Up in Smoke

by T. M. Frazier

  aftermath. The chaos. The gore. The blood. The death.

  He chuckles and kisses the top of my head. “Of course, you’re tired. Look at all you’ve done.”

  * * *

  I wakeup from one nightmare only to be thrust back into another.

  Smoke is standing in the doorway. His hair is wet from a recent shower and combed back. He’s not wearing a shirt just his leather biker cut and jeans. His feet are bare.

  “Get dressed. Something in there should fit you,” Smoke says, pointing to the large black storage container at the foot of the bed. “There’s food in the kitchen. Come out when you’re done. The windows are all bolted shut and the back door is bolted and only I have the key so don’t waste your fucking time. If you aren’t out in five minutes, I’m gonna come back and dress you myself.”

  All the gentleness from the night before is gone.

  My stomach growls with emptiness and twists with disappointment.

  Smoke disappears from the doorway. There’s an open first aid kit on the side table. I raise my arm which is less sore than it was the day before. Band-Aids and butterfly stitches over my various cuts. Orange circular stains peek out from underneath the dressings and I spot an open bottle of iodine in the kit.

  I slide to the edge of the bed and wince from the pain and soreness although today it’s bearable.

  I dig through the large plastic container which is filled with women’s clothes and shoes of various sizes. Some items still have the sales tags attached. I find a simple and soft pair of light colored jeans and a white fitted tank top. For shoes, I find a pair of Converse that’s a half size too big but will work. At the bottom is a zip lock bag with various combs and brushes. I brush out my hair and dig through for a hair tie, pulling my hair on the top of my head in a messy bun. I also find something else that interests me in another small bag tucked into the side of the bin. Not knowing if I’ll need it, I tuck it away under the mattress in case I don’t have access to the bin again.

  I go into the bathroom, and what I see reflected in the mirror doesn’t surprise me. My bruises and scrapes still ache but the swelling has gone down and they aren’t so purple or angry anymore. I find a new toothbrush in a small travel kit in the bathroom and help myself to it. I savor the feeling of brushing my teeth until my gums bleed.

  Remembering that I’m on a time crunch I make my way through a small hallway where there’s one other door partially open. I peek in hoping to find a computer but I’m not that lucky and Smoke’s not that dumb. It’s another small bedroom, or at least I think it is, it’s so filled with black storage containers with yellow lids from top to bottom it’s hard to tell.

  What the hell is in them? More clothes? For who? Why?

  The main living area is almost as small as the bedroom. The entire house can’t be more than six hundred square feet total. A single loveseat sits against the wall with a brick fireplace lining the wall. It doesn’t look like it’s ever been used but then again, it’s a fireplace in South Florida, why would it ever be used? A little square two-person table is tucked into the corner of the open galley style kitchen. Everything out here is just like it is in the bathroom. Clean, but old. The sofa is a faded brown color and has a tear on the top of one of the cushions, exposing the stuffing. The dining room table has duct tape around one of the legs. The chairs are mismatched as well as the cushions tied to the seats.

  On the table, there’s a glass casserole dish steaming with something that looks like biscuits floating on the top. It smells like salt and gravy. My eyes roll back in my head.

  My mouth waters, and my stomach growls.

  “Eat,” Smoke says, pointing to one of the chairs.

  I don’t like taking orders, especially from him, but this is one order I can’t turn down. I don’t care if it’s fucking poison. I’ll go out with a full stomach, and right now a full stomach is all I can think about.

  How long has it been since I’ve eaten?

  I try to remember, but as Smoke ladles out a heaping scoop of biscuits with sausage and white gravy onto a plate in front of me I realize it’s been at least a day. Maybe two. Smoke drops a spoon next to my plate. “You’re not getting a fucking fork.”

  I inwardly smirk. Oddly enough his comment makes me proud. I straighten a little more.

  Smoke isn’t underestimating me or what I’m capable of. He knows I’ll use anything to my advantage, and he’s right. Him knowing this will make escaping harder, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.

  After breakfast.

  Smoke nods to me, and I waste no more time shoveling the food into my mouth. The biscuits are hot and fluffy and the sausage gravy is salty and savory. My tongue rejoices, and when I discover the bottom of the pan is coated in sliced potatoes I practically jump out of my chair with joy.

  Smoke’s standing in the kitchen watching me with those dark dangerous eyes.

  The hair on my arms stand on end. Dr. Ida’s rules run through my head.

  Escape. Befriend. Seduce.

  “Did you make this?” I ask, with my mouth ful.

