Captive Games: A Dark Mafia, Enemies to Lovers Romance

Chapter 1

Kitt

For one fleeting second, I consider turning back and running home. My stylish new ankle-height black leather commando boots feel heavy. They keep me cemented where I stand in the tight airplane aisle, wedged between my seat and the one in front of me.

I glance around as people gather their bags from the tiny overhead compartments and make their way down the aisle.

Bustling, busy airports somehow always manage to make me feel lonely. Reunions of teary-eyed families and friends gathered in groups. This experience is so different.

The only way to the island is via this tin-can death plane or a very long ferry ride. Though I’d hardly call the tiny aircraft I’m standing in a plane. It shuddered as they turned the engines on, my heart racing at the sound.

The other passengers remained calm, telling me the shaking was perfectly normal as we endured the rough ride through the Scottish skies.

The view as we left the city was incredible, calming me as we flew. Vast swaths of rolling green hills, blue-gray skies, and the turquoise sea crashing into sandy shores that rise into dramatic cliffs.

It held my attention, but now, after a pulse-pounding landing, we’re on the tarmac, here on the island that will be my new home for the next few months.

I’m here to save the codfish.

Thrilling, right? Searching through pages and pages of data then charting the numbers. It’s easy, predictable work. And that’s exactly what I need right now.

A recovery for the fish, and one for me as well.

The last year of my life was an absolute disaster.

“Keep going,” I tell myself, taking a deep breath. I’m the last passenger to walk down the narrow aisle. I paste what I hope is a friendly-looking smile on my face and grip the rail, walking down the wide flight of wobbly white steps they’ve rolled over for us to exit directly onto the tarmac.

The wind hits me first. Then the sheer beauty of the never-ending horizon, vast skies painted with brushstrokes of clouds, grassy hills rolling into the turquoise sea. The scene literally takes my breath away.

I reach the bottom step. An attendant wearing a bright yellow raincoat rolls my shiny black suitcase over to me. I thank him, then nervously gaze over the small groups of people.

A girl with dyed purple tips at the ends of her black hair and colorful tattoos up her arms holds up a white posterboard sign, my name handwritten across the front in massive black letters. She wears a black long-sleeved shirt and fishnet tights underneath her black overall shorts.

Next to her stands a soft-looking redheaded girl in navy leggings under a short gray-and-black tartan skirt, a thick, woolen, cream-colored sweater patterned with pink stars wrapped around her small body. She bites her bottom lip, tugging on the end of the thick red braid that hangs over her shoulder.

I stand only a few feet from them, but both their gazes pass right over me. They wait for someone else to come down the stairs but there’s no one left now other than staff.

They have to be here for me. My name is on the sign.

I approach the girls. “Hi, guys. I’m Kitt.” The two girls stare openly at me for a moment. I move closer, holding out my hand. Is it polite to shake hands in Scotland?

Neither one takes my hand. I shove it back into the pocket of my dark olive calvary-style Barbour quilted jacket I wore in the hopes of fitting in…

I glance at the paper sign. “Unless you’re here for another Kitt Townsend?”

The girl with the sign examines me head to toe with a curious gaze. Finally, she speaks. “Hi, I’m Carol Ann.”

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

The redheaded girl gives me a timid smile. “Sorry—It’s just…we thought you’d be…”

“What?” I ask.

“Tan?” Her words hang in the air between us for a moment.

“Oh!” I blurt out, unsure of how to follow that up, other than with a laugh that may seem impolite. “Um…” Should I apologize for my pale skin? It’s not the first time I’ve felt I owed the public a general apology for not fitting in.

Pretty pink blotches warm the redhead’s cheeks. She gives a sheepish grin. Maybe she’s just awkward like me.

“Sorry,” she says. “I just meant, you living in LA and all. We were looking for someone tan, blonde, maybe in stilettos like a movie star—” She shakes her head, cutting herself off. “Never mind. Fiona, by the way.” She juts her hand out and I shake it before she quickly takes it back. “Sorry. Again.”

“No,” I agree. “I’m no movie star.” I shove my hand back into my pocket.

“Yeah.” The other girl chimes in. “We were thinking you’d be all dolled up, spray tanner, heaps of makeup.” She eyes my coat. “And thought you’d have yourself a pair of those expensive tits.”

