Текст книги "Panic"
Автор книги: J. A. Huss
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
Chapter Twenty-Nine – RONIN
So this is how it works.
Listen to the question, breathe. Stop. Blink. Breathe. Recite the question back to myself so that I understand every word. Answer yes or no.
That’s it.
Of course, they’re trying to make you fuck up. They ask the question a few different ways. They give you throwaway questions—which, depending on the question, may be a good time to just outright lie. Like if they ask Is your name Ronin Flynn? And you’re me? I say yes, of course, because everyone knows that’s my name. But if they ask Have you ever stolen anything? That’s a dummy question because it’s an absolute—everyone has stolen something at one time or another, even if it was by accident or whatever. It’s throwaway. So to that one I lie immediately and say no, but the needle stays calm, indicating I’m being truthful.
And then I sit back and smile.
Because I just did two things. I set up their machine to record that kind of response as truth and I lied to their faces but it didn’t record and they know it.
A good operator will know what to do with that. They’ll set me up in a pattern of repeated questions, phrased with slight variations, so that I will unconsciously lie. But I’m telling you, this is my God-given gift. Spencer paints naked girls, Ford is some evil version of Einstein, sans the bad hair and with the slight insanity issues, and I’m the sweet-talking bullshit liar.
That’s just how it is.
I can be whatever people want me to be. You want me to be guilty? I can play that part just as well as innocent. In fact, sometimes I do play guilty when I’m being questioned. That really fucking throws them off.
And none of what I’m doing is special, not really. I’m just observant, calculating, and I spent just as much time learning to turn off my emotions as I did turning them on.
“Is your name Ronin Flynn?”
I’m all hooked up to the computer now, sitting in this slightly over-warm room that will at some point in the middle of questioning turn slightly too cold, and I’m ready.
“Yes.”
“Do you live at the Chaput Studios Building in LoDo?”
“Yes.” That’s a lie, but I say it with confidence and the machine agrees with me. Our building is technically in Five Points, not Lower Downtown, but like I said, dummy questions.
The suits bob their heads together on that one, then regroup. “Do you live at Chaput Studios in Five Points?”
“Yes.”
“Do you live in LoDo?”
“Yes.” I blink and breathe to give them something to think about besides my lie. I can do this all day long.
“OK, Mr. Flynn,” the older man running the machine says. “Let’s get down to business. Are you aware of any human trafficking in Denver?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had a conversation about human trafficking?”
“No.” I blink and breathe again. What the fuck is this about?
“Do you know Rook Walsh’s real name?”
Blink, breathe. “Yes.”
“Is it Rook Walsh?”
“Yes.” Another lie. This is a good one because they don’t know if I know it or not.
“Has Mrs. Walsh ever mentioned her husband Jon Walsh?”
Ah, here we go. “Yes.”
“Has Mrs. Walsh ever mentioned a safe deposit box in Las Vegas?”
I blink, breathe, and lie. “Yes.” Because this is getting weird and these assholes actually get a little excited about that answer.
“Did she tell you what was in the box?” Abelli asks hurriedly.
A break in protocol from Agent Abelli is not a good sign. “Yes,” I lie.
“What was it?”
I just stare at Abelli and then ask calmly, “What?”
“What’s in the fucking box?”
“That’s not a yes or no question. Take the straps off and we can talk normally, but I’m not answering any more questions that deviate from the standard test format.”
Machine guy cuts in. “We’re done here. You’re free to go.”
And then I’m being unstrapped and ushered out of the room and over to the elevator where I’m handed off to some bald-headed goon in the FBI uniform.
The next thing I know I’m fucking driving down Speer Boulevard towards home. I cut over on Market and then swing around the building and park the truck. “What. The. Fuck. Just. Happened?”
Human trafficking? That’s what this is about?
