43. Kurt

"This is the address?" Rowan says, sitting in the driver's seat of a plain white Suburban, looking around at the plain warehouses in the San Fernando Valley where the porn studios are clustered. His eyes are bright with excitement, and his hands are trembling with what I assume is adrenaline. Since I've got the same thing coursing through my veins.

Scraping a sweaty hand through my hair, I check the map on my phone. "Yeah. You've dealt with surveillance? Security?"

Rowan smirks, and it's disquieting. I don't know much about this guy except that the prospect of violence seems to turn him on. "It's taken care of."

"You're sure?" I clear my throat. My knee's bouncing.

"Even the plates of this car can't be traced. We've looped traffic cameras. It's fine. I'd swear it on Charlie's life," he tells me solemnly.

Given the sincerity on his face—and how those two seem to be joined together with superglue—that seems like the biggest vow he could make.

"Okay," I say, letting out a breath, and follow him out of the car, my heart rate skyrocketing. I'm wearing a plain gray hoodie that I borrowed from Johnny's closet. It still doesn't have strings in it, and it's too big for me, but it manages to hide who I am.

Rowan has a tattoo on the back of his neck that says "Baby Boy." He pulls a black hoodie up to cover it and his distinctive pink hair. He hands me gloves and a medical face mask and slips a gun into the back of his jeans. Johnny's derringer is heavy against my side, making me feel faint.

"I thought we didn't need to hide," I say, biting my lip.

"Can't be too careful."

I'm doing this for Johnny. I need to get out of my own head. I close my eyes, center myself, and nod, then put on the gear.

We're joined by some … muscle, I guess, who Rowan knows, and they're wearing masks and gloves and are armed, too. I have barely any clue what to do with a gun. After his latest crisis, Johnny gently informed me that I should store his bullets separately from his derringer, so that if things ever got bad again, he'd have to get into two hiding places, not one.

I agreed and bought two proper safes. He doesn't know the combination to either, and the bullets are in one, the gun in the other.

He also took me to a shooting range, and we took a gun safety course, but I still don't feel comfortable with a weapon. I'm queasy, but I feel queasier when I think about what was done to Johnny. And I'm the one who can fix this situation.

Rowan's bouncing on his heels and humming to himself. He's energized, and it's fascinating to me how different we are.

Johnny and I are comfy naps and walks on the beach with the dog.

Rowan's relationship with Charlie seems like they're willing to bring the other the hearts of their enemies.

Apparently they're willing to bring me the heart of my enemy, too, and I'm grateful for that.

In general, violence is not at all my thing. But revenge for hurting my Johnny? Yes.

Despite my determination to do this, I really don't want to end up in prison … or tank my momther's career for good. So we'd better not get caught. But Rowan seems to know what he's doing, so I'm letting him take the lead and hoping for the best.

The studio is quiet. It's not quite four in the afternoon on a Monday, and there's only one car in the parking lot besides ours. We timed it this way because during the trial I learned it's Gary Pinkerton's habit to watch footage when no one's around, and they generally don't film on Mondays.

At Rowan's nod, the muscle kicks in the back door of the building, and we waltz into the office where Gary sits all alone, monitor on, a mess of invoices and notes all over his desk.

In a flash, Rowan has a gun cocked and pressed against Gary's forehead.

"What? Who the fuck are you?" Gary hisses. Then his eyes widen as he recognizes me. He holds up a middle finger. "Oh, fuck you. Tell Johnny boo-hoo. We're gonna appeal."

"You will never say his name again," I snarl. "You do not know Johnny Haskell or Velvet the Cowboy. You do not mention him or do anything to so much as inconvenience him. Ever."

He rolls his eyes, but given there's a gun pointed at his head, he wisely doesn't move.

In a quiet voice, I say, "You are going to log on to your accounts—and we're fully aware of the one in the Caymans and the two in Geneva—and make a series of transfers to the client trust account of Weston Ramirez. Now."

Gary flinches. Then he sneers. "Why on earth would I do that?"

"Because if you don't, my friends here are going to remove your body parts one at a time." The two big dudes move forward so there are now two more guns cocked at Gary's head, which makes his complexion turn gray.

Since the other guys have Gary covered, Rowan puts the safety on his gun and shoves it in his waistband, then pulls out his switchblade, flicking it menacingly. For such a tiny dude, he's fucking sinister. "Should I start with a finger or a testicle?"

"Fuck you," Gary spits, then stiffens when the guns at his head press in tighter.

One of the big guys moves like lightning, pinning Gary's hand to the desk. Before I can process a thought, Rowan slices off the tip of Gary's finger.

Gary howls. "The fuck? You fucking bastard!"

"Transfer the money," Rowan orders.

Gary opens his mouth to spout off, but I can see the moment he changes his mind. Maybe he catches the light in Rowan's eyes. How Rowan is getting off on his pain.

How he won't be getting out of this as easily as he thought.

I'm fucking sick to my stomach, but not enough to leave. Not enough that I'll fail to see this through. Johnny deserves the compensation he was awarded.