Fiona nudges her friend. “Rude, Carol Ann!”

“What?” Carol Ann shrugs. “Just saying. You said the same thing yourself on the car ride over, Fiona. Not like she had any social media profiles we could stalk before she got here. Why haven’t you got any?” The dark-haired girl narrows her gaze at me.

Fiona’s face is now as red as her hair. “Hush, Carol Ann! Seriously. You’re going to scare her off before she even gets off the tarmac.”

I say, “Straight, boring brown hair. No socials. Average boobs.” I glance down at my chest, which if padded could be a B-cup. “Okay, slightly smaller than average.” I give Carol Ann a sheepish grin. “Sorry to disappoint?” Before she can further question me about my lack of social media presence, I quickly change the subject. “While we’re making preconceived judgments, I have to say, I wouldn’t picture you as a Carol Ann.”

Carol Ann gives me a funny look, still seeming to be trying to make sense of me. I feel embarrassed, thinking my comment was rude.

I’m relieved when Carol Ann’s pretty face breaks out into a wide, toothy grin. “Exactly! Thank you! Finally, someone agrees with me.”

Carol Ann tucks the sign under her arm, grabbing the handle of my roller case from me. She starts walking down the tarmac, natural leader of the group, and Fiona and I follow while she talks at us over her shoulder. “Would you tell my mum for me, please? I’m trying to convince the family to call me C.A. or Carrie, at least, but they’re not going for it.”

“Why not?” I ask. “People change their names all the time in LA. My roommate was a Rachel and when I came back from spring break it was Raquel.”

Fiona links arms with me as we walk. “Strict churchgoing families,” Fiona offers, giving me a sincere look. “Everyone knows everyone in this tiny country and seems like if you get into any trouble your mam and pa know before you do.” The feel of Fiona’s arm in mine makes me happy. I feel relaxed for the first time since stepping on the rattling plane.

“Do you think—” I swallow down my nerves. “Do you think everyone else will expect me to be—different?”

“Don’t you worry,” Fiona says, patting my arm. She leans her head on my shoulder for a moment of reassurance. “They’ll all like you just as you are. A natural beauty, you are.”

“Yes, they’ll love you. We already love you.” Carol Ann pauses long enough to turn over her shoulder and make eye contact. “Sorry about our rude introduction. My mom always says I need to grow a filter. I think you’re just right as you are. It’s just when we heard Orange County?—”

“And Los Angeles, no less,” Fiona adds.

“Let me guess,” I interrupt. “Your mind went straight to rich reality-TV housewives with too much time on their hands who can afford any and all forms of beauty treatments and plastic surgery?”

“Yes!” they both say at once. Followed by a mutual, “Jinx!”

“You’re jinxed,” Carol Ann tells Fiona, an edge of authority in her voice. “That means it’s your turn to put the kettle on when we get back to the lodge.”

“I always put the kettle on!” Fiona protests.

Fiona and I catch up to Carol Ann and we make our way to the parking lot together in a line of three, me in the middle.

“I am sorry we made assumptions of you.” Fiona gives my arm a friendly squeeze. “That never feels nice.”

“Well, you’re right. I don’t look like most women in Orange County.” I think of how I don’t really fit in in LA, even though I love the sunshine and my mom. Two things that drew me to college there. “And the sun burns me. I have to wear SPF 50 on the beach. Pale as a ghost. Or vampire. Depending on which paranormal fantasy you prefer.”

“Vampire,” Carol Ann says. “Like the Cullen Clan.”

“Aye. They were all so cute.” Fiona giggles. Her cheeks suddenly go pink as she glances at the ground. “Though I prefer my mafia romances, to be honest.”

“Stop it.” The purple tips of Carol Ann’s hair flip over her shoulder as she admonishes Fiona. “You do not. You like nice boys.”

“What’s wrong with mafia romances?” It feels a little early to admit to my new friends of five minutes that I’m a virgin whose only sexual history is between the pages of spicy novels. “I love them. The bad boys are so delicious.”

“It’s nothing,” Carol Ann says. “Just Fiona being silly. She’s too shy to even talk to any boy and the last book she read was Pride and Prejudice.”

