There are a few murmurs and a loud caw from Birdie’s hawk. I peer over my shoulder to see Birdie feeding his hawk a raw piece of meat. The bird has the silliest name. Luke Skyhawker. Birdie calls him Sky for short.
The screen on the TV is black but something is playing because there are drips and whispers, or maybe those are cries. I can’t hear enough to make them out. There’s static, a break in the feed, before the camera finally stops zooming in and a light flickers on.
A smiling, young man appears on the screen. His perfect brown, parted hair is flawless and he is wearing a hot pink polo shirt. His teeth are too white and too square…too uniform.
This is Kenneth.
“Hi, Hellhounds,” he says, taking a sip of a red drink that must be a cocktail. It has a fucking umbrella sticking out of it for fuck’s sake and he drinks it out of a straw. I want to break his back over my knee after I pummel his face with my bat. “Or maybe I should direct this video to Wesley.”
I sit up straighter, and One places his sandwich on the plate, pushing it away from him as this asshole says my name. Whatever he has to say, it’s geared toward me.
“I know you’ve been getting my presents, but you guys haven’t reacted and it’s hurting my feelings.” He pouts his bottom lip before throwing his head back and laughing. “That’s alright. I have other ways of getting your attention.” The humor drops from his face and something vile and sardonic takes over a second later. A chill rushes through my bones as the lifeless void in his eyes glares at me from the screen.
I reach behind me and slide my bat from its holster, the nails embedded along the body clinking across the table as I set it down, needing to grip it.
“Stay calm,” Mercy whispers. “He wants to rile you.”
“I have something you want, and you have something that belongs to me, Wesley. I want my wife. Now, I know you think she’s not really my wife, but we will agree to disagree. She’s been mine since she was nineteen. I’m all she knows. Don’t you think it’s cruel to keep her from me? Kind of like I’m keeping Taylor from you.”
The screen changes to another room, and Taylor is next to her boyfriend. She’s crying, mascara running down her bloodied face. There’s a dirty rag tied around her mouth and by the looks of it, she’s bound to the chair she’s in.
It’s muffled but it sounds like she saying, “I’m sorry.”
“Taylor,” I whisper and stand, dashing over to the front of TV. “I’m right here, Sis-a-roo. I’m here.” I talk to her even though I know she can’t hear me. It makes me feel better. I feel like I’m with her. “Damn it, Taylor. What did you do?” I lean against the counter and grip it as I watch her and her piece of shit boyfriend struggle against their restraints.
She’s wearing one of my shirts. The one that says Ruthless Hellhounds on it. It’s new. I just had them made for the club and I haven’t even worn it yet, but when I brought her here, I gave her a few since I burned the trailer down with all of her clothes in it. It makes sense how he was able to figure out where we were so fast and how he knew Charlie was here.
“Isn’t she delightful.” Kenneth walks behind Taylor and runs his hands down her neck and chest, stealing touches that do not belong to him.
One is out of his chair next and the wood scrapes across the floor. His boots pound against the ground as he stands next to me, his fists clenching at his sides.
That damn soft spot he has for her is going to be the death of him.
“She’s so pretty, Wesley.” He bends down and runs his nose over her cheek. “I might need a taste for myself later.”
The boyfriend yanks against the binds and curses at Kenneth behind the rag in his mouth. I can see his efforts to try and protect Taylor, but I still don’t like the guy. She wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for him.
Taylor closes her eyes and squeezes them shut as he pulls out a knife and starts to cut the material of her shirt. He yanks at it, splitting it right down the middle. Her screams yank at my heart and I have to look away while One watches in fury as Kenneth continues to touch her.
I punch the counter until the skin around my knuckle's stings. I don’t have to see the screen because I’m looking at One’s face and his jaw is tense, his eyes shooting bullets at the screen.
“You have 48 hours to bring me Charlie. Every day that passes until that 48-hour mark is reached, I’m going to touch another part of this beautiful body and you better hope by the time you get here that your sister is still in one piece when I’m done with her.”
I let out a painful, agonized roar that shakes the spice jars on the shelf behind the stove.
“And I know, you’re probably thinking, ‘Kenneth isn’t serious. He doesn’t look the type.’ But let me tell you something, Wesley. I am the fucking type. And if you want to know what will happen to your sister—” he drags the rag from Taylor’s boyfriend’s mouth.
“You mother fucker. I’m going to kill you for touching her! You hear me? I’m going to—”
But Kenneth shoves a gun into his mouth and pulls the trigger without pausing, without batting an eye, and there’s no remorse. Blood splatters against the wall along with brain matter and a few of the guys groan in disgust behind me.
Not me.
I’m fixate on the scream leaving Taylor’s throat and the blood splashed across her cheek. She wails and fights against the restraints, but she isn’t going anywhere. Taylor eyes her boyfriend, who is dead, cheek against the table and head turned in her direction, staring up at her with vacant eyes.
“Your sister will end up like my best drug runner here who told me he wanted to get out. Can you believe that? No one gets out. No one. Charlie is no exception. The clock is ticking, Wesley. Charlie will know where to go.” He turns off the video and I’m left staring at the Scapegoat logo.
“Whistler.”
I turn around so fast and see Charlie standing there. She takes a few small steps forward and pauses. Her shirt is drenched in sweat and her skin is glistening in the sun pouring in from the window behind her. There’s sawdust in her hair and clinging to her jeans. Her chest rises and falls as she tries to catch her breath, whether it is from exertion from working or from what she’s just seen.
“We need a plan. The sooner we act, the better,” Mercy says, turning off the TV.
“That symbol. I’ve seen it before. What is it?” Charlie asks, timid and tired, yet she isn’t backing down. Her steps are quiet as she comes forward. No one says a word. It isn’t up to them. It’s up to me. It’s been my job to keep her informed and I haven’t. “Someone better start talking.” She looks around and the guys glance away. “Now!” she screams, and the desperate edge has me taking her hand.
She pulls away from me, and I know I’ve fucked up.
That trust One was talking about earlier, it’s fading, and there is a small window of opportunity for me to save any chance of us making it through this.
Getting trust once is a miracle, but twice?
That’s damn near impossible.
“Come on, Cupcake. Let’s talk in private.”
“No.” The word leaves my mouth for the first time in years. I’ve never been able to say it before, but I know I can say it to Whistler because he won’t hit me or punish me for standing my ground.