With trembling hands, Gary opens a browser on his computer, holding his pinky tight to his palm and wincing. With a few keystrokes, he's in. "Where am I transferring it?" he asks sullenly.

I pull up the email from Alden and recite the account number for Danny's law firm.

Gary pinches his nose. "I don't have all of it in one account. It will take me a bit."

"Then make multiple transfers. Fast," Rowan orders. Gary makes a move toward him, and one of the big dudes cocks his gun.

"Fuck. Fine," Gary hisses, his keystrokes shaky. After a moment he pulls his shoulders back. "Look. Five million transferred."

"You left two million in that account," Rowan points out.

"I'll get it from another account."

Without another word, Rowan slices the skin at the top of Gary's ear.

Gary screams as blood pours down his face. "Motherfucker!"

"Transfer the funds."

"Fine," Gary spits. With a few more keystrokes, he transfers $2 million more. Then he logs in to another account and transfers $9 million.

"Where's the rest?" I ask. "You are paying Johnny every penny you owe him. Don't forget interest, which is more than $5k a day. Every day, he lives with the memory of you drugging him and making those men rape him. You took away his right to choose what happens to his body. Fuck you. You lost. Pay up. We know the production company has the funds. And you control the accounts."

Gary sneers at me, but Rowan presses the knife to his throat hard enough that red beads start sliding down his neck. "Watch how you move," Rowan warns him. "You draw back, they pull the trigger. You lean toward me, you get your throat sliced."

"If I die, you won't get the money," Gary says cockily. But it feels like false bravado.

"We'll figure it out." Rowan starts reciting an account number, and Gary's jaw drops.

"How did you know about that account?"

"We did a thorough skip trace on you. We know where you've hidden all your assets. Come on, transfer the rest of it from the Caymans. Let's go."

Looking defeated, Gary logs on to another bank account, and, now bleeding from three wounds, he transfers the remaining money into the Weston Ramirez bank account.

"Check with Danny to see if the money's hit the account," Rowan says.

I move to the side and call Weston Ramirez. After talking with their chirpy receptionist, I'm transferred to the bookkeeper, Alden.

"I'd like to know if you've received payment in full earmarked for John Haskell," I say.

"Um, let me check the account," Alden says. I hear a few keystrokes. "Yeah. Okay, wow. Yes. The money's here."

"Thank you," I say. "Please let Danny know."

"You got it."

I hang up with Alden. "Now you need to post on AD/Vice that you're sorry."

"Not fucking sorry—" Gary snarls.

"Rowan?" I say.

Rowan presses the knife harder against the worm's throat.

"Okay, okay," Gary says. "Fuck. Fine. Let me pull it up." He navigates to his social media account and glares at me.

"Type the following: ‘I want to apologize to Velvet, Tawni, and every other actor I have ever done wrong to.'"

Gary opens his mouth to protest but thinks better of it. He starts typing, muttering something under his breath that I choose to ignore.

"What I did was vile and unforgivable. I sincerely regret my actions, and I am very sorry," I dictate.

He types.

I put my hand on my hip. "Post it."

Gary can't resist another eye roll before he hits post. I pull up the AD/Vice app to make sure it's on his account and public. It is.

"So what do we do now?" Rowan asks.

"We let him go," I say, then face Gary fully. "You're not gonna tell anyone about this, are you? It'd be much, much worse for you if you did."

"Are you gonna tell anyone?" Rowan asks.

Gary spits at him.

"That's not an answer."

"Of fucking course not," Gary sneers. "But I'll get my payback someday, little man."

Now it's Rowan's turn to roll his eyes. "Whatever. I'd like to see you try."

We all take a step back. I don't trust Gary, but I also don't know how else to end this. I look at Rowan, and just then, Gary rises from his seat and grabs for Rowan's knife.

A gun goes off, loud and startling, and a body falls to the floor.

Gary lands to the side, eyes open wide, mouth slack. Wetness is splattered beside him, and I nearly throw up. Pieces of bone, blood, gray matter. It's sickening.

My vision whites out. A pool of blood slowly starts leaking from the body.

"Shit," one of the big guys says.

"You were defending me," Rowan says. "I saw it. We'll handle this."

I start stuttering, "He … he … he's dead. That fucking asshole. He … he raped my husband."

"I know," Rowan says quietly.

I race outside into the sunshine. Footsteps sound after me. It's Rowan.

"What the fuck … what do we do?" I wanted vengeance. I didn't want this. Did I?

"Deep breaths," Rowan says. "Is that the first time you've …"

"Seen someone die? No. I mean yes. I mean … My high school boyfriend, he—with a razor blade—I saw the aftermath. His parents discovered him, but I'd come over just after. I saw the blood."

"I'm fucking sorry about that."

"But what do we do?" I say louder.

"The guys have supplies. We'll torch the place. Make it look like a suicide. With the apology and his body destroyed, it'll work."

"Are you sure?"

"Yep," he says, sounding confident. "Go wait in the car. We'll take care of it." He presses the keys into my hand.

I walk over to the car, my legs shaky, and fall into the passenger seat, putting my face in my hands. And I burst into tears.

Fuck.