It’s bizarre, but I’ve been gone almost three hours so I gotta get back upstairs and check shit out with the girls and Roger. I might have to get in touch with Ford tonight and set up a meeting. Vegas. Safe deposit boxes and human trafficking. Yeah, this is not right. This is just not right. Because typically when I’m called in for a polygraph, you know, I’m being questioned about a crime I’m actually connected to. And I don’t know anything about human trafficking or a box in Vegas that may or may not have something to do with Rook.
But I have a very bad feeling that Rook does.
I take out my phone and almost press Ford’s contact, but then I come back to my senses and clear the screen.
That’s what they want me to do. Call my partners and give the Feds another clue.
Fuck.
I get out of the truck and hop the stairs three at a time. Everyone is busy inside the studio. Clare is doing a shoot with Billy, the other girls are milling about in lingerie or getting fixed up in the salon, and even Elise and Antoine are hanging out in the kitchen eating fruit.
“Antoine,” I say in French. “I need a minute.” He follows me out onto the terrace where the roar of afternoon traffic down on 21st Street is enough to layer over our conversation if someone is getting nosy. “I just got back from the police station,” I continue in French. His eyes dart back and forth, a slight panic becoming detectable by the pulsing of his carotid artery in his neck. “Don’t worry, it really wasn’t about me. I think it was about Rook. I think I need to go up North tonight and ask her some questions. Should I go?”
“Do you think it’s safe to involve Spencer and Ford?”
I shrug. “Not sure, really. I’m not sure this is really about us, Antoine. I think it’s about Rook.”
He stares down at the traffic for several minutes and ponders the question. Antoine would never make a good partner in our little private business because he can’t make hasty decisions. He likes to think for a while before committing to things. Most of the time this drives me up a wall but not this time. Rook might be in trouble and I only get one chance to make a move. It’s worth the extra time.
“I think it’s too risky, Ronin. You don’t have enough information yet. Give it one more day, then one of us will go up to the shop tomorrow and see if they’ve heard anything. OK?” He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes.
“Yeah, all right.”
“Just go back to work and we’ll talk more later.”
We go back inside and I take my place near Roger, pretending to have an opinion on the shoot Clare is doing or what the fuck ever. But really, all I can think about is Rook.
What if she’s in danger again?
And what if this time I’m not around to help her?
Chapter Thirty – ROOK
Downtown Fort Collins is at the north end of town and even though the main drag is still College Avenue, it’s not wide and busy like it is down south by the Best Buy and PetSmart. It’s one of those old historic Western towns and has cute shops and lots of restaurants and bars. There’s even a trolley that runs down Mountain Avenue from Old Town to City Park. And Spencer has told me numerous times that it’s seriously been voted Best Place to Live in the World or some shit like that. I can see it, actually. It’s got a big university smack in the center complete with veterinary hospital and research buildings, but it’s still old-timey in many ways. Like parking in the middle of the street to shop in downtown. Literally. You pull into the center of the street and park between the north and southbound lanes of College Avenue.
I’ve passed by Veronica’s downtown tattoo shop dozens of times, so I know where it is, I’ve just never been inside. I pull the truck into a spot a few businesses down and turn the engine off. My stomach is doing all kinds of flips.
Why? Why does everything have to be so dramatic? I know the guys have secrets, but I just assumed that the secrets were about the hacking stuff they do. Did. Do. I’m not sure if they still do that shit or not. Obviously they did it for me, but whether or not they’re doing it for someone else right now, I have no idea.
But stealing from deadbeats and selling human slaves are two very different things.
It doesn’t add up.
I am kicking myself for not taking those papers from Gage right now. At least then I could read the whole thing. Because last time Gage said they were accused of murdering someone and got away with it. So when you combine all the shit Ronin is being accused of human trafficking, murder, grand larceny, and selling blow.
I have no idea what this means, but I’m not buying it one bit. It’s total bullshit.
