Blood to Dust (3 page)

This could have been touching if Godfrey wasn’t a kingpin with enough blood on his hands to fill a river, and Camden wasn’t a tailored, spoiled brat who lived off his father’s fortune and name. I hope my ex doesn’t plan on reproducing. The world needs more Archers like daytime TV needs more
Friends
reruns.

“No one’s gonna touch anyone,” Ink reassures, placing his gloved palm on his heart. He is standing close, too close. I hate it when men get too close.

The pulse in my neck is so strong, I’m worried my veins will burst. Sebastian walks behind me, untying the rope that chains me to the chair.

“Oh, and a word of advice,” Seb states casually with a deliberate tug that wounds my wrists, yanking me up to my feet. “Keep your masks on or blindfold her at all times. If she does get away, she will hunt you down and make fashionable jackets out of your skin. Make sure there aren’t any sharp objects anywhere near her—for the exact same reason. She can fuck you over so hard you won’t be able to walk straight for years.” He rubs the small of his back, probably reminiscing about the last time I saw him.

Seb circles to my front and throws an uppercut straight to my nose one more time before I leave. My head swings backward and my skull finds the wall. I’m shaking, squeezing my eyes shut so I don’t cry.

Happy thoughts.

Iowa fields.

White summer dress, cold against my warm skin.

Chocolate covered cherries.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t. Cry.

“Farewell, little rascal. Next time I see you, I’ll tuck you in goodnight before your eternal slumber.” Seb kisses my bleeding forehead gently, licking his lips—and my blood—with a smirk.

Ink’s mouth drops into a stunned
O
through his ski mask.

Beat’s smiling mask is trained on Seb.
They
don’t know that last time I met him, I pushed Seb from the rooftop of a barn.

He was lucky he fell straight into the arms of his boss, otherwise, he’d be as broken as Godfrey.

Beat slingshots Seb against the wall, twisting the collar of his crisp shirt into a heap of wrinkles. “Hitting girls now, Sebastian?” he hisses, grasping Seb’s jaw and squeezing so hard, the impending sound of a bone breaking fills the air. “And here I thought you couldn’t get any worse than you were in San Dimas.”

Seb laughs and pushes the big guy away.

“A girl? She’s the fucking devil. Her ex-boyfriend calls her
Diabla
. That’s Diablo with a cunt. All yours now. Have fun, mate.”

The ricochet of Godfrey and Seb’s laugher dances against the naked walls of the warehouse as Ink leads me to the door by the arm. Beat is hot on our heels, and panic takes over my feet, making me stumble like a drunk.

I don’t want to leave.

I don’t want to stay.

Not that it matters. I’m screwed either way.

“We need to search her for potential weapons.” Ink tugs at the fabric of my dress. Beat grunts from behind us. We pour into the thinning summer night, the stars above me dimmed by pollution and the coat of tears I resist shedding.

My stress ball. I need it.
Now
.

“I volunteer,” Ink snorts, his palm stroking the curve of my ass hesitantly.
Scared
.

My brain kicks into action and I realize what’s about to happen.

“I’d like Beat to search me.”

We stop in front of a rusty Toyota Tacoma—I think it was red at some point—and Ink fumbles for the keys in his coveralls.

I don’t want to fuck my way out of a bad situation. It’s always been a hard limit for me. But this time, I just might make an exception in order to save my life. Godfrey wants me untouched. The minute one of them sleeps with me, I have leverage over him. The master plan would be to run away, but considering their physical advantage, it’s wise to have a plan B.

Now, I’m not sure which one of these idiots is more likely to hand me the
Out-of-Jail
card. Ink seems affected by my looks, but too mortified by Godfrey and his crew. Beat, on the other hand, isn’t intimidated by the English gangster, but doesn’t look like a guy who is struggling for pussy. Offering him sex would be like selling STDs to a street hooker.

“You don’t get a say in this shit,” Ink announces with borrowed authority. I can hear the uncertainty leaking from him. He’s what I call an
easy job
. If it were just him watching over me, I would have been dancing in Iowan cornfields far away from here by now, Sebastian and Godfrey’s heads tucked in that Nike bag.

