Chapter 24 Everly
EVERLY
“Should we kill her?”
“Yeah. Get it over with. I’m done with this bitch.”
“You’re just pissed she wouldn’t date you, Rich. We follow orders.”
“I’m tired of this brotherly-sisterly feud. Let’s pop one in the back of her head and leave her.”
“You know they’re coming for her. They will.”
“And we’ll be ready. We defend her at all costs. Rex wants her alive, and that’s how she’ll stay.”
“So, he can do what? Kill her himself?”
“Whatever the fuck he wants. But if it was my sister? I’d make an example out of her for the whole damn town to see.”
My stomach turned as I listened to their conversation. They were far off. Possibly in the bar area of their lodge. I recognized the man from the house and Ricochet, but I didn’t recognize any other voices. But they confirmed my worst possible fear.
My brother was behind what was happening to me.
Tears ran down my face as I sat in the chair.
My feet had been numb for an hour and my legs were beginning to ache.
I’d become unrecognizable to myself. I didn’t even know the person who was sitting in the damn chair.
I thought about all the ways my own brother would kill me.
What kind of monster had he turned into?
I drew in a shaking breath as memories from my childhood bombarded my mind.
The first time my brother ever got hurt.
He was running around outside and got his foot stuck in a pothole.
Twisted it so bad it bruised and we had to get him to a doctor.
And he didn’t want Mom. Or Dad. He wanted me.
Me to hold his hand. Me to go back into the office with him.
Me to help him in the house and get him back into bed.
Or the first time he brought a girl home.
After our Dad wasted away and died. He was so smitten with her, and he didn’t give a shit about what Mom thought.
But my opinion of her? He kept talking her up every time she turned her back.
How wonderful she was and how beautiful she was and how his heart skipped a beat whenever he saw her.
My opinion of her mattered more than anything else.
When I first took the job at the grocery store, my brother was livid.
He said I needed to be out cruising with friends and enjoy being a teenager.
But I told him that was his job. When he got older, that was what I wanted him to do.
I wanted him to enjoy his teenage years, which meant Mom and I had to work.
And eventually, just me.
My brother’s friends continued to talk, but I blocked them out.
I no longer wanted any part of trying to decipher why they were doing this.
Why he was doing this. This man-- this Rex-- he wasn’t my brother.
Nowhere close. My brother was kind, and loving, and dedicated, and gracious.
He was hardworking and close to me and always valued my opinion over anything else.
My brother could never do this to his own family.
Manipulate them. Torture them. Scare them into oblivion.
I didn’t know what this club had done to him, but the brother I knew was dead.
I grieved for him. For the little boy that was dead.
I grieved for that bright smile I’d never see again and those beautiful sparkling eyes that enjoyed running around and catching fireflies.
Butterflies. Anything that flew. I grieved for the memories I’d never make with him.
The dinners we wouldn’t have any longer and the breakfasts I wouldn’t make him.
The children I wanted to have one day that would never call him ‘uncle’.
I grieved for my mother and my father, because I knew they were looking down on us.
Looking down and crying out. Asking Rex why the hell he was doing this to his sister.
Where did I go wrong with him?
When could I have stepped in to change this?
I had to get out. There was no other way. If I stayed there, I was dead. That was a guarantee. I could go down crying and grieving for a brother I’d never know again, or I could go down fighting for my life. Fighting against the shell of a monster my brother had become.
I lifted my head and opened my eyes, allowing them to adjust.
The room was pitch black at first. I couldn't even see my feet when I looked down.
Then, the light underneath the door started to filter through my vision.
I could see faint outlines of things. Shelving around me.
A mop bucket in the corner. Bleach on the top shelf.
The patterns in the chair I was sitting in.
I craned my neck to look behind me, ignoring the searing pain. And I saw it.
A packet of cigarettes and a lighter.
I was lucky they hadn’t tied me to the chair.
Simply tossed me into the room and left me there to die.
Or starve. Or piss myself. I pushed my feet along the floor moving my body with the chair, biting through the numbed pain, until I was up against the metal shelf.
I wiggled myself around in the chair, until my feet were planted at the side.
My hands were tied behind my back. I bit my lip as I stood up and reached my aching arms up as far as they would go.
I laid them down onto the shelving unit and bent, stretching them further until I thought they were going to pop out of socket.
And finally, my fingers grazed across it.
