Don’t You Pucking Dare (The Blackridge Reapers #2)

Chapter 32

Brody's black Range Rover idles across from Sarah's house, engine purring quietly in the autumn afternoon. I keep sneaking glances at him, trying to reconcile this version—the one who wipes away my tears and drives me across town looking for my mom—with the man who tortured me in that chamber. It's like he's two different people, and I'm not sure which one's real.

The GPS brought us to this quiet suburban street where Sarah's lived my whole life. Mom used to drop me here when she couldn't handle being a mother anymore. Now I'm back, watching the house like some kind of amateur detective with a Reaper at my side.

"What now?" The house sits still and silent, no sign of life behind its drawn curtains. No indication of my mom.

"We wait." Brody's voice carries none of his usual edge. "Watch for movement."

"What if she's not here?" My fingers twist in my lap. "What if—"

"One problem at a time, Duchess." His eyes scan the street, taking in details I probably miss. This isn't his first stakeout, I realize. The Reapers have trained him for exactly this kind of thing. Or did he learn this all on his own?

"She could be anywhere." The words taste bitter. "After being locked up in that crazy place for so long..."

"She’s a druggie, right? Where would an addict go for a fix?"

I turn to glare at him, but there's no judgment in his face. Just cold logic.

"I don't even know her dealers." My voice cracks. "What kind of daughter knows where her mom gets her drugs?"

He shrugs off my stupid question.

"If she’s free like out on the loose, then why wouldn’t she call me? And if she didn’t have my number, she knows I’m at Blackridge."

"Are you her priority?" he asks, still in that cold tone.

But I have too many emotions bubbling up. I stare at the house, knowing she’s not in there. "This is a waste of time," I say, turning to him.

"You don’t know that."

Now I’m furious. "You just made a valid fucking point that I’m not a priority in my mom’s life."

"Damn, Duchess. You’re taking it to the left field."

"I want to know where she is!" I snap.

He points at the house. "That’s why we’re here, baby. If this is a dead end then we turn around and go down another street."

I scoff. "I never took you for poetic."

The house remains quiet. Like my mother, like Brody, like everyone in my life who shows me one face while hiding another. I know she’s not here. Why would she be?

The first hour crawls by. Brody sits like a statue, only his eyes moving as he scans the street. I don't know how he does this—this endless waiting, this practiced patience. My skin feels too tight, my thoughts spinning darker with each passing minute.

Another hour bleeds into nothing. "Can we go?"

He just shakes his head.

"This is pointless." Frustration makes my voice sharp. "Nobody's even home."

"Rush hour's starting." His calm only irritates me more. "We wait."

"Why are you being so stubborn about this?"

His eyes find mine. "Because I found you crying. And you deserve answers."

I slump in my seat, arms crossed, hating how his logic makes sense. My mind cycles through possibilities—each one worse than the last. Dead in a trunk. High in some crack house. Lost on the streets. Safe at her best friend’s.

Sarah's silver Civic appears just as the sun starts setting. I'm out of the car before Brody can stop me.

"Where the fuck—" The slam of my door cuts off his words.

Sarah's garage door is rising painfully slow. I wave, catching her attention before she can disappear inside.

"Lola?" She rolls down her window, confusion clear on her face. "What are you doing here?"

My heart sinks. If Mom was here, Sarah wouldn't look so surprised.

"When's the last time you talked to her?" The words come out in a rush.She parks, kills the engine. "Not for a while, honey. Is something wrong?"

"I can't reach her." The half-truth tastes bitter. "Just... checking options."

"Is she out?" Sarah's eyes sharpen. "Of the facility?"

I shrug, but she reads something in my face. "I can’t know for sure because I’m no longer on her contact list."

She watches me, trying to piece it together. "Check Reese's place." She says it carefully, watching my reaction. "Her boyfriend."

The word hits like a slap. "Boyfriend?"

"Maple Apartments. I don't know which unit, honey, but it’s worth a try."

The hug I give her is quick, mechanical. My mind's already racing ahead to this man I've never heard of, this piece of my mother's life she never shared.

Brody watches me climb back in, saying nothing as I pull up Maple Apartments on my phone.

"She has a fucking boyfriend." Anger burns away the worry. "Let's go."

His engine roars to life. At least someone's reliable.

Maple Apartments looks exactly like somewhere my mother would end up. Paint peels from the walls in grimy strips, rust stains streak down from ancient air conditioning units, and every car in the lot has seen better decades.

"Now what?" I turn to Brody, hating how much I'm starting to rely on him.

"We wait." Always so damn calm.

"I'd rather be in my dorm playing my cello."

"Too late now, Duchess."

I study his profile while he watches the complex—the sharp line of his jaw, the tattoos crawling down his arms. Why is he really here? Guilt over what happened in that chamber? Or does he actually care?

It’s too quiet.

"Tell me something," I say, needing distraction from my thoughts.

"Like what?"

