The Silencer (Unexpectedly Twisted #1)

Chapter 1

1

TATUM

I probably shouldn’t have come to this bar alone, but I wasn’t thinking with my brain. No, I was thinking with my needy, hungry dick. And I never want to victim blame, but I am definitely blaming myself for being so fucking stupid. And I blame Brayden too. If my ex wasn’t such a mindfuck, maybe I wouldn’t have gone off the deep end and decided on a random hookup at this sketchy bar on the outskirts of town.

I force my gaze forward and look at myself in the bathroom mirror. My hair, which I dyed silver last week, is ruined, my perfectly coifed masterpiece sitting limply on my head. The skin around my right eye is turning black and blue, and the corner of my lip is cut, a few drops of blood staining my orange crop top. A sharp pain has started to throb in my skull, and I wonder if I’ve got a concussion. They got me in the ribs too, and it hurts to inhale.

Damn bigots.

Honestly, why do people care so much about who I fuck?

Assholes.

“You’re so hot, but so very stupid. So fucking stupid,” I say to myself, sniffling and wiping at my eyes. Honestly, it hurts to cry, so I swallow it back. I can do that later.

You know, if I’m still alive.

“What were you thinking coming here like this?” I murmur to myself. I stare at my sallow eyes in the mirror and swipe at the one not beat to hell.

Hm, maybe I’m not so hot after all. I look like a trampled pumpkin.

Fuck. I wasn’t thinking when I set foot in this seedy bar. I came here on a whim, planning to meet up with someone I’d met online for a drink, just a casual hookup. I didn’t realize that I’d offend the people in this dingy establishment just by existing. Being gay in their vicinity isn’t something they tolerate, apparently. Flirting with the bartender was a terrible mistake.

Never again.

Never.

I sniffle and then hear a violent banging on the bathroom door. I’d locked it, wanting to hide until the danger passed. I should have tried to escape out the front, but two men were blocking the entrance, a feral gleam in their eyes. It seems they don’t want to let me go.

I better not leave this bar in a body bag. I don’t plan on dying today. Not for a long time, actually. I’m only twenty-one. I have a lot to live for, a whole hell of a lot.

Fumbling with my phone, I almost call my best friend, Ben, but then decide against it. I know he’d be here in a second, but I don’t want to bother him. What if these men hurt him too? What if I put my best friend in danger? I can’t do that. And knowing his boyfriends, Cash and Ford, if Ben ended up hurt, they’d murder me themselves.

My shaking fingers scroll up and come to Angel’s name. I don’t expect him to come to my aid. He’s far too timid and sweet, but his father…

My mind conjures up images of notorious mobster, Anthony Costello, in his perfectly pressed suit, tattoos peeking out from the sleeves and collar, his styled hair always so perfectly combed, his dark eyes watching everything so intently.

Yeah, Angel’s father would be a good option. Anthony is dangerous, a ferocity locked down so tight that I know he has evil inside of him just waiting to come to the surface.

He doesn’t like me or my incessant flirting, but he’d help me if Angel asked him to.

He’d help me for the sake of his son.

Even if I bug the shit out of him.

Hesitating only a moment, I hit the call button just as the banging on the door intensifies. My heart races, and I feel it pounding in my throat and skull. It hurts, it fucking stings, so I close my eyes and breathe slowly through my nose.

I can do this. I will survive this.

The phone rings only twice before Angel picks up.

“Hi, Tatum!” Angel says sweetly, and just the sound of his voice makes my eyes burn.

“Hi,” I reply, my voice cracking. “I was…um, Angel, can you get your dad on the phone? It’s a bit of an emergency.”

I know he can hear the shouting in the background, the pounding on the flimsy wooden door. It’s cracking slowly but surely. I’m not exaggerating when I say I need help.

“Tatum, are you okay?” he asks. I can hear him panting slightly as he runs.

“I’m…no. I’m in some trouble. Did something stupid…”

I let out a choked sob and then a shaky breath. Angel fumbles with the phone, and I can hear the panic laced in his words. “Don’t worry. We’ll… Dad!” His voice is loud and urgent, and for a moment, I’m so fucking thankful I have him as a friend. It was just a chance meeting a year ago, in a coffee shop near school, and yet here I am, able to turn to him in a time of need.

“Dad, Tatum is in trouble.”

I hear a pause and then a muffled deep voice, “Tell him I’m on my way.”

Relief pulses through me as I press my back against the wall, willing him to show up as quickly as possible. The jeers and shouts on the other side of the door are making me want to throw up. They hate me. They hate who I am.

God, don’t let them get in.

Don’t let them break down the door. I don’t know how much more my body can take. I’m not made of sterner stuff. I can’t defend myself. Don’t even know where to start.

Perhaps, if I make it out of this alive, I can take classes so I can protect myself. Self-defense classes—something to make me stronger and braver in these kinds of situations.

I hear the pounding on the door intensify, and I realize they must be kicking it down. Anthony won’t make it here in time.

“Hang in there, Tatum,” Angel says. “My dad will be there soon. He’s calling you right now. Answer.”

How does he even know where I am?

And even if he does for some weird reason, he’s too far away. I don’t even know the address of where I am. Some biker bar in the hills.

Why the hell didn’t I tell the dude to meet me at a small restaurant downtown? Somewhere safe. Fucker didn’t even show. He probably took one look at this place and drove away.

I let out a choked sob as my phone beeps, and I see a number I don’t recognize flash across the screen. It must be him. The man I tease and taunt on purpose, the man who I totally annoy, and yet still, he’s coming for me.

