Prescott

Some hours later, the door whines and my head flies up. I’m sitting in the corner of the room, my knees drawn and my chin resting upon them. My fingernails are bent and broken, a bitter reminder of my futile attempt to break free. Shrinking into myself, breathing as quietly as possible, I wait.

I think I hear Beat’s footsteps. They’re slower in pace, wider in stride. He’s very tall. Very calm, too. Peaceful. My lungs wheeze and I loll my head back. It’d take me weeks to get all the dried blood cleaned up.

“Food.” He kicks the sole of my boot. So it is him. Somehow, it makes me feel a little less scared. He didn’t want me here, and didn’t slap me across the face. Unfortunately, in my world, this qualifies him as some sort of a black knight.

I hear the clank of a plastic plate being thrown in my direction on the floor, but don’t make a move for it.

“You deaf?” he asks.

“You stupid?” I smart off. “I’m blindfolded and tied. How the hell am I supposed to get to this food? The power of telepathy?”

He offers me another grunt, and I immediately regret snapping at him. I feel his fingers working the black cloth that’s tying my hands together, that peachy breath on my face again.

Once I’m free, he bends down, his warmth engulfing me, and places the plate in my hands.

“What’s for dinner?” I lick my injured lips.

“Whiskey-glazed steak with a side of wine-tossed asparagus.” He lets out a sniffle before adding flatly, “Wait, my bad. It’s just a peanut butter sandwich.”

“That’s better. I’m vegetarian.”

“I’ll let our chef know.” He offers me his own brand of sarcasm, his voice already descending. I realize that he’s about to climb back up. I can’t let that happen. Who knows when he’ll check on me again? The prospect of holding my pee a minute longer is nothing short of tormenting.

“Wait!” I launch forward, crawling on the floor toward his voice. I don’t hear anything, so I continue.

“I really need to take a shower, wash off all this blood. And I really, really need to pee.” I shuffle my way back to the corner, taking a small bite off my sandwich, my teeth brushing against my fingers. “Please?”

I feel his palm pressing flat against the wall I’m leaning on. I swear it moves a little from the impact.

“Finish your sandwich. Make it quick.”

I wolf down my dinner before he grabs my hand and leads me up the stairs. He stalks closely behind, and even though it’s taking me forever to climb up the narrow staircase, he keeps his grunt-count to a respectable minimum.

Leading me to the bathroom by the arm, he throws the door open and we both walk into the tiny room. Still blindfolded, I feel the cold sink stabbing at my lower back, but the warmth of his proximity keeps me from shivering.

“I need my privacy.” I lick my lips, feeling him everywhere. Not only is Beat physically big, he is also somewhat of a human furnace. I swear he radiates enough heat to photosynthesize a whole forest. I guess it’s good, because I always know when he’s around. But also bad, because why would it matter? It’s not like I can fight him in any way.

“Dream on, Country Club.” Another grunt.

“Please.” My voice breaks. Usually, I’m counting on my caramel blonde hair and big Disney-animal eyes—which he unfortunately can’t see right now—to get me out of trouble. I have a feeling this guy is harder to crack. “Just lock me in and stand guard outside. What can I do? Arm myself with a bar of soap? Try and break free through the sink’s hole?”

Is he going to buy it?

Is he sensitive?

Is he hard-nosed?

Maybe he’s both. He’s got some serious codes going on—no beating women, no manhandling your victim—yet he essentially agreed to lock me in here. Then there’s his tone and body language. Peaceful. Like he hasn’t got a care in the world, which couldn’t be further from the truth. I’ve known him for a few short hours and I’m already privy to the fact that he was an inmate in San Dimas, has killed, owes Godfrey a favor and has the Aryan Brotherhood on his tail.

“Be warned,”—his peachy breath tickles my nose—“when people are bad to me, I’m worse. Don’t tempt my demons.”

Beat takes off my blindfold, but he’s not thoughtless enough to show me his face. His black tee is pulled over his head, revealing a tattooed six-pack. Even his fingertips are full of blues and blacks. Yet, one side of his body is completely ink-free. Massive, menacing. . .and as much as I hate to admit it, attractive.

Sweet Statute of Liberty, if I need to screw one of them in the name of freedom, please let it be him and not the chunky tattooist.

Beat can still see me through the fabric of his shirt, but before I get the chance to make out his face, he dashes out of the bathroom and locks the door from the outside with a key.

“You’ve got fifteen minutes to do everything. Pee, shit, shower, get dressed. Starting now.”

I don’t argue or waste a second. I jump into the shower and pee as the stream of gurgling water splashes over my body. My bladder is burning with release, and so are the blistering fresh wounds Seb decorated me with. Slowly, I’m starting to feel a little better, think a little clearer.

The water is hot and violent against my strained muscles. There’s only one bar of soap—I’m pretty sure Beat and Ink are sharing it (I’m guessing they’re roomies by the two worn-out towels on the rack). Not very sanitary, but hygiene is a luxury I cannot afford right now.

I scrub my body and keep the water running as I try to pry open the overhead rust-stained window next to the showerhead. I stand on my toes, peeking outside, blinking away disbelief as the sight in front of me registers. A teenager with a beanie zig-zags his way on a bike in the middle of the road, the electric wires above his head tangled with shoelaces and sneakers. Beyond the sight of shotgun houses, wilting porches and the echoes of desperate, barking dogs is a Taco Bell.

Taco Bell!

I recognize the branch. I’m in Stockton. Whose streets I know, whose crack heads I studied, whose language of hardship and adversity I speak fluently.