  “No,” Smoke answers gruffly.

  “Then, who made it?” I’m chewing and swallowing at record speed. “It’s really good.”

  “Someone.”

  How articulate.I’m reaching for more food from the dish when I feel his eyes on me. I look up.

  “Listen, when you…” he starts, but he quickly shuts his mouth and pulls out his phone, tapping something out.

  “What?” I ask, curiously.

  “Never mind,” he mutters, shutting me down.

  Friendship, even a fake one meant to secure survival, is going to be impossible with someone who won’t talk to me, but I’ll keep trying. Stopping means I’ve given up and I’ve learned my lesson. I’m not going to give up. I have more than myself to think about, and I’ll use the thought of them to keep me going.

  I down the entire glass of water sitting next to my plate and put down my spoon when my stomach feels like it’s about to burst.

  “Thank you for this,” I say, raising my bandaged arm and giving him a small, fake smile. It’s all I can muster. Thanking the man who kidnapped me doesn’t exactly come easy or naturally.

  Smoke nods but doesn’t speak.

  “Can I ask you why?”

  “Why what?” he crosses the kitchen to stand over me at the table.

  From this position, his size is even more intimidating. I almost lose my nerve, but swallow hard and find the courage to continue from deep within.

  I crane my neck to meet his eyes. “Why did you take care of my cuts and bruises? Why are you feeding me or bothering if I’m to be tortured and killed in seven days anyway?”

  “Six,” Smoke corrects.

  My stomach sinks. My eyes fall to my empty plate. My chin to my chest. “Six,” I whisper to myself.

  “Tell me where your old man is, and it won’t come to that.”

  “I can’t do that,” I say.

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Both.”

  Smoke lifts me by the elbow and takes me back into the room where he cuffs me to the bed again. I don’t think he’s going to answer my question of why he’s doing all this when he turns to leave, but as he disappears down the hallway I swear I hear him say just loud enough for me to hear, “Because, you’ll need your strength, hellion.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Crickets chirp.Frogs croak. A wolf howls in the distance. The old warden’s house creaks and groans with every shift of the breeze like a crotchety old man complaining about the weather.

  I could torture her for the information about the whereabouts of her old man like I promised, but I’m good at reading people. She’s telling the truth. Not the entire truth, but at least about the part where she hasn’t spoken to him in years. Torture is fucking pointless unless there’s something to be revealed and torture on an innocent isn’t nearly as fun as it sounds.

  And not as fucking fun as spilling the blood of her
old man will be.

  I press play on the boom box on the floor and sink down onto the couch. Creed’s “Arms Wide Open” fills the empty space in the room, but not in my cold black heart.

  That one can’t ever be filled.

  It’s officially been one year since that night, and I feel like drowning my fucking sorrows. Funny, until that night, I didn’t think I was capable of sorrow.

  I sit silently in the dark only able to see slightly past the cherry end of my cigarette. I’m alone except for a half-empty bottle of Jack and my own fucking thoughts.

  This morning, I almost told Frankie the real reason I need to get to her father.

  Instead, I bit my tongue and locked her in the room for the rest of the day to avoid talking to her for fear of letting it slip again. She don’t need to know all the reasons why. She’s bait. Bait don’t need to know shit.

  I set down the bottle and pull out the picture I keep tucked into the inner pocket of my cut. It’s dark, but I don’t need to see the picture. I know what’s on it. I just want to feel it between my fingers. I’ve memorized every curve and line and detail of the ultrasound. Some people claim they’re hard to make out, but not this one. Not for me. I see every curve of skull, the outline of a little heart in the center. Tiny lips sucking an even tinier thumb. At least, that’s what Morgan told me the baby was doing, although to me it looks as if it’s giving the finger. I chuckle, but it’s short-lived. I reach for the bottle, tilting it high and downing several swallows before setting it back down.

  It’s said that you don’t know who you really are or what you’re capable until you’re connected to another human being. This baby, who never had the chance to be born, is that connection for me.

  I know who I really am now. What I’m really capable of.

  And what I’m capable of is the stuff of nightmares.

  I’ll do those things, and I’ll do them gladly because I’m close. So fucking close to setting things right. Or, as right as I can set them if Griff gets a hit from Frank on the picture of his daughter we’ve sent out into the world.

  I pull out a new burner phone and dial Rage’s number. It’s a knee-jerk reaction. A habit I thought I’d broken myself of that whiskey has apparently made me forget.