“My mom saw the cover and thought it was one of my bodice rippers.” Fiona laughs. “The girls on the front were wearing those gorgeous old-fashioned dresses with the big skirts. Here, for once I was reading something nice, and I still get in trouble. All the more reason to take this internship.”

“We both go to the local university but live at home,” Carol Ann explains. “Babygirls who aren’t allowed out of our parents’ sight.”

“Or brothers,” Fiona adds. “I’ve got four.”

“We’re both the youngest in our families.” Carol Ann gives a huff. “All the more reason to shelter us delicate flowers. We still can’t believe they let us take the internship.”

“I’m an only child,” I offer.

“Oh.” They both look at me at the same time, jinxing again.

Carol Ann, for all her complaining, scrunches up her nose like she’s smelling something unnatural. “What’s that like?”

I shrug. “Quiet? Lonely, sometimes, I guess? I don’t know anything different though, do I?”

“You’ll never be lonely where we’re going.” Fiona politely changes the subject. “It feels so free at the lodge. The most we get into is a few martinis and a sexy movie but still…” Fiona beams. “Feels like freedom.”

The wind whips our hair as we make our way to the small black car they’ve brought. Carol Ann struggles to get my heavy suitcase in the trunk—or boot, as she calls it—and won’t accept help.

We all pile into the tiny two-door sedan, me in the back, the two of them asking a zillion questions about the filming of Twilight, assuming I’ve been on location, especially as I live right around the corner from Hollywood.

“America is huge,” I laugh. “It’s not like here. You can’t just hop on a bus or ferry to travel. It takes hours to drive from state to state, and I’ve never been to the Pacific Northwest where they filmed.”

Carol Ann says, “If we were any further north, we’d be Father Christmas’ neighbor.”

“Aye. We’re a very isolated community. You’re in for a culture shock,” Fiona warns. “We don’t even have a McDonalds on the island.”

“Does everyone here call it the island?” I ask.

Carol Ann lets out a dramatic sigh. “Yep. Home is the island. The research center where we work is the center, and the dormitory where we stay is the lodge. We’re quite a creative bunch, eh? Hence my hair and dress. I’ve got to spice up my mundane life somehow.”

“I love your style.” I stare out the window at the beautiful, vast landscape. My voice catches. “And mundane is exactly what I need right now.”

“It may be boring, but it’s beautiful. People come from all over to see the cliffs, the sea?—”

“Boring and bleak, if you ask me,” Carol Ann says.

“No one did, Carol Ann.” Fiona continues, “Town is a few miles away.”

I’ve looked up the town and local businesses, small with a main street and idyllic coffee shops, quaint boutiques, individually owned restaurants, a small cozy pub famous for its burger.

Small. Simple. Quiet.

Exactly what I’m craving after the mess I got myself mixed up in last year. Sudden, intense memories flood my mind, making my stomach roil with waves of nausea like I’m suddenly back on the rattling plane.

I focus on folding my hands together in my lap. Close my eyes. Count down from ten.

“I’m safe now.”

Fiona leans over the shoulder of her seat, peering at me. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I—talk to myself sometimes.” Heat rushes over my cheeks. I look away, glancing out the window. “So, how long is the drive to the research center?”

“The center,” Carol Ann corrects. “We’re going straight to the lodge to get you settled in first. We’re your new family. The dwindling codfish population are your new friends, and the lodge will be your new home for the next three months. And half our population is elderly, so you’ll be fitting in talking to yourself. No worries.”

I laugh and it feels good.

Fiona says, “Lucky for you, you’re here during our sunniest months. The skies are beautiful. The Simmer Dim, you have to experience it firsthand. Photos don’t do it justice.”

Carol Ann says, “Yes, they do.”

“Carol Ann wants to get out of here as soon as she graduates,” Fiona offers. “She hates our wee island.”

“I do love the fact that the sun doesn’t set till after ten in the summer though,” Carol Ann says. “People are actually out and about instead of in their beds after supper. We’ll be having a bonfire tomorrow.”

Fiona says, “Even though we get nineteen hours of daylight in summer, its nothing like what you’re used to in LA. It doesn’t get much above thirteen degrees Celsius?—”

Carol Ann says, “Or fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit to you.”

