Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Scarlett
I walk through the rain toward the old sugar factory, holding my jacket close to my chest to keep myself from getting wet.
My boots crunch against the gravel beneath my feet, alerting my presence.
This is where I’m supposed to meet the men and deliver the chip. It feels unreal that I’m back in Denver. It’s like I never left. I got a flight back as soon as I stole the chip and was home before eleven last night.
Now I’m here.
This old factory is just as much an attraction in Longmont as any other.
People from all over are fascinated with the century-year-old structure because it looks perfect for a horror movie.
I would never normally come to a place like this. I’m not adventurous that way, and I’d rather stay away from anything that feels dangerous. Not run toward it.
But coming to this dilapidated factory gets me even closer to my goal.
I just want this nightmare to be over. Right now, I’d happily take scrubbing the diner floors all day or even driving in hazardous conditions over this.
The only thing I want to remember from this disaster is my fantasy night with Mr. Dreamy.
Of course, the most perfect man I’ve ever met has lived rent free in my head.
His touch still burns on my skin like a brand, and vivid memories of how he took me burns my mind.
The ghost of his strong hands on my body, his hungry mouth pressed to mine, and his cock buried inside me feel like a fever dream.
A shiver races down my spine and it has nothing to do with the cold Denver rain seeping through my jacket. This shiver is filled with the heat of his touch my traitorous body refuses to forget.
And I’m still being selfish in wishing I didn’t have to leave him in that bed.
And for what?
To become a thief.
Jesus. I’ve never stolen anything in my life. Not even when it was easy.
I remember being ten years old and Dad taking Johnny and me to the circus for a show. A man dropped his wallet in front of us. It was filled with several hundred-dollar bills. There were so many inside the wallet it couldn’t even close.
I saw it, picked it up, and handed it back to him.
He was so happy to get it back he gave me twenty bucks and treated me to candy floss. Johnny teased me for an entire month, calling me Mother Theresa. He thought I should have kept the wallet. Dad, on the other hand, was proud of me.
That was just one of many incidents where I chose to do the right thing. Now I feel like I tarnished my soul by stealing that chip, and God knows what hell door I opened by doing so.
For a start, it really was too easy. I was in and out of that vault like it belonged to me.
Nothing happened like what I imagined. The surveillance was turned off and the key card worked, so I just waltzed right into the room the vault was being stored, and then I left the hotel. There weren’t wild car chases or mobsters chasing me with machine guns like I’d imagined. And I never had to escape and hide like Harrison Ford did in The Fugitive .
I got home safe and sound, and Dad was fine, too. We talked as normal, and I was even able to mask my whole one-night stand. Not that it’s the sort of thing you bring up to your father.
Now I just have to do this final thing and get the money.
I breathe super slowly as I get closer to the rusty-colored factory. It seems to rise from the industrial wasteland like a metal giant. Every step closer makes my heart beat faster.
I touch the chip in my pocket for the millionth time, reassuring myself that it's still there.
I feel it. I placed it in an envelope just like I was instructed, and I didn’t try to see what was on it.
The moment I spot the large metal doors, a guard appears from the shadows like a ghost, his military look obvious in the way he holds himself. And his gun.
His eyes rake over me with the kind of contempt that makes my skin crawl.
Shit, this is it. Up until now, I’ve only been speaking to these people through text messages. He’s the first one of them I’ve seen.
The guard stands around 6'2", with a thick neck, pale almost colorless eyes, and a weathered-looking face. The sleeve of his tactical jacket is rolled up just enough to show a Navy SEAL tattoo, faded yet still visible.
He might be anywhere from thirty-five to fifty—it's hard to tell with the way the shadows cut across his face.
"Password?" His voice is as rough as the gravel crunching under his boots.
I swallow hard past the dryness in my throat and hope my soul doesn’t shatter from my nerves. "Nightshade."
He grunts and jerks his head toward the door. The hinges screech as he pulls it open, the sound echoing through the empty lot like a warning.
I follow him inside the factory, right into the smell of rust and mildew and something else—something metallic that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Our footsteps echo off concrete walls, a rhythm that matches my racing pulse.
Five men wait in what must have been a loading bay, their faces carved from stone beneath the fluorescent lights surrounding them.
They're arranged in a loose semicircle like a wolf pack. It’s a fitting description because I feel like a little rabbit who just stepped into a lair.
"You have it?" the tallest one barks, his accent thick with Eastern European hardness.
“Yes. I have it here.” My fingers tremble as I reach into my pocket and pull out the envelope containing the chip.
I hand it to him, and he takes it, but I don’t miss the way he looks at me in that way most men do when they first see me. They do that scan of my face then my breasts and try to analyze me as if they’re trying to determine if I’m a slut.