I study my surroundings. The house I’m trapped in is a simple one-story, and the house right in front of it is probably an identical bungalow. It looks deserted, so yelling will get me nowhere other than on Beat and Ink’s shit list.

But I’m guessing by the sound of traffic and the location of the fast food restaurant that we’re close to El Dorado, one of Stockton’s main streets.

Knowing where I am will work in my favor when I run away.

And I will run away. One way or the other. With or without Beat’s help.

I always land on my feet.

I broke free from Camden, Godfrey and Sebastian. Getting rid of these two should be a walk in the park.

Beat’s fist slams against the door three times, then he unlocks the door from the outside.

“Yo, Silver Spoon. Your time’s up.”

“Just one second,” I call, turning off the faucet and stepping outside. I reach for one of the manly dark towels and cover myself up as I squat down to pick up my gray dress.

Hold on a minute.

Manly. . .Dark. . .Towels.

They might have a shaving razor. Holy hell, they might have a weapon in here.

I start flinging drawers open, still wrapped in a towel, desperately trying to find something to injure Beat with. I don’t even care if he hears. Give me a razor and I will dice this 6’5 Goliath to pieces the size of Barbacoa. Talent can be outworked and rage can outweigh size. That’s the motto I live by.

Beat bangs on the door again, and it wails on its hinges.

“Hey. . .you,” he grunts. He doesn’t even know my name. “If you make me open this door myself, you’ll be fucking sorry.”

I ignore him. He can’t rape or harm me. Godfrey made that clear. Honestly? I’m not even that scared of him. He’s been nothing but compassionate to me so far, in his own, angry, Stockton way. Damn it, though. They have absolutely nothing in these drawers. Empty, empty, empty. What’s wrong with these men? Do they not live here, or did they think about this scenario beforehand? Probably the latter. I’m just about to turn around and pick up my dress when the door swings open and Guy Fawkes’s face greets me again, bat-shit crazy galore. The drawers are all open. I threw most of their contents on the floor in my desperate search for a weapon.

This is not looking good for me.

I stumble back, but he shoots his arm out, yanking me by the towel flush against his body. I bump into his hard abs, my eyes zeroing in on the curves of his pecs.

Okay, I take it back. A little scared now.

“You wanna play like that?” he grits out, his voice hoarse. I gulp as I scan his eyes for the very first time. Honey brown, almost greenish. . .and full. So full. Full of things I shouldn’t see. Of soul. Of pain. Of a story behind a man I mustn’t personify.

Breaking eye contact, I pick up my dress from the floor. So what? Hot killer guy has a soul. Big fucking deal.

Big. Broken. Maybe even a little good, underneath all those calloused layers life wrapped him in. Indebted to Godfrey, and is filed under Must-Recruit-To-My-Side. Likes: Reading (he had a book in his back pocket), the color black and sarcasm. Dislikes: Ink, Godfrey, Seb. . .not me.

To him, I’m still a clean slate. Although that’s starting to change.

I’m waiting for a slap or a punch to arrive, every muscle in my body tensing, but he just stares at me through his mask with those eyes.

“What’s your name?” he growls, not unlike a beast.

“Prescott.”

“Stupid name.”

“Allow me not to take offense, considering the fact that you call yourself Beat.”

I’m sure he smiles behind this mask, though there’s no way I could tell. His body relaxes, which prompts me to breathe normally again.

“You need some ground rules, Country Club, so let me lay them out for you, before you do anything stupid that’d land your ass in trouble. One—if I find you looking for a weapon again, you lose all privileges. No showers. No peeing. No getting out of the basement. For all I care, you will sit in your own shit and piss until the Archers come and pick you up. Two—you disobey, you’ll be punished. Food will be scarce and in-between. Three—” his eyes close, and when they open again, there’s a flicker of something devious in them, “I’m not like them. I have no interest in making this unnecessarily painful for you. But don’t try anything that’d make me turn on you. I easily flip, and once I do. . .”

My nipples brush against the rough towel at his threat.

“I need shampoo, soap and tampons.” I try my luck. “And a stress ball. If you’re going to keep me here. . .” I trail off, thinking about the outside world I just caught a glimpse of. Squinting my eyes, shaking my head, letting the soft, wet strands of gold frame my face. “Just. . .please. It’s worse than prison.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he surprises me by saying. I nod curtly. The shampoo and tampons are luxuries I can live without. The stress ball, though. . .I’ve never gone out of the house without one. Not since a shrink I went to after the baby ordeal told me I should try and use one to release some of my anger. That’s what keeps me relatively sane. It’s what also keeps me a drug dealer, as opposed to a drug user.

“Thank you.”

He leads me back to my cellar, where he blindfolds me again. My hands are back to being tied. They want to keep me disorientated, and for a good reason. Godfrey told them I’m not who I appear to be. But whoever I am, I don’t want to be left with myself right now. With my thoughts, with my mind working overtime, trying to second-guess Camden and Godfrey’s next move.

“Please don’t leave.” I draw a sharp breath. As much as I hate to admit it, the anxiety in my tone is not only due to my plan to have him warm up to me in order to gain his trust, but also because I genuinely hate the idea of spending the next few hours alone.

He doesn’t respond, and I hear the door shutting and locking behind him.

I bang my head against the wall, letting the tears that’ve been threatening to escape loose. I’ve already been through so much, but I just have to pull through one more thing. I can take these guys down.

It’s only Stockton. I’m already so close to home.

Home.

I don’t have one, but I do have a place I can call my own. It’s called revenge, and I will seek it, find it and soak in it.