“I’ve been converting Fahrenheit to Celsius in my mind?—”

Fiona offers a lighthearted tease. “And out loud?”

“Yes.” I laugh again. “And out loud. To myself. As well as studying the metric system, out loud.”

Fiona says, “Hope you packed warm. Last summer the fella that came from the States only had shorts and tee shirts in his suitcase. We had to borrow my brother’s old clothes from my mam’s attic.”

I think of the hours spent at the end of my junior year, locked up in my dorm room, ordering food delivery and investigating the islands, avoiding everyone while looking at pictures, planning for this internship. My roommate, newly renamed Raquel, partied with her sorority while I stayed in and watched bad reality television.

“Surely he would have looked up the weather before he came to the island?” I say. “I mean, being a research assistant and all.”

“No.” Fiona shakes her head, the end of her braid swishing over her back. “He was shocked by how cold and cloudy it was all the time. And the wind. Drove him crazy. We were surprised he lasted the whole summer.”

“I couldn’t wait to come,” I say. “And I’ve come prepared. My mom took me shopping. She spoiled me. I’ve got a suitcase full of waterproof and wind-resistant clothing.” We splurged on this jacket as well as the Barbour boots I wear, both well-made with fashionable details.

The leather over the boot-heel is quilted, the chunky ankle straps finished with a metal buckle and a plaid pull-on loop at the top for easy wear. My mother fell in love with the boots the instant I showed them to her, insisting I needed a piece of rugged English fashion in my wardrobe.

“We’ll be bundled up for most of the day,” Carol Ann says. Especially when we’re working on the shore. The wind is worst down by the water where we’ll be. Bet you’ll miss your bikinis and tank tops,” she laughs.

“No. I prefer being covered up,” I say. “I love sweaters, thick woolen socks, knitted blankets. I love being cozy, and you can’t be cozy in cut-off jean shorts and flip-flops.”

“Winters are so long here, we’re big on cozy. I mean, what would we do with all those sheep if we didn’t cover ourselves in wool.” Fiona smiles at me, her easy grin lighting up her face. “You’re going to fit right in.”

“I hope so.”

We fall into an easy silence. The pictures on the screen of my pink MacBook, even the terrain out the window of the airplane, are nothing like the sights seen while driving the winding one-lane roads in person.

The view of the island encompasses massive, stretching expanses of blue sea, green earth and gray sky, paintbrush strokes of clouds filling the never-ending horizon.

“Where are the trees?” I stare out the window, wondering how I missed this detail in all my hours of internet scouring.

“We don’t have any tall ones. Mostly shrubs and lower lying trees. Some say it’s the harsh wind, but we interns know better. Years of deforestation and sheep farming,” Carol Ann says.

“The center is working with a tree trust nursery in one of the cities to replant,” Fiona offers. “We’ve gotten a pretty hefty grant. The professor is going to be passing on more responsibilities with the fishing to us soon when he takes on the tree project. A fresh start for our forests.”

“A fresh start. Sounds nice.” I need this fresh start. This is going to be good for me. I can feel it. Codfish are my new friends. Just like Carol Ann said. And I’m glad for it.

My old friends almost got me killed.

I fall asleep in the back seat on the way to the lodge.

Fiona wakes me as we’re pulling up to a low building with an arched roof, its walls made of white stucco. They give me a quick tour. There are several dormitory-style bedrooms, and a small, private one for the professor, though they say he often sleeps on a cot out at the research center. There’s a large rec room they’ve named the big room, housing a television and Ping-Pong table as well as several worn-looking couches dotting the floor. Off the big room is a small commercial kitchen where we will cook our meals together.

Fiona, Carol Ann, and I will share one of the larger dorm rooms. There are four small dressers and two bunk beds, the furniture all well-made from light oak, sturdy looking. The walls have been painted a fresh white, sunlight reflecting off them from the wide windows that look out over the sea.

The view is enchanting, green hills rolling down to white sandy shores kissed by low waves of bright teal water. I take a moment to stare at the sight, already feeling the healing energy of this place.

Carol Ann rolls my suitcase over to the dresser that must be mine. “We’ll go put the kettle on and leave you to get settled. No work today, so you can rest, jet lag and all that. Though you got yourself a wee nap on the ride up, hopefully that’ll help.”

