Chapter Thirty-Seven

Ifelt like a rare bird. An explosion of colors, high heels, and outrageous bling as I dragged my faux-crocodile suitcase behind me, slinking into my parents’ suburban house. I could feel the neighbors’ stares heating the nape of my back through their Roman blinds and sensitive shutters.

I was sure there were plenty of things for a thirty-year-old former party animal to do in the suburbs of Boston.

Unfortunately, I had no idea what they were.

Not that it mattered. I couldn’t exactly dance my sorrows away at a roof party, drink to a point of distraction (what a buzzkill you are, Baby Whitehall), or even treat myself to a shopping spree that ended in the same way all shopping sprees should end—munching on an order of Wetzel’s Pretzels cheese dog bites while trying to balance one hundred and fifty shopping bags, their handles digging into the flesh of my forearms.

Wellesley was not known for its shopping malls and cultural landmarks.

Or for anything, really, other than being close to Boston.

But what depressed me the most was that I didn’t even want to snort lines of coke with rock stars in public restrooms or sing “Like a Virgin” in a karaoke bar while my friends toppled over with gusto, because I was anything but. I wanted lame, weird things. Like snuggling next to Devon on his freaking eight-thousand-dollar couch (of course I Google shopped it. What am I, an amateur?).

I wanted to watch his boring, four-hour long documentaries about sustainable plastic bags and killer slugs.

I was curled into myself on the guestroom bed when my dad knocked on my door. Mom was out—she was now a part of the Ladies Who Lunch committee. The irony, of course, was that the ladies didn’t lunch at all. They munched on dressing-free salads and discussed grave topics, like The Dukans or the Zone diet.

Guessed he wanted to see if we were still on talking terms.

Were we?

“Belly-Belle,” he sing-songed. “I’m off to go fishing. How ’bout you join your old man? Can’t go wrong with fresh air and sweetened iced tea.”

“Pass,” I murmured into my pillow.

“Oh c’mon, kiddo.” I admired his ability to pretend yesterday didn’t happen and at the same time suck up to me because of yesterday.

“I’m busy today.”

“You don’t look busy to me.”

“You know nothing about my life, Dad.”

“I know everything about your life, Belly-Belle. I know about your club, about your dates, about your friends, about your fears. I know, for instance, that you are miserable right now, and it can’t just be about me. You went a lifetime pretending it didn’t happen. Something’s eatin’ you up. Let me help.”

Thing was he couldn’t help.

No one could help the lost cause that was Emmabelle Penrose.

The vixen who didn’t care so much about sex after all, but about intimacy. I wanted to know what it felt like to belong to someone. But not just anyone. To a devilish, blue-eyed rake.

“Ugh, why are you so obsessed with me,” I moaned, forcing myself off the bed and dragging my feet along the floor. I wrestled into a pair of daisy dukes, leaving them unbuttoned because of Baby Whitehall, and threw on a baggy, ruffled white top. I didn’t look ready for fishing anything that wasn’t compliments about my killer legs, but here we were.

The drive to Lake Waban passed in silence, punctuated by Dad asking questions about Devon, work, and Persy. I answered with the enthusiasm of a woman facing death row—and just as much liveliness. Once we arrived, he rented a boat, hurled all of his fishing gear into it, and rowed to the middle of the lake.

On the boat, I complained about my early maternity leave from Madame Mayhem. Dad told me that work was a distraction from life and that life wasn’t a distraction from work, and that I had my priorities all wrong. It sounded like a botched inspirational quote by John Lennon, but he was trying so hard I didn’t scold him for it.

“And besides, we need to meet this Devon guy.” Dad flipped his ball cap backward, trying to make me laugh, to no avail.

“Why?” I scrunched my nose. “We’re not together.”

“You will be.” Dad spun the fishing reel, tugging at it while something in the water flipped about, trying to escape.

I huffed, watching as he pulled the fish out—a silver-scaled, helpless looking thing. Dad grabbed a fillet knife, cutting the fish’s throat and letting it bleed into the water. The fish stopped flapping, succumbing to its destiny. Dad swathed the fish in a plastic wrap and threw it into an ice-filled container.

“How do you know?” I asked.

He raised his eyebrows. “To fish?”

“No, that Devon and I will end up together.” I shifted uncomfortably on the other side of the boat.

“Oh. I just do.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Of course it is, honey.” He smiled at me lovingly, handing me over the fillet knife and a pack of alcohol wipes to clean it. “And it’s a good one too.”