“Very good.” He tries for a smile that doesn’t quite reach his lips. It makes me think you’d rarely see a smile on his face.
"About my payment?—"
“We’ll check it first.” His face hardens.
The guy next to him hands him a device that looks like a card machine. He switches it on, and it hums to life, casting a sickly blue glow across his face.
While he scans the screen, nerves eat me up from the inside out and I feel like I’m gonna go crazy with every second that stretches the silence between us.
His brows snap together and a look that can only be described as feral washes over his face.
"It's blank." His voice drops to a growl, but the announcement makes my stomach burn as if someone poured acid inside me. "The whole fucking thing is blank."
Oh God. Please, no. This isn’t happening.
“It can’t be blank. I did everything I was told to do.” I hate the way my voice quivers and the desperation in my tone.
“What did you do to it?”
"Nothing. I got it from exactly where you said."
The guard who ushered me in points his gun at me while one of the others takes the device from the tall guy.
“Estes, this chip is a dud. It’s never been used. I think we’ve been played,” the guy with the device says, scanning the screen.
Tall guy—Estes—looks back at him, and his scowl deepens. "They fucking set us up. Micah Delarosa must have known we’d come.”
“Fuck. What should we do? The boss isn’t going to be happy.”
“Let’s get out of here. This whole operation is compromised.”
They move, heading to the van parked by the doors as if I don’t exist.
“No. No, no, no wait.” I rush after them and hold up my hands. “What about the money? I finished the job.”
“Sorry, sweetheart. As far as I’m concerned, you didn’t do a goddamn thing.” Estes walks ahead without looking at me.
“But I went to New York and stole it for you. Please.” I grab his arm. “I need that money by tomorrow. You have to pay me.”
He flashes my hands off him as if I’m a parasite then whirls around and holds up his gun, pointing it at me.
I freeze, fear suddenly clogging my throat like tar.
“Look, lady, this is the payment you get. You get to keep your life. You fucked up. That means you’re a loose end I should tie up. Now, fucking leav e before I blow your brains out all over the floor.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll leave,” I stutter, feeling the life already leaving my body with his threats.
“Go! And if you say a word about us, you’re dead. So is your old man and that no-good brother of yours.”
This can't be happening. The room and my brain spin like one of those crazy carnival rides as bile rises in my throat.
“Get out!” he shouts louder. I stumble backwards, reality hitting me that I’ve failed. And I’m fucked.
My legs move automatically, carrying me backward toward the door. I keep my eyes on the man and the gun, hoping he doesn’t change his mind and decide to shoot me in the back or my head.
It’s not until I reach the door that I break into a run and bolt outside into the rain. It hits me like needles, each drop adding more weight to my failure.
I failed.
Oh my God, I failed. How could I have gone through so much to end up with nothing?
How?
I run as fast as I can back to my car, then jump in and drive away.
I don’t remember the drive back home, only the roar of blood in my ears and the whirlwind of worry in my heart.
Feeling like I may shatter, I stumble into the living room. Dad hobbles in at the same time, his face riddled with a sickly mixture of fear and unease.
"Scarlett?" His voice is so gentle. So worried. I’m sure he can tell I failed just from looking at me. "Baby girl, what happened?"
I shake my head and try to answer, but a sob rips from my throat.
“Scarlett. Tell me what happened.”
"It was blank," I choke out, holding my chest like my heart may fall out. "The fucking chip was blank, so they didn’t pay.”
Dad’s face drains of all the color, and he looks like someone syphoned the life from his body.
Still, he seems to summon that fatherly strength I’ve seen way too many times. “You did more than your best, sweetie. You did more than I could have ever asked for.”
“Dad. The money…” Uncontrollable tears stream down my cheeks. “Anton's men are coming tomorrow and…"
I can't breathe. Can't think. Can’t pick my thoughts apart. The walls are closing in, and all I can see is the disaster that will happen tomorrow when Anton's men come to collect a debt we can't pay.
Dad pulls me into his arms like I'm still five years old, his bad leg trembling. His cologne—the same brand he's worn my whole life—fills my nose as I sob into his shirt.
"Shh, baby girl. I'll deal with Anton’s men when they come. Right now, I need you to calm down then get your things and get as far away from here as possible. I have some cash?—"
"No." I pull away and glare up at him. "You want to send me away?”
“Scarlett, this has already gone too far. I never wanted you involved. You’ve already done too much. It’s a father’s job to protect his children. All I’ve done is put you in danger.”
“Dad. Let me stay. Anton... he wants me back. Staying here may soften the blow. I could talk to him.”
"Scarlett—" His voice breaks on my name.
"Please, Dad. I don’t care what you say. I won't leave you to face those men alone. I’m not Johnny."
“I know, baby girl. You’re better than this. You deserved better than all of this. I failed you.”