I get out of the truck, wait for a few cars to pass by, then jog across the street and head up towards the tattoo place. I stop outside and look up at the sign. It says Sick Boys Inc. According to Spencer, Veronica Vaughn is the youngest non-Y chromosome member of the Sick Boys gang and she, her father, and all four of her brothers work at this shop. Apparently she is just one of the Boys around here, because from the sign you’d never know there was a girl inside doing ink.
It’s dark out now and the lights are on, but I can’t see anything because the front windows are frosted up like they belong in a bathroom. So all I can make out is a large blurry shadow and the faint buzzing of a tattoo machine.
I pull the door open and walk in, get slightly disoriented by the massive wall of tattoo photos that practically slams me in the face, and then startle at the voice to my right.
“Shrike Fucking Bikes? Roonnnnnnn-eeeeeee,” the guy bellows out in a deep voice. “Spencer’s Blackbird is here!”
I turn around to see someone who is probably one of the Sick Boys and look him up and down. He’s huge, for one. Massive. Like over six foot two. And his tatted-up biceps are bulging out from a t-shirt that hugs every spectacular muscle on his upper body. His light hair is cropped close, military-style, and his dark eyes convey a roughness that matches the scruff on his chin. “Who the hell are you? And how do you know who I am?”
“Vic Vaughn, and your name’s on the sleeve of your jacket and the backside says Shrike Fucking Bikes. Not Shrike insert-expletive-here-because-we-are-so-cool, but actual Shrike Fucking Bikes. Like that’s the name of his business. And only Spencer Shrike would put ‘fuck’ in the name of his business on the back of a jacket. You don’t need to be Cujo to figure that one out.”
I squint up at him because that just makes no sense, then look down at my jacket sleeves. One is painted up to say Blackbird and the other says Gidget. I automatically get a little protective of Spence and retaliate appropriately. “Cujo is a nasty-ass, rabies-ridden dog. You’re thinking of Columbo. And this is a pretty hot fucking jacket if you ask me.”
Vic Vaughn winks at me. “So’s the girl inside, even if you didn’t ask me. And I was just testing you on that Cujo thing. I heard you’re a film freak. You should come by the FoCo Cinema sometime, me and the boys wouldn’t mind gettin’ ya in the dark for a movie.”
“Shut up, Victor,” Veronica says as she comes around a corner dressed like she’s doing a root canal back there. She’s wearing pink scrubs, a white lab coat, a pink visor with a clear plastic face shield that she flips up as she approaches, and a blue mask over her mouth. “Hey, Rook, come by for your free tat?” she says through the mask, making it puff out a little with each word.
“Uh, no.” I stammer for a moment because her get-up is pretty distracting. “Actually, I was wondering if you had a minute to talk. About…” I look over at Vic, and then cover my mouth and whisper, “Spencer, Ronin, and Ford.”
“Hey, Blackbird? You’re like two feet away, I can still hear you. Well, Ronnie, I win this bet. I said a week and it’s been”—he looks over at the calendar—“nine days.”
We both ignore that remark and I change the subject and point to her clothes. “What’s with the outfit, Veronica?”
She absently looks down at herself. “Blood-borne pathogens. Did you know that an ink machine can spray minute particles of blood into the air and you breathe it in if you don’t protect yourself?” Veronica grabs my arm and pulls me to the back of the shop. We pass a few more rooms, each with tattoo machines buzzing—but all of the male Sick Boys look like regular ink artists with their t-shirts, jeans, and tatted-up arms.
“Come on back, Rook. I’ve got a guy in the chair, but he’s such a pussy, he can use the distraction.” She drags me into a small room that looks like a cross between a hospital surgery room with the different doctor office-type stuff lined up neatly on a long counter, and Fran the Nanny’s mother’s living room—because just about every single surface is covered in plastic.
You could kill someone in here, Murder by Numbers style, and just roll it all up in plastic and toss it in the dumpster when you were done.
I shiver.