I don't wanna cry over that asshole. But I also don't like having his death be my responsibility. I put this into motion. I … I … fuck.

The wind rustles the trees outside the window. I sit, staring blankly, until I see smoke, and then three men come running out of the building. The big guys head to their SUV, and then Rowan's next to me, in the driver's seat. He starts the engine and pulls smoothly onto the street.

He drives to Charlie's house and parks in the garage. We strip off what we're wearing and put it all in bags to burn, and then I take a quick shower and change into the other clothes I brought. I'm still stunned and horrified, but a small part of me is relieved.

Justice was served. Johnny's demon was slain. Literally.

"You guys okay?" Charlie asks, wrapping Rowan in a bear hug when Rowan comes out of the shower with a towel on his head.

"It was perfect, my love," Rowan says, and Charlie kisses him.

I shudder. "Perfect? He died. I didn't want him to die. I don't think I wanted him to die. I'm not sure." I'm shaking again, wondering if I'm going to vomit.

"Kurt needs aftercare," Rowan says. "Let's get him home."

"Thank you," I say to both of them with as much gravity as I can manage. "I owe you."

"Nah," Rowan says. "That asshole deserved it. I know what happened wasn't your scene, and I'm sorry you had to see it, but for me … I can be antisocial. It's good for me to vent that in a … healthy way. And I rarely get such a good excuse to set a nice big fire."

"What about money? The arrangements you made, the security …"

"I don't need it."

"What do you mean you don't need it? I can pay. I have plenty."

"I've got more." He grins at me and flashes me the lock screen on his phone, which is a photo of him practically climbing Charlie. But the wallpaper is a famous coat of arms. "My family crest."

Rowan St. Thomas. As in the St. Thomas dynasty.

Holy shit.

Yeah, he has more money than me. A hundred times as much.

So what the fuck is he doing with Charlie? How did they meet?

I have so many questions. "I should pay the guys, at least," I say.

Rowan shrugs. "I can cover it as part of their salary, but feel free to give them a bonus."

I make arrangements to send money to his trust fund to pay his big, muscled assistants.

"Well, if you need help with anything in the future, feel free to call me," I say. "I don't know what I could do, but I'm in your debt."

It's probably a bad idea for me to be in debt to him, but it's worth it for Johnny.

Rowan shakes his head and gives me his wide, evil grin. "Just come hang out sometime."

"I will." God help me, I will.

Charlie insists on driving me back to my house in my car, and Rowan follows. We say goodbye in the driveway, and I walk up the stairs into the living room, still a little shaky, but trying to hide it.

As I enter, Johnny is putting down his phone, looking stunned.

"What's up?" I ask.

"That was Danny. He says that Gary Pinkerton wired the entire amount owed, plus interest. He paid it all. Danny took my bank information so he could forward me the proceeds."

I manage a smile. "That's awesome."

He stares at me. "You don't sound totally surprised. Wait, have you been crying?"

Joining Johnny on the couch, I climb into his lap and tuck my face into his neck. "I have to confess. I had something to do with it."

"What happened?" Johnny's voice is wary and concerned.

"I … found someone who went with me to see Gary this afternoon. I wanted to punish him for what he did to you, and I was planning some kind of revenge. But once I found out you won, I wanted him to pay. Literally pay you."

"Which he did."

"And it went too far." I swallow hard. "Gary's dead."

Johnny sits bolt upright. "What?"

I nod, a tear sliding down my cheek. "It was awful. I feel like utter shit. I put the plan in motion, but I didn't realize … I didn't let myself realize how bad it could get. He tried to hurt one of the people I was with, and …"

"Gary Pinkerton is dead?" Johnny's eyes are wide and scared.

"Yeah."

"Fuck."

"Yeah," I repeat.

"What about— I don't want you going to jail, darlin'," Johnny says.

"I'm pretty sure we won't get caught. My friend is next-level as far as access to resources, and he didn't seem worried. And … this definitely wasn't the first time he'd been involved in something … dark."

Johnny holds me tight, and we sit there for a moment, quiet.

"I'm glad he's dead," I admit, "but at the same time, I wish it hadn't happened. I feel sick knowing I was involved."

"I'm horrified that you had to do something like that on my behalf. It's terrible. It makes sense that you're upset." He pauses. "At the same time, is it evil to say I'm glad he's not here to hurt anyone else?"

"I dunno right now. All I know is I wanted completion. I wanted to put all of this to rest. I wanted it to be done. And now it is, and …" I shudder. "I don't know. I guess I just have to try to make sense of it somehow."

More silence. Johnny's arms are strong around me, and I let his warmth melt away the unreality of the day.

We hold each other on the couch for a long time. Finally, I whisper, "I guess I slew one of your demons. For real."

"Thank you," he whispers back, squeezing me tight. "Holy fuck, it's over."

A news report the next day says, "Pinkerton Studios CEO dead in apparent suicide after expressing regret for sex crimes."

I keep waiting for the police to show up at my door, but they never do.

And as days turn into weeks, I stop holding my breath so much. Maybe justice really was served.

Johnny's demon didn't respawn.