Blood to Dust(6)

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.