A very large biker who has half his arm bubbling up dots of blood from the partially finished tattoo shifts in his chair and makes the plastic crinkle. “You get used to it,” he says matter-of-factly, panning a hand up at the sheeting that covers the flat screen on the wall. I spy Milla Jovovich with orange hair so I’m pretty sure it’s The Fifth Element playing, but it’s hard to see through the wrinkles. “She’s got a germ issue and a blood phobia.”
I almost snicker as I picture her back in the Chaput parking lot freaking out about her bullet scrape. It makes more sense now.
Veronica ignores the dude and absently waves a hand at him. “Rook, this is Tiny. Tiny, Rook. Rook here needs to girl-talk with me. You don’t mind, do ya, Tiny?”
The big biker smiles at me through his full beard and I force one back as well to be polite. “Nah, you girls just go right ahead.”
Veronica offers me an extra face mask and visor shield, but I hold up my hand and refuse. “OK, Rook, spill it. What’s up?” She slips her gloves off, washes her hands, and then snaps on a new pair, grabs her inkwell, flips down her clear plastic face shield like she’s getting ready to do some welding, and the buzzing starts up again.
She is one strange chick.
“Well, it’s sorta private, ya know? Like, I’m not sure I should—”
“Rook,” she puffs through her mask, “we’ve got a pool running on how long it would take you to come by asking questions about your new roommates. It’s no secret that Spence, Ford, and Ronin are knee-deep in controversy and shit. So just tell me what’s on your mind.”
I sigh and then try for vagueness so I don’t involuntarily let out any new secrets. “OK, let’s start with the murder charges. True or not?”
“True,” Veronica says. “At least the charges part is. I have no idea if they actually did it, but everyone knows the state dropped the charges because of a procedural technicality.”
OK, that I figured. Obviously, since it was in the paper and all. “How about drug-dealing?”
Veronica snorts at this one. “That’s a first for me. Who says they deal drugs?”
“My math tutor had a print-out of a file the FBI is keeping on Ronin, and it said something about dealing coke, grand larceny, and…” I look around, then down at Tiny, who is all ears, just soaking up my girl gossip. “And something else that I won’t repeat.”
“Do you think Ronin’s dealing coke? I mean, you’ve lived with him for a few months, right?”
“I can’t see it, Veronica. I can’t see any of it to be honest. He seems like a really good guy. You saw that party he gave me. And yeah, Spencer throws that danger vibe at times, but he’s pretty normal as far as I can tell.”
“How about Ford?”
She stops the tattoo machine and then all four of the Vaughn brothers appear in her doorway and the place is suddenly very quiet, like everyone wants to hear my answer. I shake my head nervously. “I’m not talking to an audience, guys.”
Vic steps forward. He appears to be the oldest and he’s definitely the biggest, so maybe he’s like the family ringleader. “Hey, you came here to talk to us. Not the other way around.”
“I came to talk to Veronica.”
“Veronica is a package deal. You talk to her, you talk to us. Besides, she’s been dating that fuck Spencer for years now, and I’m curious about these guys. So tell us what you think of Ford.”
I guess that’s fair. At any rate, I don’t have a lot of room to negotiate. Either I give him what he wants so I can get their opinion on things, or I walk out. And I really need a second opinion on things, even if it is over a tattoo machine instead of coffee. “Ford’s good to me and we spend a lot of time together. I like him a lot. But there’s just some weird shit going down and I’m trying to figure out who to trust. I don’t need to know the specifics, Veronica. I just want to know if you think they’re OK.”
“Well, aside from Ford, I’d say yeah. Ronin and Spencer are good guys. But Ford…” She shakes her head at me. “I’m sorry, Rook. You saw that display at your party. He keeps those girls as his pleasure slaves.”
I swallow hard as Ford’s words come back from the exit interview for the pilot show. I’m not a good guy, Rook. I’m not even close to a good guy.
This cannot be happening. Seriously cannot be happening. “Against their will? Does he keep them against their will? Or is it mutual? He took her to the party, surely it must be mutual?”
Veronica shrugs. “How should I know? You’re his friend, do you think he keeps them against their will?”