“We’ll be watching TV in the hangout room if you need us.” Fiona gives me another warm smile. She teases, “Real Housewives of Orange County, of course.”

“Of course,” I say.

They go to leave, Fiona pausing at the door to say, “How do you take your tea? I’ll bring you a cup when it’s ready.”

“Oh, I don’t drink tea.”

“What?” She looks at me as if I’m a little green alien who’s just landed.

“You know what—tea sounds nice. Just milk. Thanks.”

“White it is.” Fiona gives a nod of approval, and the door closes behind them.

I revel in the solitary moment of silence. “Time to get to work.”

The two girls have each already chosen a top bunk, leaving me a bottom, which is fine with me. The bed I assume is Fiona’s, a pale pink duvet cover tucked around its mattress—is closer to the door. I’ve always preferred easy access to a quick escape, so I take that one.

The girls have left out clean bedding for me to make up my bed. Crisp cream-colored linen sheets, a soft pale blue duvet cover, a thick feather duvet inside to keep me warm on the cold island nights.

Heaving up my suitcase, I pull it onto the top of the dresser Carol Ann parked it beside. I put my neatly folded underthings in the top two small drawers. Fill the others with my long sleeves, tees, thick sweaters, and fleece pullovers. The rest is jeans, comfy sweats, jammies, and rain gear.

Fiona brings a blue mug with warm tea, the color almost white with milk. I take a sip. It’s comforting. I’ll try it again the next time they make it, maybe with a little less milk.

Everything fits. I go to the large, shared bathroom. It’s clean and bright, the sun peeking out from behind the clouds in the high rectangular window hung over the shower. I find a white basket sitting on an oak shelf on the wall, neatly labeled with my name. I pile all my personal care items into the basket, my quilted pink zipper bag with my few makeup products, the mini bottle of shampoo, conditioner, soap, and toothpaste. I’ll need more. My toothbrush and hairbrush.

It already feels like home.

People are filtering in, getting settled. I join the girls for a mindless binge of American reality TV while enjoying cheese, crackers, and a glass of chilled white wine for our dinner. A handful of other girls join us, and I quickly learn all their names, answering their curious questions about what it’s like living in California.

Just before bed, Fiona pulls me in for a hug, whispering in my ear. “See? You’re fittin’ in just fine.”

In the morning, we tour the research center where I meet the rest of the 12 interns, a medley of young, good-natured men and women. Most are island natives, students at the small, local university with a few mixed in from Edinburgh or Glasgow, here for the summer. I’m the only international student. Everyone is kind and welcoming. They put me straight to work, analyzing data in front of a desktop that’s a thousand years old, the fan making a constant whirring sound as it works.

I meet the professor, a grumpy but knowledgeable man with fluffy gray hair and wire glasses who runs this place. He tries to copy my American accent, which the girls find very funny.

To top off our first day of work, we have a bonfire on the beach to welcome us outsiders to the island. We sip beers and snack on little cakes they’ve bought from the town bakery.

And as Fiona said, I seem to be fittin’ right in.

The rest of the week goes by in a blur. Friday night, we made good on the weekly island tradition of going into town to pick up fish and chips. The flaky white fish is steamy hot, buttery, and delicious. It’s haddock, not cod. Not only because cod isn’t readily available from the years of overfishing, but the Scots also prefer the freshness of the haddock which has to be served soon after it’s caught, versus the English who receive shipments of cod to sell over the next day or so.

We lick our salty fingers as we watch Men in Black in the big room with the other interns before calling it a night.

The others go to sleep. I can’t. Fiona says it’s “early days yet,” and assures me I’ll adjust, but I’m starting to feel like the vampire we first joked about. Since I’m wide awake, I may as well double-check my work at the center, detailing cod stocks from 2001-2006. It’s due to the professor on Monday.

Not wanting to wake anyone with my heavy bootsteps, I pull my tall, soft-soled black UGGs on over my socks and leggings. I layer the sweatshirt I wear with my knee-length black down coat, the one with the fake fur trim around the hood. I told Mom the brown-and-gray ring of fur was too much, but she insisted it would keep me warm.