  I tuck the phone back into my pocket before I can press send. It’s too late. Too fucking late to rebuild a bridge that’s better off burned. I’d broken my own number one rule. No loyalties. And look where it’s gotten me.

  Making that call would be like trying to revive a chicken after its head’s been chopped off and all its feathers plucked.

  I was Rage’s mentor. She was sixteen years old when I first saw her kill a man. The emptiness in her eyes changed to sheer fucking pleasure in that moment. I wanted to help her harness her skills and reign in the shit that would’ve resulted in her either in the ground or on death fucking row. I wanted to teach her because there was no one there to teach me and figuring that shit out on your own is like climbing uphill while the fucking hill is turning into a mountain.

  Rage proved she had feelings, even though they aren’t like the rest of society’s, when she fell in love with a biker named Nolan. Good kid. The problem is I helped her rescue him from some shit one night and that shit went to complete shit. Nolan was saved.

  Can’t say the same thing about my relationship with Rage.

  I look to the closed door of the back bedroom where Frankie is asleep and cuffed to the bed.

  I sigh and clutch the ultrasound to my bare chest. I drain the bottle of whiskey. I comfort myself with thoughts of revenge. Of bloodshed.

  That’s why I’m here.

  That’s what this is all about.

  It’s why Frankie Helburn will die.

  Chapter Twenty

  It’s wellafter midnight when the door squeaks open and Smoke comes in. The smell of whiskey and cigar smoke reach me well before he does, bumping his shin into the bed.

  “Fucking bed,” he whispers.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I hate to see what he’s capable of in this state, but I know I don’t want to find out, so I pretend to be asleep.

  Smoke sits down on the end of the mattress and wrestles with his boots, dropping them to the ground one after the other.

  I don’t hear him move again, so I wait, counting silently to twenty in my head. Still nothing.

  I risk opening my eyes, and when I do, I blink through the darkness until my eyes adjust. He’s still there, sitting at the edge of the bed. He’s hunched forward, his wide back bathed in moon light. His elbows are propped up on his knees, face in his hands, fingers tangled in, and pulling at his hair.

  For the first time since I’ve been held against my will, the monster looks a lot less…like a monster. Gone is the cocky smirk and even cockier words. He looks like a man right now, a very troubled one.

  Smoke sighs, then rounds the bed, pulling off his shirt. I close my eyes as he slides under the blanket.

  He leans over me, and I freeze in fear. I feel his breath on my cheek. He unlocks the cuff tethering me to the bed. I exhale without making it noticeable which is a feat. He doesn’t take the cuff off completely though, this time he wraps his arms around my waist and attaches the side he’s removed from the bed to his own wrist, adding to the handcuffs already adorning his wrists that I’ve yet to see him without.

  He pulls me against his chest the same way he did the night before, and within moments, he’s asleep, lightly snoring in my ear, his warm chest rising and falling evenly against my back.

  “Are you awake?” I ask into the dark.

  Smoke doesn’t so much as stir.

  I pretend to be trying to roll over and elbow him in the ribs.

  Nothing.

  I exhale.

  “I need to talk to someone and since you’re the only person around, I figure it might as well be you, and since you’re passed out and probably drunk, I don’t think you’ll mind too much.”

  I sigh, then laugh to myself. This is all so ridiculous. Talking to the man who kidnapped me because I feel like a chat.

  “I remember seeing you, before you came to the school,” I say. “You were across the street at the gas station. I felt you before I saw you. I was aware of your existence before I even knew you existed. I know that sounds stupid, but it’s true. I felt you there, and when I saw you, I thought…this sounds even more stupid, especially considering all that’s happened, but I thought you were the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. I’ve never thought that of anyone else before. One face blends into another for me, one no prettier or more handsome than the next for the most part, but you. You stood out.”

  I look over my shoulder to make sure he’s still asleep. His long lashes lay against his tanned cheeks. His brows are furrowed, even in sleep.

  “I guess that shows what a great judge of character I am. Someone so beautiful can do such ugly things. Write that down. You can use it as the title of your autobiography one day.”

  My eyelids grow heavy. I close them and adjust my head on the pillow. Smoke’s warm breath floats across the back of my head.

  “Now you’re going to either kill me, or turn me over to someone else who’s going to kill me,” I say, followed by a yawn.

  Smoke suddenly shifts, his arms tighten around me like I’m about to escape. I jump in his grasp and turn my head only to find him still sound asleep.

  I rest my head back on the pillow. I lower my voice to a whisper as sleep takes me under.