwoods after me? She’d threatened to do just that before.
But at the mention of my sister I saw the first crack in Peter Crestwood. His smile faltered and he glowered.
“She’s not here.”
“Oh, she’s not here, huh? And does she know that you’re here?”
He didn’t flinch exactly but he shifted with discomfort. “My wife understands what has to be done.”
“Really? Do you think she would have understood if she knew how you used to wave your dick at me any chance you got?”
His face reddened. “You lying bitch.”
“I was a teenager, Peter. A kid. You sick fuck.”
He slapped me. Much like the strike from Haley the purse thief, I didn’t see it coming. My c
heek stung but the blow had been comparatively weak.
“Motherfucker!” Thomas yelled and tried to come to my defense. But Paul aimed the gun squarely between his eyes.
“Don’t,” he warned.
Peter was breathing hard. Apparently one smack had drained a significant portion of his energy and bravado. He looked like a man who needed to sit down and hyperventilate for a while.
I held a hand to my throbbing cheek and spoke in a low, even voice. “What are you going to do if I can’t give you what you want, Peter? Are you planning to kill me?”
He was startled to hear the words spoken out loud. But he recovered and glared. “Haven’t you had enough of jerking everyone around, Taylor?”
I took my hand away from my cheek and screamed. “I DON’T HAVE THE MONEY!”
Peter rolled his eyes. “You’re such a shitty actress.” His jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. “Daddy’s little princess. The last thing he ever did was for you. The last person he ever saw was you. The last thing he ever wrote was about you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “The cops never found your father’s date planner, did they?”
I knew what he meant. Despite all the advances in modern technology my father retained some of his old school habits. On the first day of every year he would begin a new black leather-bound custom date planner where he would hand write his appointments and his schedule. Thirty years worth of planners were all lined up neatly on a shelf in his study. The only one missing was the last. Assumed to contain evidence against him, my father had likely destroyed it. Or so everyone thought.
But I didn’t see what that had to do with me.
“So now you’ve decided that I’m also hiding my father’s date book? Perhaps it’s located in the deep, imaginary hole where I’ve hidden the money. I don’t have the goddamn thing.”
Peter issued a raspy, unconvincing laugh. “I know you don’t.”
I was missing something here. An integral piece that no one had bothered to explain yet.
The other Crestwood brother yawned. “This is getting boring.” Paul smacked Thomas on the side of the head with his gun. “Aren’t you bored, boyfriend?”
“Paul, he is not my boyfriend. Thomas has nothing to do with this. Just let him go, okay? I’m the one you’re after.”
Paul pretended to wipe a tear away. “That’s very touching, Taylor. Did you steal that dialogue from a movie?”
The gun hadn’t budged. Paul had done this before. He was far too comfortable pointing a gun at people for it to be his first time. I increasingly doubted that there would be a chance for Thomas to get the upper hand. I needed to get him out of here, out of harm’s way.
“I’ll go with you,” I offered. “You can point the gun at my back and lead me right out of here and I won’t make a sound. Thomas won’t call the police. Tie him up if you have to.”
“No,” Thomas growled, shaking his head. “No, they’re not fucking taking you anywhere as long as I’m breathing.”
“Aw, so sweet,” Paul clucked. “They’re just too precious, don’t you think so, Pete?”
“Adorable,” Peter agreed.
“I have an idea,” Paul declared with a snap of his fingers. “How about we spit roast the little princess and force the boyfriend to watch?”
Peter tittered but now even he was starting to look nervous.
“Fuck you!” I yelled.
Thomas was horrified. “No, please. Don’t hurt her. I’m begging you.”
“No, please. Don’t hurt her,” Paul mocked, cackling. “You’re pathetic. No wonder why she chose you.”
“Thomas, tell them the truth! You are not my boyfriend.”
Thomas Gentry looked at me and I saw an expression I’d never seen from him before. Pure stubbornness. No, he wouldn’t correct them. He wouldn’t say a thing that might send them looking for Kellan. Because Thomas would never ever risk sacrificing his brother. Not even to save himself. He would allow them to tear him apart piece by piece before he would utter Kellan’s name. And they might. They just might.
“It’ll be okay, honey,” he said to me in a tone that was designed to make anyone listening believe that he was comforting his girl. “I promise.”
Perhaps he even believed that. Thomas Gentry was the most perpetually optimistic person I’d ever met. A tear squeezed its way out of my eye and down my cheek. It was all my fault he was being held hostage by a pair of mad men. I would do whatever it took to get him out of this.
“Pete, do me a favor. Come over here and hold the gun, please.” Paul’s request sounded as mild as if he were asking his brother to hold his beer.
Peter hesitated. He glanced at me and then at Thomas. Whatever he’d been hoping to achieve today, the situation was now out of his control.