Slipping out the door, I’m shocked by the quiet out here. I’ve not yet been outside at night alone. Waves lap at the shore, the only other sound my boots crunching over gravel. The night air is cold enough that I pull my hood up over my head.

As always, Mom was right. The soft fur tickles my cheeks. The coat is perfectly warm.

The Simmer Dim Fiona mentioned leaves an eerie light like a backdrop over the hills and sea.

The center is just a couple miles east of the lodge. I’ve easily fallen into the walking lifestyle, enjoying how the fresh air and exercise make me feel. Lit by the soft glow of several streetlights, the low, half dome-shaped building comes into view, one story with a curved roof similar to the lodge but, with the back wall facing the sea made entirely of glass. It’s such a beautiful place.

I stop where the gravel road leading to the research center turns off the paved road where I stand. I pause, taking it all in. “Lucky girl.” I still can’t believe I’m finally here.

Suddenly, the peace of the moment is broken.

A loud, rumbling engine pollutes the quiet night. Headlights pierce the dark sky, a vehicle hurtling in my direction.

Knowing I’m no longer alone, I wonder if I should hide. Seems over the top, but after what I’ve been through, I listen to my gut. Right now, it’s telling me that a young girl alone in the middle of the night should be wary—even if I am living in a postcard.

I step off the road, slipping down into a shallow, grassy culvert.

Crouching down, I watch as an older truck—a Toyota Tacoma body style—pulls off the road onto the gravel one that leads to the center. There’s enough light to see that the paint is red, a few patches are peeling, revealing its rusted body beneath. There are men in the bed, dressed in dark clothing.

Four men pile out of the truck bed, easily hopping over the sides with grace in their athletic builds. I see that they’re wearing black ski masks over their faces.

The sight of their clothing makes my heart lurch into my throat. “What in the world?” No one with good intentions needs to cover their face with a ski mask.

It might be windy on this island, but not that windy.

Crouching down further, I hold my breath, deathly afraid to be noticed.

Should I turn back? Stay toward the edge of the road and run the couple miles back to the dorm? What if whenever these men are done, they leave and head my way, instead of doubling back the way they’ve come?

The idea of being caught alone with a truckful of bad men ties my stomach in knots.

No.

Best to stay here, stay hidden, and wait. I slip my hand in my coat pocket, already knowing I left my phone behind on top of my dresser. Still, a whispered, “Shit,” slips from my mouth when I find my pocket empty.

Nothing to do but watch.

The driver stays in the truck. I can’t get a good enough look to confirm whether there’s a passenger with them. One man goes to the back of the truck. I hear the sound of metal as he flips down the tailgate. Two others step forward, their interest lying in whatever they’ve brought with them in that truck bed.

What are they doing? Why are they here, so late at night? Dressed in disguise.

One of the two men holds something up.

The other reaches forward. A torch of some sort? Suddenly, the bright orange of a flame hisses forth from the torch, lighting whatever the other man is holding.

The man with the torch directs his attention to someone else, as the man with the fire in his hand takes off, disappearing from my sight as he runs along the far side of the building.

The annoying habit of talking to myself out loud strikes worst when I’m nervous. My hands press against the cold, damp ground. “What’s he doing? Where’s he going with that?”

The sound of thud. A second man, taking off in the same direction with fire in his hand. He reaches the back of the building, holding up what I now believe to be a homemade bomb, right in front of the wall of windows.

“No!” I jump up, almost shouting.

A knee-jerk reaction. A foolish one. I dive back down, knees in the grass, and watch, a ghastly fascination. Can’t look away. Can’t even blink.

The man chucks the fireball. It sails through the air. The sound of exploding glass shatters the night. My heart races, sweat beading at my hairline. My palms feel clammy, and I brush them across the thighs of my jeans as I watch the back of the building burst into flames.

There’s a shout, a deep voice echoing all around me, and the men pile back into the bed of the truck.

They’ll be gone soon, I hope. Then I can call the police. What is the number for the cops out here? I’m sure it’s not 911. With my breath held in my chest, I wait, so ready for them to be gone and to be back in the safety of our housing with Fiona and Carol Ann.

The truck turns, gravel spitting from the rear tires as it tears back toward the main road. My stomach drops. The truck doesn’t turn right, doesn’t head back the way it came.

Two headlights headed straight for me.