I’m not sure. In fact, I have no idea whatsoever. I’ve never seen Ford outside our little friendship sphere. I only found out his last name because Gage blurted it out last week. “Well, that’s all I needed, I guess I’ll go.” I get up to walk out but all four of the Vaughn brothers are still standing in the doorway. Blocking it. “Excuse me,” I say nervously. The hard bodies part and I slip through. I walk quickly down the hallway, round the corner to the front reception area, and I’m just about to break through the door when a hand grabs me from behind.
“Hold on, Rook,” Vic says softly as his grip loosens. “I’d like to give you my opinion.”
I shake my head. “No, I’ve heard enough, Vic. I’m not interested.”
“Well, you’re gonna get it anyway. So, for what it’s worth, I like Spencer. Just don’t tell him that because we have this whole ‘I’ll kill you if you fuck over my sister’ thing going.” And then Vic smiles down at me and my heart slows a little at his unexpected quiet voice and gentle touch. “You know, he plays tough guy. And he’s got the shit to back it up. And maybe that reputation he has is even halfway true. Maybe he did kill that guy? I have no idea. But I let him take my sister out, so you know, I think he’s OK.”
Vic releases my arm and I push through the door, mumbling out a ‘thank you’ as I slip into the darkness.
Maybe Spencer killed that guy? That’s even a possibility?
Holy fucking shit. I’m sure Vic thought his words would make me feel better, but they don’t. Because I never, not for one moment, really believed these guys actually murdered someone.
Until now.
Just when I think my day could not get any worse it starts to rain.
I walk hastily down the sidewalk, look both ways, wait for a car to pass, and then head towards my truck. I fish my keys out of my pocket, look up, and then stop dead in the middle of the southbound lane of College Avenue.
Wade fucking Minix is standing six feet away.
Chapter Thirty-One – ROOK
A set of headlights flash, then a horn honks but I can’t drag my eyes away from the man standing before me. Where the hell did he come from?
Then Wade has me by the waist and he throws me down on the wet ground near the back tire of my truck. My breath comes out with a loud oomph with the impact and then my head slams back onto the concrete, temporarily stunning me. “Jesus fucking Christ, Rook! You almost got flattened by a goddamn van!”
He lies there on top of me, breathing heavy, staring into my eyes, and I’m paralyzed. He comes back to his senses before I do and stands up, extending his hand.
I process what he’s doing but nothing moves. I’m just frozen. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He reaches down, grabs my arm, and hoists me to my feet. I lean back against the truck and realize he never answered me. “I said—”
“I heard you, Rook,” he says so softly I can barely make out his words over the constant stream of traffic flowing through the little downtown. “Let’s sit in your truck. Can we sit and talk in your truck?”
I’m too stunned to even answer. I haven’t talked to this guy in five years. The last time we had a conversation I was a kid, about to be thrown back into the foster care system because his mom wanted to keep us apart. Wade takes the keys from my hand, unlocks the door, and pushes me to get in the driver’s seat. I watch him walk around the front of the truck, then get in next to me, setting a backpack down on the floor in front of him.
“Rook—” he starts. But I put up a hand.
“Don’t. I don’t even know why I let you in this truck. Give me the keys.” I hold my hand out and he drops them into my palm. I shove the key in the ignition and start the truck. “Leave. I have nothing to say to you, Wade. If I wanted to talk to you I would’ve done it up in Sturgis.”
He shakes his head at me and I take him in. Like, really take him in for the first time since that horrible day that changed my life forever. His blond hair is wet and plastered against his face and even though I know he’s got gorgeous green eyes, I can’t really make out the color in the dark. He’s a lot bigger than I remember him, maybe because we were just kids back then. Five years can mean a lot of changes to a teen boy’s body.
“Rook, listen to me, OK? I just want to talk to you, that’s it. I just want a chance to talk to you.”
“Why? What could you possibly have to say to me that hasn’t already been said?”
