Blood to Dust

“We’re doing it,” Ink snaps, nodding to Godfrey and resting a hand on Beat’s shoulder. He is staring at the big guy, but talking to his boss. “We don’t want any trouble, God.”

Beat has none of it. When he stands up again, his chair flies to the floor with a bang that makes the whole room gasp. He storms toward the door before Godfrey’s voice makes him halt mid-step.

“The Aryan brothers are close.” The old man leans forward on his desk, his arms straining to hold him upright without the walking stick. “They’re still on the lookout for you, and all it takes is one”—Godfrey grabs my Glock and points it at Beat, squeezing one eye shut—“little. . .”

He releases the safety with a soft, deadly click, his finger applying pressure on the trigger. “Push.”

His hand moves up and he fires a bullet a few inches shy of Beat’s head. Nausea slams into me and the room spins as I drift in and out of consciousness. I can still hear Godfrey’s voice hovering like dark clouds over restless skies.

Beat hasn’t moved an inch.

“Pshh. Little Prescott meant business when she got armed. Loaded, are we?” He blows air into the barrel mockingly and continues. “Trust me, son, you don’t want to cross your loyal, truest friend. I might decide to lead them straight to your door if you do.”

Color me intrigued and on death row. This Beat guy is full of surprises. I’m going to be a hot target next to this guy. God, I have to find a way to ditch these two clowns. I’ll figure it out when they take me.

“It’s not up to us.” Ink shoots up from his seat, clasping Beat’s arm. “It’s your goddamn life, man. She’s just a nameless chick.”

Just a nameless chick. He has no idea how close he hit home. I used to be a sister, a daughter, a girlfriend and a friend. A poet, a dreamer and an honor student. But now. . .now I’m alone, left to fend for myself, with no one to look out for me. Some would say I’m taking my situation too lightly. I’m not. I’m looking at it from the outside, providing sarcastic commentary. Why? Because looking at my situation through a stranger’s eyes is all I can do to survive. After what I’ve been through, allowing myself to become intimate with this thing called a soul is practically a death wish. No. I’m stuffing reality, jamming it under mundane thoughts, and looking at the whole thing like it’s a terrible B-movie.

“Just follow the orders, pawn,” Godfrey instructs, his eyes returning to mine. He is stroking my gun, looking like he is using every ounce of self-control in his frail body not to shoot a hole in my forehead. “Camden arrives in California in thirty days. He has a wedding to attend in London first. We cannot miss it. After all, it’s his.”

My throat bobs involuntarily, my nose nipping like someone’s punched me square in the face. Camden’s getting married? It’s been a long time since I’ve last seen him. Up until now, I stupidly believed that I still knew him. But the guy I left behind wouldn’t marry anyone who wasn’t me. By the time we parted ways, we were much the same. Our guards were up so high, we couldn’t even see beyond the walls we’d built.

I was his sun and his stars, his water and air. And in my eyes, he was beauty and art, witty and smart.

Now I want to kill him, and he. . .he wants to cage me.

Godfrey snaps me out of my reverie.

“Now take the girl away before I cut her open and sell her inner organs to the highest bidder. A few things before you go—one: Do. Not. Fuck her. She belongs to Camden, and if he wants her as a belated wedding gift as a sex slave until she’s dead, it’s for him to decide. Two—don’t buy into her prissy charade. The girl might be of pedigree, but she is the epitome of ruthless, and she will try to run away. I’d expect nothing less from the daughter of a dirty politician. Three—” He takes a deep breath, rubbing his thin eyelids. “Do. Not. Fuck her. I said it before, but I’ll say it again. My son is quite smitten with this one. I want her untouched and, as much as I hate to say it, unviolated. Don’t hit her too hard and don’t rape her. She’s Camden’s.”

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 f*ck 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.