About an hour into our fishing session, we bumped into one of Dad’s new friends from town. Literally. Our boat kissed his while he accidentally drifted in our direction. Dad immediately reached for me, making sure I didn’t slip or get hurt. Then he laughed, his eyes lighting up.

“Hey, Bryan.”

“John! I thought I’d seen you out here.”

“Weather’s too nice to pass up. Have you met my daughter?” The pride in Dad’s voice was tangible, sending frissons of pleasure down my spine.

“Can’t say I have. Ma’am.” Bryan tipped his straw hat down.

There was an introduction, followed by thirty minutes of fishing talk. I yawned, glancing around us. I understood that some people enjoyed nature and its peacefulness. Personally, I couldn’t live anywhere where the air wasn’t polluted and the crime wasn’t at least a little bit out of control.

I decided to finally turn my phone on and check my messages. I hadn’t done that in days, though I used my parents’ landline to call Persy, Ash, and Sailor.

I scrolled through my phone when a message popped on my screen. It was fresh from twenty minutes ago.

Devon: Where are you?

It was time to face the music. Well, the screaming, really.

Belle: Fishing.

Devon: FISHING?

Belle: Yes.

Devon: Is this code for something?

Belle: Get your mind out of the gutter.

Devon: Hey, you were the one to put it in there in the first place.

Devon: You have a lot to answer for, young lady.

Belle: Ugh. Call me young again. Someone just called me ma’am.

Devon: Give me his details. I’ll handle him.

Devon: Where are you fishing?

My eyes dragged up from the screen, and I looked around me. Was the middle of nowhere a sufficient reply?

Belle: Doesn’t matter. I’ll come meet you. We need to talk.

I was going to tell him that I’d made a terrible mistake, that I was sorry, that I was an idiot (there was a good chance I was going to say that twice), that I received—and promptly burned—the check Louisa had given me, and please, please, pleasepleaseplease could he take me back.

I’d learned my lesson. Dad scarred me, and Mr. Locken gutted me, but apparently, I still had a beating heart behind the heavy layers of façade. And that heart belonged to him.

Devon: Don’t come.

Belle: …?

But he never replied.

Don’t come.

No explanation, no nothing.

So of course I was going.

I was going just to spite him! The bastard. I was going there right now. Well, maybe I’d put on something a little more dignified than a pair of daisy dukes I couldn’t button and a shirt that screamed I just spent the last few days with my best friends, Easy Cheese and Dancing with the Stars.

“Dad, I have to go.”

Dad and Bryan conducted a short but meaningful conversation using their eyebrows alone, perplexed that someone would want to do anything other than sit idly in the middle of a huge blob of water and wait for fish to bite their baits.

“Okay, honey. Let me wrap this up.”

“No, I’ll go alone.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

There was no point in him joining me. I was changing my clothes and heading straight to Boston to demand Devon Whitehall allow me to come back to him and love me.

“Positive.”

“All right. You can take the car. Bryan’ll give me a ride home.”

“Awesome. What a great guy.” Not super great, since he called me ma’am, but not the worst either, I guess.

Dad rowed back to shore, tucked me into the driver’s seat and kissed my hair. “Stay safe, kiddo.”

I bolted back to my parents’ house. On my way there, I assured myself that everything would be okay. I would go straight to Devon and have my gun on me at all times. I would remain safe and maybe broach the subject of us moving somewhere else, where half the population wasn’t trying to kill me.

When I got back to my parents’, the first thing I did after double-locking the door was toss my bag on a side table. I removed items of clothing as I made my way up to the guestroom, already deciding I was going to wear the emerald green mini dress that made my eyes—and tits—pop.

Padding barefoot across the wooden floor, I stopped when I reached the threshold of the guestroom.

There was someone sitting on the edge of my bed.

I jumped backward, resisting the urge to yelp and draw attention.

Frank.

Turning back on my heel, I raced down the stairway, heading back to the landing to fetch the gun inside my bag. He grabbed me around my shoulders and pulled me back. My feet were up in the air. My back slammed against his chest. He wrapped an arm around my neck in a chokehold and squeezed, cutting off my air supply. My fingers dug into his arm, clawing to get him to let go. I tried to scream, but all my mouth produced was a low, pained hiss.

Baby Whitehall,I thought frantically. I have to save my baby.

Putting my Krav Maga lessons to good use, I reached behind to try and get ahold of his opposite arm, but he was quicker, gathering my hands and squeezing them together behind my back.

“I don’t think so. You ruined my life. It’s high time I ruin yours.”

His breath skated over the side of my neck. It reeked of tobacco and sugary soda. I tried to sink my teeth into his arm, but he pulled back quickly, readjusting his grip on my neck with one arm and cradling my pregnant belly in the other.