I shake my head. “No. Please don’t ever say that. Now listen to me. I’m staying. You know we stand a chance if I’m here. I will talk to him, and we can try to come up with some kind of solution.”
Dad rests his hands on my shoulders, then he pulls me into the warmth of his embrace.
We stay in the living room for the rest of the day and night. As if we’re scared to be apart.
The storm outside matches the one in my chest. It rained right through to the next day and we counted down every tick of the clock.
Noon arrives, and the knock on the door sounds like a death knell.
When Dad opens it, ten of Anton's men file inside, their suits pristine, their eyes as cold as the dead.
I stand by the living room doorway, my body heavy under the tension clinging to the air.
Dad straightens his shoulders and my heart breaks at how brave he's trying to be. The guy who was here the other night walks up to him with a broad smile on his horrible face.
“I trust you have the money, Mr. James,” he says in an almost sing-song voice.
"I'm sorry, but I didn’t make it. I don’t have the money to pay but?—"
A hard fist connects with Dad’s jaw before he can finish, making him stumble backward, his bad leg twisting beneath him with a crack that will haunt my nightmares.
"Dad!" I scream, lunging forward, but rough hands grab me and slam me to the floor.
Two of the men hold me down, the carpet burning against my cheek as I’m forced to stay where I am.
Through tears, I watch the men circle my father and take turns kicking him.
Each kick draws a howl of pain that tears at my soul.
They’re going to kill him.
They’re going to kill my father, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
I scream for them to stop, but my pleas are lost and tangled with Dad’s cries of anguish.
Suddenly, the door explodes inward with a crash that shakes the walls.
More men storm through and gunshots crack through the air like thunder, deafening in the small space.
At first, I don’t know what’s going on. I thought they were more of Anton’s men, but when they start shooting the men kicking Dad, I realize something else is going on.
Blood sprays across our faded wallpaper, across the family photos, across me.
Then, through the chaos, a familiar figure strides in, and my heart stops dead in my chest.
Mr. Dreamy walks right in, his shiny black hair glistening against the high-noon sun. The gleam is a contrast to his full black clothing.
I blink several times wondering if I’m dreaming or if I’m imagining him. But I realize I’m not when his gaze flicks to me and I take in the darkness in his eyes. Those hazel eyes that looked at me with so much desire now gaze back at me, emotionless and flat.
What is he doing here?
What the hell is going on?
He moves like a predator through the war zone happening around us like death given form. Then he pulls a gun and walks right up to me. Before I can take my next breath, he puts a bullet through the skull of the man on my left, then, without looking, he shoots the man beside my father.
The hands that belong to the man holding me down tighten painfully. "Who the fuck are?—"
Mr. Dreamy is beside us in two strides. He grabs the man and hoists him into the air, then he rams a knife he pulls from his pocket into his chest.
The grotesque sight has me huddling up to the wall, grabbing my knees to my chest as if I can force my body to disappear if I squeeze hard enough.
"Sorry, man," Mr. Dreamy taunts, his voice like velvet over steel. "I'm taking over from here."
Blood gurgles from the dying man's throat. "Who... who are you?"
Mr. Dreamy’s eyes lock with mine and now I see hunger mixed with rage, along with something else that makes my stomach flip.
His lips curve into a smile that promises violence. "I’m Micah Delarosa."
The name hits me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my body.
Oh. My. God.
What the…
What kind of fresh hell have I landed myself in?
He, my one-night stand, is Micah Delarosa.
The man I stole from. And the look he’s giving me tells me he knows everything.
Shivers erupt over my body like the plague.
He glances over his shoulder at his men, then looks back at me. "Get them in the truck. Both of them."
Them —fucking hell, he’s talking about Dad and me.
He—Micah—crouches next to me and I flinch when he presses a finger to my cheek and traces my jawline, leaving fire in its wake. "We have so much to discuss, little thief."
Thief.
He’s not wrong.
“I… didn’t know who you were.” My voice comes out like a staccato, disjointed and barely audible.
Micah leans close, his breath hot against my ear. “Is that so?”
His voice is exactly as I remember it—smooth and dark like aged whiskey. It does the same to my insides that it did last night, even now, even here.
“I… didn’t know…” I don’t know what the hell more to say because I know what our meeting in New York looks like.
“Sorry, sweetheart, you stole something from me." He presses harder into my cheek. "And I'm not just talking about the chip."
He moves back to face me, and we stare at each other. I shudder with newfound fear while he glares with dark dominance unlike anything I’ve ever known. And yet, his words burn into me like a menacing song.
In the background, Dad is carried out, barely conscious, and I realize with crystal clarity that we've just traded one devil for another.
Anton for Micah.
I have a feeling Micah is worse.