Men. "Anything. Something to make me stop thinking. Like what do you live for?" The question surprises us both.

He raises an eyebrow.

"Your favorite thing," I clarify. "The thing that makes life worth it."

He keeps scanning the parking lot, but something softens in his face. "Oreo McFlurries."

A laugh escapes before I can stop it. Not hockey, not violence, not power. Ice cream.

"And you, Duchess?"

"You'd think cello." My smile lingers. "But really? Karaoke."

"Yeah?"

"My mom and I used to have concerts in our living room." The memory aches. "She'd be high as a kite, but God, those were good times."

He absorbs this in silence, like he does everything.

"So, McFlurries after?"

"Hell yeah."

A pickup truck rumbles into the lot. I reach for the door handle, but Brody's hand catches mine. "Let me."

"Why you?" I ask, offended. I thought this was my case to handle.

"A random man is less memorable than a beautiful girl asking questions."

He has a point. Wait, did he just compliment me?

I watch him approach the truck, all casual grace and contained power. He makes small talk look easy. Brody’s presence commands respect.

When he returns, his face gives nothing away.

"Well?" I say as soon as he opens the door.

"Number 35. Around the corner."

My stomach drops. We're close now—close to answers I might not want.

Apartment 35's door stands in front of us, paint peeling around rusted numbers. The sound of a TV bleeds through thin walls. My hands won't stop shaking.

Brody's breath warms my neck. "We don't have to."

But we do. Because for days I've imagined her dead in some trunk, when really... "I need to know."

I knock. The TV drones on. Knock again. "Hello? Is anybody home? Reese?"

There are a few moments, but I see the shadow of a figure under the door. They must be looking through the peep hole. I inhale, my nerves making me shake even more.

The door opens and my world tilts sideways. Because there she is—alive, unfazed, looking at me like I'm an inconvenience rather than her daughter who thought she was dead.

"Mom?" The word comes out breathless because what the fuck.

"Lola." She steps into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind her. Her eyes find Brody, calculating. She's either high or mentally unwell.

"What are you doing here?" My voice shakes as if I wasn’t the one snooping around for her. I mean, the last thing I expected was to see her face.

"How'd you find me?" No hug. No explanation. Just suspicion.

"Are you serious?" Heat rises in my throat. "I thought you were—"

"I'm free now." She shrugs like the past week means nothing. "Should thank you for that, I guess."

"Thank me?" Hysteria bubbles up. "I've been terrified, Mom. I thought—"

"You look fine to me." Her eyes slide to Brody again. "More than fine."

"Mom!" I force her attention back. "I can’t fucking believe this right now. I mean what ever happened? Why are you here? Are you okay? Are you safe?"

She waves off my concern. "Got any money?"

The question hits like a slap. "Money? I've been worried sick, mom!"

"I'm fine. I’m a big girl, Lola." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "How's that fancy college treating you? Making good connections?" Another pointed look at Brody.

"He's just a friend." The lie tastes bitter.

She laughs—that awful, knowing laugh I've heard my whole life. "Sure, baby. Whatever you say."

"Do you have my phone number?"

"Of course."

"Use it. Please." I hate how I'm still begging after everything.

"Sure, babe. I’m cooking, so…"

I turn away before she can see my tears. All that fear, all that worry—and she's just high in some boyfriend's apartment, not even caring enough to let me know she's alive.

Some relationships aren't worth saving.

The Range Rover's door barely closes before my mother disappears back inside. I sit rigid in the passenger seat, pressing my lips together so hard they start to numb. My chest feels like it's caving in—how can she care so little when I've spent days imagining the worst?

"Hey." Brody's voice is soft.

"Just drive." The words come out sharp, defensive.

The city blurs past my window. All those days of fear, of guilt, of imagining her body in some trunk—and she's just high in her boyfriend's apartment, not giving a single thought to what I've been through. Did Rick Kemper even have her, or was that just another mind game?

Brody pulls into McDonald's without asking, orders two Oreo McFlurries. The extra cookies almost break me—this small kindness when my own mother can't even pretend to care.

Every bite tastes like childhood disappointment. Like all the times she chose drugs over me, all the times I made excuses for her, all the times I convinced myself that her love was just different, not absent. The pain settles somewhere behind my ribs, familiar and raw—the hurt of a daughter who will never be enough for her mother to choose her, to stay clean for her, to even pick up a phone and say, "Hey, daughter. I'm alive."

Back at my dorm, Brody follows me up without asking. His presence feels necessary now, like gravity. Kiah's eye roll bounces off me as I finish my ice cream, then reach for my cello.

The first note rips from the strings like a scream. I pour everything into the music—rage, betrayal, that eternal ache of being unwanted by the one person who should want you most. Brody watches, silent and steady, while Kiah huffs in annoyance.

I don't care that my roommate's right there. I need to feel something other than abandoned. When I kiss Brody, it's desperate, seeking. His hands on my skin promise presence, persistence. He might be a monster, but he's here. He stays. He sees me.