“I’m sorry.” His eyes search my face, almost as if they’re pleading.
“Sorry?” I shake my head. Un-fucking-believable. “You’re sorry? You’re sorry for what, Wade?”
“For what happened.” I just stare at him. “What happened after… you know, after my mom kicked you out and you ended up with that Jon guy.”
“What?” I ask, stunned.
“I know what happened, Rook.”
“You don’t know shit. Get the fuck out of my truck.”
“I know everything, Rook.” And then he reaches down into the backpack and removes a folder and thrusts it at me.
I just stare at it. And I’m not sure how I know, but I know—“I do not want that.”
“I don’t care,” he says in a low voice. “You’re taking it. They’ve been trying to reach you through your math tutor but you just won’t listen.”
I look around wildly. They are following me! “Who sent you with this?”
“The FBI, Rook. You’re in so damn deep, baby, they just—”
“Do not fucking call me baby, OK? I’m not your fucking baby.”
“Sorry,” he says, raising his hands in an I surrender motion. “Sorry, I just need to talk to you and then I’ll leave if you want.”
“I’m not talking about Ronin, Wade. I’m not sure what’s going on, but that paper Gage showed me was utter bullshit. He’s not any of those things they say he is and I don’t care what kind of so-called proof those guys have, I’m not buying it.”
“This isn’t about Ronin, Rook. It’s about Jon, and those things he was doing back in Illinois. The things he made you participate in, the things—”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” My heart is racing so fast I might pass out, that’s how rattled I am right now. “Who sent you?”
“I told you—”
“No, who specifically. I want a name, right fucking now, or I’m calling the police and reporting you for stalking.”
He hesitates for a second and then gives it up. “Agent Abelli, he’s out of the Chicago FBI field office. He’s been hunting Jon down for years and they were very close to busting him when you took off to Vegas last spring. Jon disappeared after that and then, of course, he resurfaced here.”
I’ve never heard that name. Who the fuck? “So? Why do they want to talk to me?”
“They think you have something of Jon’s. Something you got in Vegas. Did you get something of Jon’s in Vegas, Rook?”
My entire body is buzzing with anxiety right now. What the hell is all this about? I want to say I never went to Vegas and I have nothing of Jon’s, not a damn thing. But I’m just not sure I should play that card so soon. “What if I did?”
Wade breathes out a sigh of relief. “Oh, fuck, thank God. You need to hand that over, Rook. These people are not fucking around, OK? They want that information and if you saw any of it, you better pretend you didn’t.” He stops and grabs my shoulders with both hands. “Did you read any of it?”
I shake my head, far too frightened to actually form words right now.
“Where is it?” His eyes race around my face like he’s too amped up to concentrate on one point for more than a millisecond.
“I never saw it,” I say, backpedaling. I know Jon went to Vegas on business sometimes, but I have no idea what he did there. “I lied, I never saw it. I never went to Vegas, Wade, I came straight here, to Denver. You can check, I was in a homeless shelter, then I had a house-cleaning job—”
“So you never went to Vegas? Do you know if he had a security box there?”
I nod my head, because he is freaking me the fuck out and I need to give up something. “But I don’t know anything else about it. Not where it is or how to get into it, nothing.”
“Well, they checked the box, Rook. And it’s empty.” He sorta laughs here, but it’s one of those I’m-about-to-go-insane laughs and my heart rate jacks up about a thousand notches. “So that means someone has the stuff.” He shakes his head. It’s a jerky motion that definitely tells me he’s about to lose it and then he turns, his head down a little so his eyes are peeking up at me though a curtain of wet hair and dark lashes. He whispers, “Do you have the stuff?”
I swallow down the fear and say calmly, “I have no stuff, Wade. I don’t have anything of Jon’s.”
“Rook, listen to me, OK? You and those guys you’re with are the only ones who’ve had access to Jon, OK? So one of you has the shit they’re looking for. And let me just tell you, these people are not fucking around, OK?”
