Because that’s all I can do.
“Please…” I don’t even realize I’m talking, and although I tell my mouth to stop, it doesn’t. “Please, just let me go. I promise I won’t tell anyone. I won’t say a word. Not to my father. No one. I’m only nineteen. Please.” And now tears are free-falling down my face. I’m choking on sobs. And I’m so tired, so disoriented that I find my face buried on Max’s shoulder. His shirt is drenched with the spicy scent of Dior’s Sauvage. Bronson wore that. And now I find myself weeping harder while he remains rigid.
His large hands grip my shoulders and he slowly pushes me away from him. His fingers trail down my arms and then he grabs onto me, bending me over my knees. “Goddamn it, Earl,” he mumbles beneath his breath as he takes my bound wrists in his hands. Leaning over, he reaches to the leg of his jeans. When he straightens up, there’s a hunting knife in his hand. Fear consumes me. That tingle from a sudden shot of adrenaline covers my skin, my head swims, and before I can really react, he’s cut my wrists free. “Not like you’re gonna go anywhere, now is it?” he asks.
I quickly bring my hands to my lap and stare at the purple marks. There’s some dried blood where the rough cord broke the skin. My fingers are swollen and blue. After a few seconds, I feel needles in my fingertips from the blood rushing back to them, and I find myself trying to shake the uncomfortable feeling away.
“What do you want with me?” I ask. “At least tell me that.”
A pitiful, soft smile twists over his lips. “You don’t want to know.” He rubs over the back of his neck. “I really hate this. I really do, but it’s kinda part of it, you know?”
“No, I don’t know.” And I don’t know why I’m talking to him.
A slight smirk plays over his lips. “‘These men turn from the right way to walk down dark paths. They take pleasure in doing wrong, and they enjoy the twisted ways of evil…’ You know, all that shit.”
I glare at him. “Don’t quote Jesus.”
“That wasn’t Jesus. It’s actually from Proverbs.”
I stare at him, almost dumbfounded. “Yeah…”
“Bad people need Jesus more than good people, you know?” he says as he drags in a hard breath. “I am sorry about this. Just don’t piss Earl off. And to be honest, I’ll be spending more time with you than him.”
“Please.” With my hands now free, I grab onto his, gripping them for dear life. “Please, just let me go. I’m a student at the University of Alabama. I’m majoring in premed microbiology. I want to get married one day, have kids. Please,please, don’t let this be the last thing I experience.” A sob bubbles up my throat. “Please!”
His chin is to his chest and he’s leaned over his knees, wringing his hands. “Just do what they ask,” he says.
The lock clicks and the hinges groan as Earl steps back into the room. He has several items in his arms, which he dumps onto the mattress.
“There you is. Some waters. Gat-or-ades. Pop-Tarts, cereal bars, Twinkies, a few Oatmeal Creme Pies, and then there’s some of ’em protein bars with nuts in ’em.”
“Fuck, Earl.” Max swats at the food. “You want her to go into a diabetic coma?”
Earl glares at Max. “You said to bring her them wrapped foods. Well, that’s them.”
Max shakes his head and pushes up from the bed. He shoves past Earl and waits in the doorway. Earl’s gaze keeps jumping from the pile of overly-processed foods to me. “Earl, come on!” Max shouts, causing Earl to jump. I keep my gaze fixed on the edge of the mattress. The door closes. Locks slide. And I’m alone once again.
Solitude. Like a prisoner serving a life sentence because I am fairly certain that is what this will be. Me, here in this room, until my life is finally taken from me.
7
Max
Ava-fucking-Donovan.
I stare slack-jawed at the Facebook profile picture on the computer screen, my hand hovering over the mouse. She is Frank Donovan’s daughter.Fucking hell, Earl!Anyone in this underworld would recognize that name. He is a fucking hitman. That man is violent and ruthless. And he’s a fucking genius. The CIA can’t touch him. As far as anyone outside of this world is concerned, Donovan is nothing more than a businessman because he is a chameleon. The most successfully evil people are the best at appearing to be normal, theyarethe people you want to have over for dinner because they are so charming.
Frank Donovan.
Funny, the way fate weaves its sick little web. Donovan—I hate him and his fucking family. I tap my fingers over the desk, sweat building on my brow as I recall the moment I accepted that there’s a sliver of darkness that lives in us all. I fight it. I grit my teeth, willing my mind to stop, but like a black hole that memory beckons me, drawing me inside the despondency the second I give in and close my eyes.
The hammer feels heavier than it should in my hands. My palms slick with sweat, my heart drumming into my throat. Each beat pulses in my eyes, my vision threatening to go black. I’ve never been this mad and can understand now how people have fucking heart attacks from sheer anger. I’m standing at the end of the couch watching this motherfucker breathe. In. Out. In. Out. I want to stop his goddamn chest from rising.
This fuckface works with my dad, and every so often he gets so sloppy ass drunk he passes out on the couch, just like he is now. I’ve never liked him. He’s an arrogant piece of shit, and there’s been plenty of times I’ve wanted to knock his teeth down his throat, but what I heard my sister telling her friend earlier today—I’m going to kill him for it. She was sobbing. Johnny Donovan—this piece of shit lying on my fucking couch—raped her. She’s fucking fourteen. I close my eyes, trying to tell myself to breathe. He jumps in his sleep and shifts on the couch, knocking several beer cans to the floor in the process.
My jaw tenses, and I take a step toward him. Then another, stopping when my shadow falls over him.This is not wrong. It’s not.I lift the hammer and slam it down over the back of his head. What a sound it makes. It’s not exactly a crack, maybe more of a pop or plop—a wet plop at that, like smashing a fucking pumpkin wide open. He shouts, grabbing the back of his head and turning on the couch. Too bad for him, the next blow lands on his face. Blood explodes from his nose. “You raped my sister, you sick fuck.”
“Stop,” he groans, spitting blood from his mouth.