“You make me uncomfortable.” I yank my arm away.

“What, and the other guy makes you warm and fuzzy?” He sounds genuinely offended.

Beat inches closer behind me, and I feel the heat of his body drifting into mine. He’s close. Hot-jock-leaning-against-your-locker close. It’s going to be hard to bypass someone his size.

“You think I’m nice?” His breath moves through the plastic of his mask, tickling my ear. I shudder down to my toes. His mouth smells like peach. How bad can a guy who smells like a peach be?

“Nice-r.” I clear my throat, my eyes still trained on Ink in front of me. Ink shakes his head, indicating that I’m dead wrong. The air becomes chilly. Why hadn’t I noticed it’s so chilly?

Because it’s not. It’s August in California, and I’m cold because I’m frightened.

“Let’s test your theory. I’m going to touch you now. Move without permission, and I’m breaking your arm.”

My busted lower lip splits open again as I scowl. He definitely looks like a guy who makes good on his threats.

“Okay.” I lick my bloody lip, my voice tender.

Beat kicks my legs open and brings my arms up, patting me down dryly, like airport security. His rough fingers stroke the curves of my shoulders as he moves down from my skull to my outer breasts, circling them lazily. Down to my stomach, lower to my tensed inner thighs, then he pushes the fabric of my mini dress away to make room for his warm paws.

Every muscle in my body is ready to plow forward, to run away, to try and hurt him; the memory of every experience I’ve had that started this way demands for me to take action. But this. . .it doesn’t feel like a violation. The sour taste of bile has yet to explode in my mouth.

His hands move down my legs, stroking my ankles. . .then he stops.

“Got something inside?” He squats down, hooking one of his thumbs into my ankle boot. His masked face is eye level with my pelvis, and warmth spreads along my bones like hot wax.

“No,” I lie. There’s still a slight chance he won’t check.

But he checks.

Beat jerks my boot off and a Swiss army knife falls with a
clank
on the concrete pavement. I let out a sigh and drop my head. Shit.

Happy thoughts.

Frozen yogurt with Preston down at the local mall.

Curling up on the egg-swing with a Mia Sheridan book.

Water lilies blooming over the artificial pond in the Burlington-Smyth’s garden.

A genuine smile from a stranger.

Beat stands up slowly, his gleeful mask zeroing in on my face. It all looks like a scene from a horror movie.

And I’m the victim.

“You know I can hurt you without leaving physical marks.” His thumb brushes my lower lip, like he’s about to kiss me, and chills run marathons up and down my arms. “Don’t test me, Boots. I can make sure you suffer in more than one way your country club ass isn’t used to.”

Maybe it’s because his finger is on my bleeding lip, and maybe it’s because his tone is the most peaceful I’ve ever heard, but the threat runs deep.

“I’m so s–sorry.” I stutter my way into heated cheeks. He doesn’t answer, just shoves me lightly in Ink’s direction, announcing in a flat tone, “Let’s blindfold her. No way in hell I’m driving with this shit on my face. Wait here.”

He strolls to the other end of the deserted parking lot, giving us his back, while Ink digs his fingers into my arm like a nervous child. Ink is twitchy, fidgety and judging from the wet pools under his armpits—scared shitless. I watch as Beat pulls off his black hoodie in the darkened corner of the lot. His back is defined with arches and muscles. Tan, and not only from the sun.

Manual worker, probably not Caucasian
, I make a mental note in case I’ll need to identify him in a police station someday. Still optimistic, as you can see.

Half of Beat’s back is tattooed to its last inch, and the other half is completely ink-free. The tats end along his spine, making him look like half a man, half a machine. I watch his hard body flexing as he produces my Swiss knife, flips it open and uses it to rip his black shirt into long pieces.

He works the knife skillfully. Every movement is methodical, deliberate, almost like he is piecing it together into something magnificent, not tearing it apart to become a weapon against me.

Maybe he’s a butcher. Everything about him sounds dangerous.