“Shhh.” His teeth grazed the shell of my ear. “Don’t make me do something I’ll regret.”

And then I felt it.

The cold, sharp metal grazing the bottom of my belly.

I froze like a statue. Closed my eyes, the air rattling in my lungs.

He was going to give me a premature C-section if I didn’t do as he said.

Baby Whitehall fluttered in my belly excitedly, awake and aware of the commotion.

I’m sorry, Baby Whitehall. I’m so, so, so sorry.

“Are you going to be a good girl?” Frank’s breath fanned against the side of my neck.

I nodded, the bitter taste of bile exploding in my mouth. My mother wasn’t due to be home for another two hours, and Dad could spend the entire day at the lake. Persy wouldn’t drop by without letting us know first.

I was officially, completely, and royally screwed.

“Now we’re talking.” Frank shoved me forward, making me stumble down the first stair. We went down the stairs silently, my knees bumping together with fear. He sat me down in front of the fireplace, grabbed a roll of heavy-duty tape from the back of his jeans, and taped my wrists and feet so I was immobile on the couch. He ripped the shirt off of my body, the fabric slicing through my skin, leaving red marks in its wake. I was wearing nothing but my underwear and bra.

“Stay here.” He wiggled his index finger in my face then proceeded to stomp around the house, barricading the doors. He didn’t have to do more than push a few chairs against the front and backyard doors. Dad had a the-enemy-is-upon-us mentality and made the house World War proof.

I knew there was no way in and no way out of this place without dismantling him first.

Frank tossed the keys I’d used to double-lock the door into his pocket, moving toward one of the windows, rapping it with his knuckles.

“Triple-glazed.” He whistled, raising his eyebrows and nodding at me approvingly. “Nicely done, John Penrose. Those are expensive as fuck.”

He knew my dad’s name. I bet the bastard knew a lot about my life since he’d found out I was here.

I scanned my surroundings. It was time to get creative. The only way out for me was through the central air duct work. It was big enough for me to fit, but I’d still have to tear down the vent, which was basically impossible, since my hands and legs were bound.

Frank’s eyes traveled to the same air vent I was looking at. He chuckled. “Don’t even think about it. Now let’s talk.”

He strode to the recliner opposite from the couch I was sitting on and took a seat. By the open Dorito bags and cracked soda cans littering the coffee table, I gathered he’d made himself at home before my arrival.

If nothing else, at least now I knew who was responsible for making my life a living hell for the past few months.

I was waiting for Jesus to come to me and tell me “Now’s not your time, child,” because all other indicators pretty much pointed to my early and tragic demise.

Ugh.Getting offed by a disgruntled ex-employee was such an embarrassing way to die.

“How can I help you, Frank?” I asked, businesslike, which was hard, considering the circumstances.

Baby Whitehall fluttered like crazy in my stomach, and I thought, with a mixture of devastation and exhilaration, how much I wanted this to continue. The flutter. The kicks. And what came after. For the first time in my life, I had something to fight for.

Two somethings.

There was Devon too. And as much as it frightened me to admit it to myself—he wasn’t like the men who’d let me down. I’d traded my soul to the devil the day I had taken revenge on Coach. I’d paid for the pleasure of taking a life with my youth, with my joy, with my innocence. Lacking all three made it impossible for me to get attached to a man. But Devon Whitehall wasn’t just a man. He was much more.

“You can start by telling me what the fuck I ever did to you!” Frank grabbed the knife he’d threatened me with and pointed at me from across the living room, spitting each word out. “Why’d you fire me when I had a pregnant girlfriend at home? My mom’s medical bills … you know, she passed away two weeks before you fired me. I took a week off. You didn’t even send me a sympathy card. Nothing.”

Pursing my lips, I closed my eyes and thought back to that period of time. When I wasn’t working, I was partying. Hard. There were a string of house parties, then charity events, then a girls’ Babymoon weekend in Cabo for Persy and Aisling. I’d relied on Ross to play Mommy and Daddy at Madame Mayhem and didn’t much care about what was going on in other people’s lives. I was busy keeping myself distracted because that was how I coped whenever memories of Mr. Locken and what I’d done to him resurfaced. I didn’t care about anything or anyone other than myself.

Worst of all—I didn’t remember ever hearing that Frank’s mom had passed away.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” I tried to sound calm, but my words stumbled over one another. “I really am. But, Frank, I didn’t know about your mother, or your girlfriend. Certainly not about your debt. I have a minimum of thirty employees on my payroll at any given time. All I knew was that you copped a feel and harassed one of the burlesque girls.”