Paul passed the gun to his brother and admonished, “Now, you have to keep in mind that it’s fully loaded. All you would need to do is aim and pull the trigger if anyone moves when they aren’t supposed to move. Can you do that, little brother?”
Peter wasn’t sure. His hand trembled slightly when he accepted the gun. He had to hold it with both hands to keep it steady.
Paul held up his hands as if he were framing a picture. “Taylor, I want you stay right where you are. But you,” he nodded at Thomas. “I’m going to need you to move the chair back to the kitchen and sit down at the table like a good boy.”
Thomas looked my way. He was more frightened for me than he was for himself. And so he would cooperate.
Paul noticed and smiled. “Don’t you worry about the little woman. If you behave then I just might leave her in one piece for today.”
I held my breath as Thomas slowly picked up the chair and moved it over to the table. Paul motioned for him to take a seat and he did so reluctantly, keeping his eyes on me.
“May I borrow this?” Paul asked, selecting one among a group of Thomas’s baseball bats that had been piled in a far corner.
My heart stilled with terror as Paul took a casual practice swing of the bat. I wasn’t religious. I’d never prayed before. But I sent up a silent plea to any higher power that might be listening to please please put a stop to whatever was going to happen next.
“Place your hand flat on the table,” Paul ordered.
I understood now. I knew what he intended to do. “No,” I whimpered.
Paul became angry when Thomas hesitated.
“Do it or I swear I will fuck your girlfriend right in front of you with the barrel of my goddamn gun.”
Thomas slowly laid his hand on the table.
“Your right hand, asshole.”
“Peter,” I whispered to the man who held the gun. “Make him stop. Please.”
Peter was sweating. He still held the gun but he’d lowered it a few inches.
Then, with no further preamble, Paul swung the bat over his head and slammed it down on Thomas’s hand.
His right hand. His pitching hand.
The pitiful cry that came from Thomas wasn’t a scream but it was a thousand times more heartbreaking.
“JESUS!” shouted Peter. “Paul, what the fuck?”
Primitive rage took over and I flew at Paul Crestwood, intending to hurt him, to kill him if necessary. If Peter decided to shoot me in the back then so be it.
Peter did not shoot me. But Paul saw me coming and with almost no effort backhanded me so hard I reeled away, fell over the couch and landed on the floor on my ass.
This turn of events was too much for the delicate Peter Crestwood. The gun slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor. Paul didn’t notice. He was busy. I looked up in time to see him take swing at Thomas’s leg, aiming for his knee.
Then Thomas screamed. Really screamed. My heart shattered but there was no time to cry. I needed to get that gun. I needed to get it or they wouldn’t stop. I needed to get it or die trying.
My hand closed around the gun and in the same second Peter realized what I was up to.
“Bitch,” he complained as a hairy arm reached out to compete for the weapon.
So I did what I had to do. I bit him. Blood filled my mouth as my teeth sank into his forearm and the sound of his howl made me smile.
With the gun now in my hand and Peter screeching for his brother’s help, I rolled away before Paul could come for me with his bat. He tried. He’d closed the distance between us with remarkable speed but then slipped on a puddle of soda and fell backwards, colliding with his brother. The two of them went down like a slapstick comedy routine but I was now upright and steadily pointing the gun in their direction.
“Get out,” I whispered. Thomas moaned in the background. The sound was torture but I couldn’t help him until I dealt with the Crestwoods.
Paul was the first to recover and get to his feet. He’d dropped his bat and he looked truly shocked by the way the balance of power had shifted in the last ten seconds.
“Well,” he said, taking in the sight of me with blood on my mouth and the gun clutched in both hands to keep it steady. “This is a surprise.”
“Get out or I will fucking shoot you.”
He laughed. He didn’t believe me.
Peter had scuttled backwards over to the door. A thin trail of blood traveled down his arm and threatened the purity of his white Armani shirt.
“Paul,” he sniveled. “Let’s go. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Paul ignored his brother. He sighed as if we were all nothing but a collective nuisance and bent over to retrieve the bat that he’d used to crush Thomas’s hand and knee.
I pulled the trigger.
I’d never fired a gun before. I flinched at the kick and the bat handle splintered.
Paul froze, his expression changing as he abandoned the bat and straightened up, looking at me squarely. If I needed to kill him then I would kill him.
“GET OUT!” I screamed.
Peter already had the door open. He dove through it and ran.
Paul stared at me for a few more seconds and then shrugged. “This has been a fun visit,” he said. “But it seems I’ve overstayed my welcome.”
He paused at the door and this time addressed only Thomas. “By the way, if I see so much as the shadow of a cop car, then I’ll be back for your girl. This time it won’t be about the money. This will be just for fun. And when I’m finished with her, she won’t be quite as pretty anymore. Do we understand each other?”