Killed before.

Just got out of San Dimas Prison.

Got beef with the Aryan Brotherhood.

Just imagining Godfrey’s neck, instead of Beat’s shirt, being ripped into shreds makes my thighs quiver.

“You did this to him?” I point my chin to Beat’s half-tattooed back. Ink snorts smugly.

“Damn right I did.”

Ink is a tattooist. And a stupid one at that, because milking intel from him was as easy as getting a cab driver to tell you their life story.

Beat strides back bare-chested, his hoodie swung over his tattooed shoulder, with strips of black cloth clutched in his palm.

“Hands,” he orders sharply. I raise my hands forward, wrists glued together. He takes one piece of black cloth and binds my hands to one another. It doesn’t hurt, but I won’t be able to break free.

And Mr. Tied-Me-Up-and-Not-to-a-Bed took my Swiss knife.

“Turn around.”

I spin on my heel and he wraps a second black cloth over my eyes. Utterly blind and completely helpless, the realization that I’m in trouble runs deeper. Beat and Ink might not be as dangerous as Godfrey and Seb, but they’re still capable of doing very bad things to me.

“Hop in,” Ink rasps behind me. The truck door swings open by the sound of it, but I stay rooted to the ground.

“I have no idea where I’m going,” I seethe. Beat grunts again. I feel him pick me up—the bulge of his biceps hard and round—and rest my frame on the beer-scented seat. My dress rides up, and I know they can probably see my panties. I try to wiggle it downwards.

“Can you pull my dress down?” I only manage to swallow some of my humiliation, my voice soaked with raw shame. A moment of silence ticks by before I feel the tips of his fingers pulling the hem of my dress toward my knees. A shiver breaks up my spine, crawling its way to my skull. Probably just fear, I tell myself.

“Thank you.”

He shoves me by the shoulder so that I’m lying in the cab and slams the door behind me.

“Don’t lift your head unless you want me to shoot a hole straight into it.” Ink barks, and someone slams the passenger door shut. “Enjoy the ride.”

“I fully intend to,” I bite, my eyes staring at the pitch black cloth with a woodsy, masculine smell. They underestimate me. That’s exactly how I like my rivals.

They think of me as a rich bitch, a frail little toy.

Little do they know that I’m not a toy, I’m a storm.

And I’m going to rip their lives apart.

Beat and Ink spend the ride talking about Godfrey and Seb. I figured they all met in a magical kingdom not too far away called San Dimas State Prison. But I couldn’t care less if they’ve all met through a knitting club. I put the pieces of Godfrey’s operation together as I try to make sense of it all.

After I arranged for Godfrey and Sebastian to get thrown into prison, I became a small-time drug dealer, nibbling into a negligible piece of the NorCal drug cartel cake. I had three streets I worked in Oakland, Richmond and Stockton. Crack heads knew better than to mess with me especially after, early into my gig, I broke someone’s jaw with my Glock when he tried to fondle me. There’s a lot I can tolerate, but sexual harassment is a hard limit.

Cocaine. Weed. Crack. Even super-glue. If you can get high on it—I had it in my pink duffel bag. The suppliers I worked with gave me a fifty percent discount for tipping them off about the whereabouts of all the drugs Godfrey and Seb smuggled past the border before they got caught.

Yup, that’s me.

Small. Blonde. Tailored.
Fearless
.

Godfrey Archer and Sebastian Goddard knew I was biting at their business on the outside, and I’m not going to lie—part of me sold drugs because I needed the money, but a bigger part did it to taunt them.

I heard that they were already targeting the inmates who were about to get parole, collecting soldiers to help them reclaim their empire. Recently, I changed streets. Dropped most of my clients and always met my regulars on different pavements so I wouldn’t get caught.

Apparently, the client I was supposed to be meeting today, Joe, tipped off Godfrey and sold me out.
Asshole.
But that’s how Godfrey works—buying friends and collecting debts.

I’m sure Beat and Ink owe him a favor. A big one, too. A favor that he cashed in tonight, in the form of me.