Through both the pain of keeping my eyelids open and the memories keeping my happiness hostage, I dump my empty glass onto Brandon’s desk, toe off my shoes, tug down my jeans, then slip between the sheets on Brandon’s bed. A fond memory raises my cheeks when I recall the reason Brandon’s bed is only made with a fitted and flat sheet. His mom turned his bedspread into curtains for me. I hate that Crombie set them alight. Just like this room is always featured in my dreams, so does Brandon’s bedspread.
With my heart a twisted mess of confusion, and my eyelids the heaviest they’ve ever been, I fall asleep. I’m not a good judge of time, but I’d say I’ve barely napped for twenty minutes when a gust of air floats over my skin. Since the light I left on has been switched off, and Brandon’s curtains are closed, I can’t see who’s approaching me, but I most certainly recognize his smell. The aftershave lotion Brandon’s mom purchased to keep his skin baby smooth and fresh has always been a favorite scent of mine.
It’s about time Brandon turned up. I’ve been waiting for ages. I whack him in the gut to reflect my anger when he slides between the sheets with me. I’m still mad at him, and I’ve been worried out of my mind.
When I roll onto my opposite hip to face him, I’m hammered by a horrendous dizzy spell. As my hands dart up to soothe the frantic thump of my temples, I bump away Brandon’s hand attempting to caress my breasts. I want to tell him now isn’t the time to appease my anger with sex, but my head is thumping too fiercely to form words.
I flop onto my back before snapping my eyes shut, praying some extra blackness will ease my thumping head. I’ve barely closed my eyes for two seconds when the weight of Brandon’s body pins mine to the mattress. I don’t know whether to giggle or scream when he buries his chin into my neck. It’s minus the prickles it houses when he gets too lazy to shave over the summer, but I still can’t handle it. I’m very ticklish around my neck and collarbone, especially when he’s breathing as heavily as he is now.
“No, BJ,” I sign when his hand slithers down my bunched-up shirt to my underwear. It’s still pitch black, but if his eyes aren’t as blurry as mine, he may be able to see my demand. “I don’t feel good. Please stop.”
My eyes pop open faster than a bullet leaving a gun when he roughly tugs my panties down my thighs, ignoring my many unvoiced demands for him to stop. Even if he can’t see the words I’m speaking, my constant groaning would have to have his suspicions raised—surely. Usually, I never turn him down, so for me to deny him now should have alarms ringing in his head.
I frantically tap on his shoulder, demanding for him to stop when his manhood pokes and prods between my legs, but he acts ignorant to the signal I regularly use when requesting his attention. Fear overtakes my anger when my endeavor to kick him off me causes him to grip my thigh so painfully, I’m certain it will have a bruise in the morning.
The panic sinking me into a dark and lonely hole intensifies when he flips me onto my stomach before securing my hands behind my back, so I can’t move or sign. I sign no on repeat in my head when he enters me with one quick thrust. He didn’t request permission like he always does, and he doesn’t wait for me to adjust to his girth before he drags himself all the way out before slamming back in.
That can only mean one thing. The person pinning me to the bed so fiercely I can’t move isn’t Brandon.
As tears trickle down my cheeks, I permit the grogginess clouding me to bury me beneath a hurt so strong, I don’t think I’ll ever survive it. For the next thirty or so seconds, I stare at the door of Brandon’s childhood bedroom, my mind far away from the terrifying event overriding the many good ones I created in this very room. I only return from the terrifying nothingness when the brightness of a hallway light creeps across the floorboards and has me stumbling onto a pair of Van shoes exiting the room, and I fall into a deep, dark pit.
22
BRANDON
A fter swishing spit around my mouth, I force down a swallow, praying it will send the vomit creeping up my throat back to my stomach. I’m only just waking up after being knocked out for who knows how long, so the last thing I want is for the people holding me captive to know I’m awake. It’s amazing what you can unearth when people don’t realize you’re listening. That’s why I love being the smaller guy in the room. They never see me as a threat.
Once the desire to be sick has lessened, I prick my ears. The shuffling of feet on a dirty concrete floor advises there are at least two other people in the warehouse-like space with me. I haven’t lifted my head, but the echo of their words reveals the holding space is large and empty. It smells dusty, and a lack of street noise exposes it’s set back from the hustle and bustle of the city. If it isn’t a warehouse, my next guess would be a docking yard, but since there’s no fishy odor, I’m doubtful.
My lips purse when I rotate my wrists and ankles without interference. I’m not bound, but my life is clearly in danger. The thick Russian accent that roars through my ears a few seconds later leaves no doubt of this. “We can’t bring him into this, Grayson. There’s such a thing as a conflict of interest.”
“He’s a good kid, and from what I’ve witnessed the past three months, he knows nothing about their operation.”
I balance my chin closer to my chest when the scuffling of feet heads my way. My head looks like it’s slumped to the side, but my new position allows me to see the man Grayson is arguing with. He’s large, tall, bald, and clearly Russian. The tattooed flag on his thick bicep ensures I can’t be mistaken, much less his accent when he spits out, “Trust isn’t something I’m willing to give you right now.”
Grayson appears devastated by his reply, but he doesn’t back down. “You told me to push the envelope—”
“I said push it! Not set it on fire.” The balding Russian thrust his hand at me. “You got into an altercation in broad daylight with a civilian.”
“She knew who he was. Melody confirmed Henry Gottle was known to her family before their home invasion. That’s the proof we’ve been seeking, Tobias.”
Tobias backhands Grayson in the chest. “Proof? What proof? The only proof we have is that your obsession with this case is going to get you killed…” His words trail off when Grayson asks, “Like yours almost did with Isabelle?”
Tobias looks set to murder when he growls, “Leave her out of this. She has nothing to do with this.”
Grayson shakes his head before folding his arms in front of his chest. “That’s a lie. You told me to think outside of the box on this case because every time you look at Katie’s photos, you see Isabelle.” With Tobias unable to deny his claims, Grayson notches another nail into his coffin. “We got close at her sale. We’ve just got to try another angle.”
I drop my eyes to the floor when Tobias’s head bob causes him to spot my snooping stare. I can’t see his smirk when I add to the bloody spit in the corner of my mouth to authenticate my ruse that I’m still out cold, but I can feel it. He has one of those grins that burn right through you. It’s as arrogant as it is heated.
“You’re finally awake.” He moves closer to the chair I’m slumped in. “Anyone would’ve sworn I had chloroformed you for how long you’ve been out.” He spins around a rickety wooden chair, then straddles it backward. “Did you have pleasant dreams?”
When he lifts my head via my throbbing chin, I give him a blood-smeared grin. “It could’ve been better. It’s not the best location for a catnap.”
“It’s better than a jail cell… where you would be waking if it weren’t for Grayson.” He nudges his head to Grayson, who’s hanging at the back of the industrial-size warehouse. “You attacked a federal agent in front of witnesses. That’s an instant jail term, kid.”
I twist my lips, acting smug. “He swung at me first.”
Tobias tosses a manila folder full of surveillance photographs onto the floor at my feet. “That isn’t what these say.”