“That’s what she said.” He sent his knife crashing against the coffee table between us. The blade kissed the glass, and the thing shattered inward noisily. “You went and told every local reporter I tried to rape her. I couldn’t get a job. Not even a temp one. Not even washing the dishes! You humiliated me!”

I swallowed down a yelp.

Baby Whitehall felt like fingers strumming piano keys, running from left to right then left again.

“Frank, I saw you,” I insisted, exasperated. “Your hand was on the curve of her ass. Your other hand was shoved between her legs.”

I remembered how they both reacted when I walked in on the scene. How she was in tears. How he was in shock.

“I wasn’t harassing her.” Frank darted up from the beige chaise, grabbing a soda can and smashing it against the wall. Orange liquid splashed across it like an abstract painting, dripping onto the floor. I wanted to believe one of the neighbors might hear the commotion and call for help but knew that the houses were too far apart for that to happen. Damn middle-class suburbia.

“We were having an affair. Christine and I were having an affair. I was fingering her when you walked in on us, and she got scared, because she knew you were a no-bullshit kind of boss and also because it was known around the club that my girlfriend was pregnant. She didn’t want to look like a homewrecker or a slut, even though, for the record, she was both, so she made up that story that I harassed her!”

I deeply resented his characterization of Christine, even though I didn’t agree with her behavior. It took two to tango, and no one forced this asshole to have an affair with her. Of course, this was hardly the time to retaliate by sending truth bombs his way.

“I didn’t know all that.” I hated how small my voice was.

“Yeah, well, that’s because you never bothered giving half a shit about anything that wasn’t your club, your parties, your clothes, and your one-night stands. Christine went after me. She knew I had access to Ross’ calendar and schedule. I messed with it, giving her better hours and shifts when he wasn’t looking.” He picked up his knife from the ocean of broken glass in the middle of the living room, wiping it on the side of his jeans.

I moved uncomfortably on the couch. The duct tape was digging into my wrists, and I wanted to stretch my legs.

“Look, Frank, I’m sorry if—”

“I’m not done!” he roared, getting in my face. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes dancing with madness. “I lost everything. My girlfriend found out—of course she did. I got fired publicly, after all, and no one would hire me. Every time we left the house, a reporter or a photographer loitered nearby, because everyone likes a train-wreck story of a guy with a pregnant teenage girlfriend who harassed a burlesque girl and got his ass kicked by the manager of a club for it. My girlfriend didn’t leave, but she wouldn’t fucking let that shit go. Christine, the bitch, left the burlesque show and moved back to Cincinnati to marry some old fuck. He’s about to be in for a surprise when he realizes the baby she’s cooking for him belongs to me. And me? I got hooked on fentanyl. Because, you know, why the hell not?” He cackled tonelessly.

Oh boy.

“If you’d have told me—”

“You’d have done nothing,” he barked, and I knew it was the truth. “You hate men. Everyone knows that. Everyone!”

I wanted to throw up. All this time, I was partly responsible for his girlfriend’s condition. I remembered seeing her at buybuy Baby. How distressed she looked.

He began kicking things around as he spoke, determined to inflict as much destruction on me and mine. “Things got really bad at home. After a while, I just up and left. Like my daddy did before I was born. I couldn’t deal with it. And now there’s this cycle, you see. That you created. My son is going to come into this world with nothing while your kid is going to come into this world with everything. And why? Because you have a pretty face? A tight ass? Because your sister married some rich guy and now you two are prancing around like millionaires all day?”

I knew where this was going, and I didn’t like it. Not one bit.

“You were the one who went after me. But … but who was that man who came to Madame Mayhem to threaten me?”

“My stepdad.” Frank shrugged. “Did me a solid. Good guy, huh?”

“And the man at Boston Common?”

“Boston Common?” He frowned. “Ain’t nobody went for you there.”

My head was spinning. There were a few people after me. Frank was on a roll, though, and wasn’t exactly in the mood to answer any more of my questions.

“Well, I’m here to tell you if my baby is not going to have a future—and I certainly can’t give him a future…” his blade found my heart, moving down my skin toward my belly as he crouched down before me, “…then yours is not going to have one either.”

“Frank, please—”

The knife halted on my belly.

He smiled as he poked the blade into it, breaking the skin.

And that was when one of the living room walls came crashing down.