“Tatum,” he says lowly when I answer. His voice is almost a growl. Under any other circumstances, his stern, gruff voice would give me a boner. I’d honestly jack off while listening to him lecture me, but right now, I’m too frightened. I can’t even think about getting hard.

“Hi,” I whisper and then let out a small sob. “I’m in trouble.”

“I know. Stay calm. Protect your head if they get to you. We’ll be there soon.”

Not soon enough. But I just nod, realizing he can’t hear me but staying silent anyways.

“I’m scared,” I say softly, and Anthony blows out a breath.

“I know you are, but Tatum, listen to me. Anyone who touches you will pay. Every one of them.”

Shivers run up my body, breaking across my skin. “Please don’t let them hurt me.”

And at those words, the door breaks off the hinges, and my phone slips from my hand and drops to the ground.

Three large men appear through the broken and gaping wood, and I press against the wall behind me. I can feel the cool cement against my lower back as I realize that there’s nowhere to go. I’m trapped.

Shit. Shit.

Protect your head.

“Come on, guys. It was just some harmless flirting,” I say, hating that my voice is shaking but trying to lighten the mood. It doesn’t work. It only seems to make them angrier. They advance on me, and just as the first fist lands on my face, I hear bigoted words pollute the air around me before I fall to the ground.

My arms wrap around my head, trying like hell to keep it safe as the first kick lands on my side. Pain screams through my ribs, and I gasp, a groan leaving my lips.

Fuck, this hurts. It fucking hurts.

“Please,” I beg, but they don’t listen, of course they don’t listen. These men don’t think with their brains, they don’t pay attention to reason. They just operate out of hate.

Another kick comes with a loud shout, pain shooting up my abdomen, my breath leaving me in a painful cry.

And then the next kick lands on my hands and everything goes black.

I wake up to the sound of gunfire and shouts. My world is spinning, tilting. Everything smells. Smoke, sweat, blood.

And then I’m in strong, capable arms, cradled to a chest that feels familiar, a scent enveloping my senses as I’m carried out of my own personal hell. I come and go from consciousness, in fits, my eyelids fluttering open only to shut again.

Everything hurts.

Pain.

Aches.

I don’t want to wake up if this is what waking feels like.

“Tatum,” a soft voice says in my ear, and I sigh, knowing who it is.

Angel. My angel who saved me.

“Tatum,” the voice says, gruffer. Angry.

Wait, no. Not Angel. It’s Anthony.

Yes, him. That’s who’s here, cradling me in his lap as we’re driven away from the shady bar. I feel the bumps in the road as I nuzzle into him, my brain seeping in and out of awareness.

“You’re okay. You’re going to be okay,” the voice reassures me.

I don’t know if I will. I don’t know…

I pass out once more, only to wake up in a bedroom, cool sheets against my skin. For a moment, I can’t figure out where I am, but slowly my brain pieces it together, snapshots and sounds, smells that are wholly familiar.

I’m in his house. Anthony’s house.

With him.

A beeping resonates through the room, and I realize that I’m hooked up to a monitor, an IV in my arm.

Fuck, this is worse than I thought.

Those assholes.

I groan and try to move, but pain slices up my side, and I gasp.

I don’t know why I’m surprised at the sensation. This is what it always feels like, throbbing, aching pain that seeps into your bones and refuses to budge. I’ve been beat up a few times in the past, by school bullies who didn’t like how I acted or how I dressed. Guys who were scared of me, of how different I am. But it’s never been this bad.

This was a beating with the intent to kill.

Another groan, and I wince at the pain lancing through my jaw.

“Oh, fuck me,” I whisper as my eyelids flicker open.

It’s blurry for a second before I see the outline of someone in the shadows. As my vision clears, I see that it’s him. Anthony. He’s sitting in a wingback chair, his legs spread out before him. He’s dressed like he always is—black slacks, a white button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up his forearms. Only this time, even with the shadows hiding most of him from me, I can see that he’s a little more rumpled than normal.

His hair is mussed, the top buttons of his shirt loose, exposing some of his tattooed chest to me, and he’s not wearing any shoes.

He’s bare-footed.

He looks tired, but he’s still way hotter than any middle-aged man has any right to be.

A clink brings my gaze down to a glass in his hand. He’s drinking something, something that almost glows in the dim lamplight.

Whiskey.

If this were any other time, I’d crack a joke about how he should stop trying to turn me on. But I can’t speak.

I can’t get anything out. My throat is sore, and it hurts to breathe.

“Don’t. Don’t try to speak,” Anthony’s voice is low and soft as I stare over at him. “You need to rest.”

But I can’t, not with how my body hurts.

A tear slips from my eye, and I swipe at it, wincing when my fingers graze over a cut on my cheek.

Another clink of the ice, a swallow from across the room, and then the patter of footsteps as they make their way over to me.

I peer up and see Anthony looming over me, his brow furrowed, his dark eyes narrowing.

“The doctor said you’d be okay with rest. Nothing’s broken, just bruises.”

I nod and feel another tear slip from my eye. A soft brush of his thumb steals it away, and I sigh. Everything hurts, but that. His touch. It feels good.

It feels right.

“Thank you.”

It’s all I can say, a low rasp of words and feelings, desperate and needy.

He doesn’t answer, and I can’t cope with the thought of him angry that I inconvenienced him. That perhaps he wishes he hadn’t gotten involved. I’m usually loud and confident, full of snark and purpose, but right now, I’m reduced to a crying, sniveling mess.

I don’t want him to see me like this, to see me at my weakest. So I shut him out, closing my eyes and letting my mind drift. I will come out of this stronger, fiercer—but right now, I’m going to just let myself be. I’m going to let myself hurt.

I’ll remember this.

And I’ll be stronger because of it.