And right now, that's enough.

"Duchess," he whispers.

"I don’t care if she watches, I need you. I need you right fucking now."

He doesn’t argue. His dick is already hard when I touch him, so I waste no time, shoving my hands down his jeans. He doesn’t care that Kiah is sitting across the room as he starts to undress me.

Kiah finally jumps out of her bed and huffs, leaving the room.

He sucks my nipple into his mouth. I grab his face and pull his lips to meet mine. Then I yank his pants down and aim him right into me.

He’s staring into my eyes, and I feel like I’m seeing another side to him. He’s been so devilish since the moment we met, but right now, he’s fucking me slowly, watching me, connecting with me without any words. He’s here with me, and that’s all that matters.

I roll my head back, so he kisses my neck.

"Fuck, Duchess," he says. "You’re fucking beautiful."

"Fuck me harder. I really need it."

He grabs my neck and pumps faster.

I moan, "You’re mine just as much as I am yours."

He squeezes my throat harder. I start coughing and crying out at the slaps of his hips. I grab his wrist and he finally releases his tight hold.

"Your fucking pussy, Lola," he whispers into my ear.

I grab his ass. "Your fucking dick, Brody."

He pushes me onto the bed and turns me around. He inserts himself easily and pulls my hair as he fucks me hard from the back.

He comes inside of me and then pulls out.

I stare at the wall, body still but mind racing. Sex didn't help. Nothing helps. The emptiness my mother left feels like a black hole, threatening to swallow everything.

Brody's face appears in my line of sight. "You alright?"

I stare blankly, not trusting my voice.

"Come here, Duchess." He slides in the bed beside me, pulls me against his chest.

Tears slip down my cheeks before I can stop them. His arms should feel like a trap—this man who tortured me, who used me as bait. Instead, they feel like the only thing keeping me from flying apart. And that terrifies me more than anything. He's being too gentle, too present, too much like someone who might matter. The emptiness my mother left gapes wider with each soft touch. Because this is how it starts—people get close, make you need them, then leave you hollow. Everyone leaves eventually. My mother's proven that again today.

"Why are you even here?" The question bursts out of me. My mind’s racing, and all I feel is anger. I’m seeing red because why the fuck is he here?

"What?"

I twist in his arms, needing to see his face, to catch the lie I know must be there. "Why are you still bothering with me? You got your red mask. Mission accomplished. Fucking end it." My heart pounds against my ribs, waiting for the truth to break whatever this is.

"Because—"

"Because you want an easy fuck?" The words fly from my mouth, but better to hurt him first. Better to be the one who pushes away than the one left behind. Again.

His arm tightens, possessive. "Because we understand each other's demons."

The tenderness in his voice terrifies me more than his violence ever did. "You don't fucking know anything, Brody." Panic spreads through my chest like wildfire. I need him gone before he can leave on his own. "You should leave!"

"Not happening."

"Get out!" Something feral takes over. "I don't want you here anymore. Stop coming around. You got what you wanted! Be done with me."

"Be done with you like how your mom is done with you?" His words slice straight through my defenses.

"Fuck you!" I scramble for his clothes, throwing them at him, anything to create distance. My hands shake as I try to dress him myself, needing him covered, needing him gone. "Get out! And don't come back!"

"I told you it would make sense after that night. I'm not going to hurt you anymore, Duchess."

But he is. He's hurting me by being gentle, by staying, by making me believe he might be different. "I'm not yours, Brody. I’m not something you can fucking own. And I’m tired of whatever this is between us."

He shakes his head. "I'm not done with you."

"Yes, you fucking are!" The screams tear from somewhere deep and wounded. "Get out! Now!"

He towers over me, immovable as a mountain. "This isn't over until I say it's fucking over."

Terror and need war in my chest. He has to leave. Has to go before he sees how broken I really am, before he realizes I'm not worth staying for.

"You don't know me." My voice cracks.

"I do, Duchess."

"Or the things that I’ve done. Just leave."

"I told you I’m not going anywhere."

Desperation makes me vicious. The cruel words form like poison on my tongue. "I fucked Jack that night."

His expression shifts—just slightly, but enough to show the hit landed. Oh, did I actually hurt him? He studies me and then says, "You're lying."

I laugh like a madman. He truly doesn’t think I would do it? He thinks too fucking highly of me.

I say, "He came to the bathroom. Told me to meet him later. So I did. And I fucked him."

His hand finds my throat, pins me to the wall. The violence is almost a relief compared to his earlier tenderness. "Don't lie to me."

I meet his eyes, letting him see the worst of me. "I told you I was a very, very bad girl."

His fist hits the wall beside my head, leaving a hole in the drywall. "Fuck you, Lola."

The words feel like victory, even as something vital breaks inside me. Better to be the villain in his story than another person's disappointment. Better to be bad than abandoned.

Then he leaves.

And I can finally breathe.