I arrived at the Penrose parents’ suburban house to find Belle’s father’s truck parked out front. Though it wasn’t necessarily in my plans to try and win Mr. Penrose over by explaining that my mother had sent people to threaten his daughter and that I may or may not had planned to marry someone else at one point, I was going to have to deal with him. After I informed Belle we were getting married this week and stopping this nonsense, of course.

I walked over to the door, determined, and raised my knuckles to rap the door.

Just then, a crash sounded from the inside. It sounded like glass shattering. I moved toward one of the windows, peeking inside.

Belle was sitting on the couch, mostly naked and duct taped while a Frank-looking-guy (I’d never seen the man, but again, deductive reasoning) stood above a pile of glass, a knife at his feet. I pressed my hands to the glass and roared, but they couldn’t hear me. I could tell by the thickness of the glass, and by the blurry way I saw them, that it was too thick.

I rushed over to the door and tried to pick the lock, but fuck, it wouldn’t budge. It wasn’t a flimsy door either. It was one of those steel security doors Cillian had installed in his mansion the day Astor was born. I couldn’t kick that shit down if I had The Rock’s quads.

Frantically, I rounded the house, trying to find a way to break in. I tilted my head and looked up to see if the windows on the second floor were open or maybe not triple glazed. No such luck.

After a quick inspection, I realized the only way in was through the ventilation. There was only one problem: confined places and I weren’t exactly good friends.

Staring at the exhaust hole on the side of the house, I reminded myself that I didn’t have a choice. That it was either me dying in a space smaller than the dumbwaiter or Belle … Fuck, I couldn’t even begin to think about what could happen to her.

Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I called 911 and explained the situation, giving them the address, then crouched into the hole and crawled right in.

It wasn’t the type of air duct you saw in the movies. The square, never-ending metal labyrinth you could crawl comfortably in. It was a round, flimsy one that could only carry my weight because it was bellied between bricks, the surface uneven from every direction. It felt like skulking into someone’s arsehole. I had to army-crawl on my elbows and knees, collecting dust, mold, dirt, and mites on my Cucinelli suit, which turned from navy blue to gray.

My throat was thick with dirt, and every one of my muscles felt strained and shaky. Putting myself in this position was something I never thought I’d do. But I had to. I had to save her. To help ease the pain, I squeezed my eyes shut and kept pushing. I sometimes knocked into a dead end, and maneuvered myself left, right, up, and down until I found the next curve to take what would lead me to the other side.

You’re not going to die.

You’re not going to die.

You’re not going to die.

I pushed harder, faster, my legs cramping and my biceps hurting. After a few feet, I heard voices again. It was only then that I dared open my eyes. They stung with sweat and dust. The air-con fan looked back at me. I was only a few feet away.

The voice rose from underneath it.

“If you’d have told me—” Emmabelle tried, her voice brave and strong and everything she was that I loved so much.

“You’d have done nothing,” he roared.

I pushed myself farther, wriggling like a worm toward the opening of the air duct.

“Well, I’m here to tell you if my baby is not going to have a future—and I certainly can’t give him a future, then yours is not going to have one either …”

Just as he said it, I punched the air duct open, and fell right through it, bringing half the wall down with me.

I lifted myself up, even though a sharp, tear-jerking pain in my left leg told me I’d almost certainly broke it.

Frank turned around, and I used the element of surprise to pounce on him, throwing all my weight against him and reaching for his knife. Unfortunately, he had the upper hand of not needing to crawl his way into this place seconds ago. He stuck the knife in my shoulder, twisting it about. I let out a growl, pushing my fingers into his eye sockets. I had no idea what I was doing. I just knew I wasn’t going to die before knowing Emmabelle was safe.

From my periphery, I could see Belle hopping her way from the couch to the kitchen awkwardly, still bound at the ankles and wrists. A line of blood ran down from under her belly button, disappearing into her panties. My mind kicked into overdrive. If something happened to that baby … my baby …

“Ahhh!” Frank was screaming, letting go of the knife—which was still, by the fucking way, in my shoulder—waving his arms in the air helplessly. “My eyes! My eyes!”

There was a warm pool of blood underneath us, and I knew it belonged to me. I couldn’t keep it up any longer. Concentrating, I tried to scoop out one of his eyeballs, which wasn’t as easy as he made it sound, since his eye sockets were pure, dense bone and I had to crack through them.

“Stop!” Frank roared. “Stop!”

But then he was the one who stopped.

In fact, he fell right on top of me, driving the knife even deeper into my shoulder as he collapsed.

There was a steak knife stuck in his back. And above him, stood Emmabelle, breathing hard.

Now, I decided, was a perfect time to succumb to unconsciousness.

So that was what I did.