I grabbed the lighter and sat back down into the chair. I drew in a deep breath, waiting to see if any of them had heard me. But all they were doing was laughing and tossing beer bottles onto the ground as they shattered. Making a fucking mess.
They were professionals at that.
This was my only shot, and I prayed no one smelled the burning rope.
I prayed the lighter worked as I flicked it several times.
Tears rose to my eyes when it didn’t ignite.
I needed it to light. Just one good flame.
I didn’t care if I burned myself and I didn’t care if I set this fucking place on fire.
So long as I could burn through the ropes at my wrists, I could untie my feet, let them fill with blood, then get the fuck out of this place.
Maybe I’d burn it down anyway.
I flicked and I flicked. I struck up the lighter so much I thought I’d drained all the fluid. I was about to give up. About to throw myself into the closet door and see how far I could climb with my damn teeth. And then it happened.
I felt a hot flame land against my skin.
I bit back a howl as I maneuvered the flame underneath the rope.
It began to singe, and I prayed no one could hear it.
Or smell it. Maybe they would be too drunk to notice.
Too confident in their plans to think I could possibly get out myself.
Their laughter was growing louder and the stench of burned rope was filling the closet, and I knew I didn’t have too long before someone would smell it.
I waved the flame around, turning and twisting my wrists. Hoping the rope would finally break free and I could get out of here.
Run into the woods.
Or into Redding.
Or into the woods.
Run anywhere but here.
Against everything inside of me, I stopped the lighter.
The smell of burnt rope was becoming too strong, and I needed to take it slowly.
Even if I wore my thumb down to the bone trying to get it to light again, I needed to play this smart.
I gagged at the smell filling the supply closet they had thrown me into.
I gagged so hard I urinated on myself. The acidic fluid ran down my leg, shooting a searing pain up through my thigh.
I threw my head back and bit down onto my tongue, swallowing my groans as more tears wafted down my cheeks.
Then, when the smell had cleared and the guys were laughing their asses off, I took to striking up the lighter again.
I flicked and I flicked. I grunted and I grew frustrated. What the fuck was wrong with this lighter? Did these assholes not have the money to afford decent ones?
Then, the flame struck up again.
I moved it underneath the rope. At least, I hoped it was the rope.
It wasn’t until I started smelling the nasty scent of burning thread that I knew I was on the right path.
I could feel the tension beginning to give way.
I felt blood rushing to my hands. I twisted my wrists and worked them into the slack tension I was finally gaining for myself, then I heard it.
I heard footsteps coming down the hallway.
I stopped the lighter immediately and placed it back on the shelf behind me. So, I could easily reach it again. I took massive breaths, hoping I could suck the fucking nasty air into my lungs and hold it. I watched as the shadow fell just beyond the door and stopped.
But no one said anything.
I let out the breath I was holding slowly before taking another one.
If they came in here and saw my burned restraints, I knew they would kill me.
I worked my wrists, hoping to free them before that psychopath came barreling into the supply closet.
I drew in a silent breath and held it, praying to a god that didn’t exist that the asshole wouldn’t open the door.
Then, I heard his voice.
“She’s still fucking out. Can I get a damn beer now?”
“Yeah. Come get one. I was hoping she was awake. I kinda wanna play.”
I was going to claw Rich’s fucking eyes out.
The boots receded down the hallway and took the shadow with it. I let out the breath I was holding and quickly grabbed the lighter back off the shelf. I waited until the raucous laughter began again and used it to overshadow the flicking of the lighter to get it the fuck on again.
Then the flame sparked and I continued on with my work.
I couldn’t rely on anyone to save me. I couldn't rely on anyone to love me. I didn’t know if Grave knew where I was or even if I was in danger.
For all I knew, The Dead Souls found it a relief that I was gone.
No longer a bother for them to deal with.
I’d already given them my signed testimony.
Slapped my signature on it and everything.
They had no more use for me. If I wasn’t alive to testify, they still had that.
Maybe they didn’t feel the need to protect me any longer.
Whatever the case, I couldn't rely on them to save me.
No matter how much I cared for Grave and no matter how much I wanted to think of him, I only had myself to rely on.
Myself to blame for any situation I got into.
I made my decision the second I ratted on Rex to their club.
I sealed my fate. I was the reason why I was trapped in this supply closet. Not Rex. Not Grave. Not anyone.
Simply myself to blame.
And if I was to blame, then I was the only person who could get myself out.