Each time he says ‘OK,’ the pitch of his voice raises, making him sound even more crazy, and my whole body begins to tremble, because I might not get out of this. Wade is not acting right.
“If you have it, Rook, you gotta tell me. Because they’ve got my mom, Rook. They’ve got my mom locked up on some fake-ass charges and they’ll send her to prison if I don’t figure out where this shit is. Do you understand?”
This snaps me back from the edge of fear and puts me on the offense immediately. “Am I supposed to give a shit about your mother?” I laugh. “Really? Let them lock her up! After what she did to me!”
“I’m sorry about that. I tried to stop her, you know that. I tried to stop her from sending you back to the State. She just wouldn’t listen and she threatened to cut me off. I needed her help to race.”
“You were a grown-ass man, Wade. You were eighteen years old. You could’ve helped me if you cared one shit about what was happening.”
“Yeah, and you were underage, Rook. It’s called statutory rape, sexual predator-type stuff—it was a huge risk.”
He’s serious. This asshole thinks that saving me from living on the streets, from those crack-houses the fucking foster care people sent me to… saving me was a risk? “You’re pathetic. You have no idea what it means to take a risk for someone you love. To put it all on the line for them. None. You’re nothing but one pathetic, selfish, fucking asshole.”
“What was I supposed to do, go to jail for you? That would’ve helped how? How would throwing my life away help you?”
“Oh, you poor, poor baby. And for your information, Jon was twenty-one when he found me. And he sure the fuck found a way to keep me.”
“Yeah, and look what that sick fuck was doing!”
“And you know who I blame for all those years, Wade? Just take one educated guess.” I stop to glare at him, the full depth of my hatred for everyone who ever met me as a child coming out, seeping through my pores like some hot sticky mess left over from all that sex I had with Jon as a teenager. All that filthy fucking sex that was not anything close to love. That entire relationship made me feel dirty, and unwanted, and useless, and… and… and insignificant.
“You, that’s who,” I say in a whisper. “I blame you for all the terrible, horrific things that happened to me back in that house. All of it. It’s one hundred percent your fault. Because I was just a girl, you were a man. I asked you for help. You said you loved me, for fuck’s sake. And then you just walked out. You are nothing but a selfish fucking piece-of-shit coward! You left me to live on the streets, to be picked up by that predator, to be held under his thumb for years.”
“That wasn’t me, Rook. I had nothing to do with that. That wasn’t—”
“You are the darkness, Wade. You are nothing but my dark, disgusting past trying to suck me back in to a life of shame.”
“I just want to say I’m sorry, Rook. And please, just listen to me about this FBI stuff, OK? I need you to—”
“Get out!”
My scream is echoing though my head when someone knocks on my window and scares the fuck out of me. I take a deep breath and realize it’s Vic Vaughn. I roll it down and look up at him.
“Everything OK in here, Blackbird?”
I shake my head. “No, he’s bothering me. I want him to leave.”
Vic reaches into the truck and presses the unlock button. The other three Vaughn brothers appear, open the passenger side door and pull Wade out.
“Rook, listen to what I said, OK? Read those papers. They took my mom and they’ll take someone from you too. They will, Rook, you’ll see!”
Vic and I watch as the Vaughn brothers drag Wade across the street and throw him on the ground in front of a candle shop that’s closed for the night. “You want some help, Rook? Want me to drive you home? My brothers can follow us, make sure everything’s cool.”
My first instinct is to say, ‘no, thank you.’ But I stop the words and nod up at Vic. “I would really appreciate that, thank you.”
“Scoot over, Gidget,” he says with a smile as he pushes me into the passenger seat. “And I swear, you’d think one odd name was enough, but woman, you seem to have a collection of them. Hey, Vinn!” he calls out the window. “I’m driving Rook over to Spencer’s, you guys follow to keep an eye out for any more psychos.” And then he gets in the truck and I breathe out a huge sigh of relief.
