Chapter 11
HATCH
It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here. Growing up in the mountains, for some stupid reason, I thought the beach was always warm. It was when we visited my cousins here.
In the summer.
Obviously.
But the Atlantic Coast wind rolling off the ocean just down the marsh is somehow balmy and downright chilly. Persistent too, finding the cut in my motorcycle jacket like it’s my knife to my back all over again. Still, my muscles stay loose, rage and focus burning the chill away.
Since getting kicked out, I’ve spent my time fuming on this dock. I should’ve left. Getting into shit like this less than six hours after I step foot onto the territory of an unknown player—full of men nearly as scary as any Fury—has got to be one of the top ten dumbest things I’ve ever done.
But my heart still thunders at the image of Frog manhandling her. It beats like a war drum, urging me to fight the world over whatever put the fear of God in Lucy’s eyes at the sight of that syringe. Which, by the way, I’ll definitely need back if I’m somehow allowed to return to the club.
I whispered voice notes to Dash asking to get me more and to get into their CCTV system even if it doesn’t sit in a “cloud.” McKennon messaged, but I can’t listen right now, so I’ll deal with that later.
My phone’s on silent now, because if the bouncer does what I think he’ll do, I won’t have much longer to wait.
Meanwhile, I can’t stop replaying Lucy’s reaction in my head.
“People get drugged all the time, kidnapped, and then they’re gone…”
I could chalk that part up to trauma over her friend getting taken. My brother wasn’t exactly a shining beacon of restraint when his fiancée was in danger from the Wildes.
But the last part, “…all alone until they have to do something awful to get free.” Where the hell did that come from?
I don’t know, but I have every intention of finding out.
And yes, I know I was supposed to stay away.
But ain’t no way I’m doing that now. Not after my pretty little mystery nearly had a panic attack in my arms, and not when she has to deal with handsy bastards who don’t know how to take no for an answer.
So I wait.
The Rabbit Hole’s back exit leads into a narrow alley that opens toward a sand and cobblestone path down to the docks.
The buildings rise a full two stories above the street because of the retaining wall cutting through Wander Isle, reminding me of Savannah’s waterways.
It’s how I entered The Rabbit Hole from the front and somehow still needed to go down another set of stairs outside when the bouncer escorted me out at knife point.
One dim wire sconce above the back door barely lights the cramped alcove between buildings. Judging by the blackened plaster and exposed brick, there probably used to be another building squeezed in there once upon a time, but it’s long gone now.
The docks themselves are either bright as a spotlight underneath the faux gas streetlamps or pitch black where they don’t reach.
Behind me, dark water winds through the marsh like spilled ink before opening into the ocean farther out, where moonlight and scattered boat lights glint across the dark abyss.
This setting might be romantic in another situation, but all I see is exposure.
There are too many shadows the flickering lamps can’t reach. Too many places to hide behind fishing cabinets, crates, ropes, and barrels.
Like I am right now.
But the chill, the waiting, the worry, it’s all worth it the second the alley door slams open hard enough to smack the wall. After years of similar abuse, the exposed brick behind the handle doesn’t even shed a crumb of plaster.
Then a bumbling toad stumbles onto the porch.
“Get on outta here, man,” the bouncer calls from inside the club. “We’re closing soon, and Castle only gives you so much leeway, you know that. We can’t have you hanging around the girls while they’re heading home.”
“I’mma… paying… custhomerrr,” the nasally voice slurs back, barely recognizable as English.
“You were a paying customer. Now you’re a trespasser. Come back when you can tell the difference between dollars and beer napkins. Go on. Get.”
The bouncer sounds exhausted, but there’s an edge under it that feels awful close to my own rage. It makes me hate him a little less.
“Fuck you.”
“You know what? I’m gonna pretend you’re concussed or some shit and let that one go. Get on home and lick your wounds, before Castle gives me permission to give you new ones.”
“You… wouldn’t… dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?” the executioner drawls. “I know you haven’t been around in a while, but don’t tell me you really think Castle’s always on your side.
Remember that card game with Jabber you tried to cheat at?
After I knocked your lights out, Castle didn’t do shit to me.
Instead, he told you to toss your gold tooth into the pot. ”
I almost snort. Nice.
The bouncer’s tone hardens. “Leave. Now.”
I think Frog tries to mutter some kind of comeback, but the door slams in his face before he gets it out. For a moment, there’s only the sound of the waves lapping at the dock.
Finally, Frog stumbles down the stairs, cursing every step he trips down.
He meanders down the path, not paying a lick of attention to his surroundings.
Instead, he’s too busy staring at his phone while shambling farther down the dock, lazily stroking himself over his pants with a dopey grin stretched across his swollen face.
Disgusting.
The streetlamp above me will cut out soon, but with how wasted he is, I don’t bother hiding and casually lean against the metal freezer locker beside me.
Judging by the ugly ass gold-and-green speedboat tied to the slip beside it—the one labeled “Frog Prince” in giant script—I’d bet a million of Frog’s beer napkins it belongs to the asshole currently shambling my direction.
His heavy, uneven cadence makes his boots slip against the slick dock, and I roll my eyes.
Jesus, this is gonna be like shooting fish in a barrel. Maybe not even be fun.
Lucy’s yelp of terror comes roaring back in my mind, her hazel blue eyes blown wide with fear, the red marks blooming over delicate skin where his nubby fingers dared touch her…
Nah. This is gonna be the second highlight of my goddamn night.
The first, of course, was having Lucy all to myself.
And it was Lucy, not Alice. I was wheeling and dealing through gambling dens and strip clubs way before I should’ve been. Orion and I have roughed up more men than I can count, I’ve consumed all sorts of substances, and had fun in the dark with plenty of women.
But a dancer has never made my whole goddamn world stop moving with one touch. And I’ve never lost my head over a single look from a stage.
Get it together, Fury.
I almost drag a hand down my face before remembering just in time that I’m masked. I figured I’d keep the disguise on for ol’ Froggy’s benefit. Wouldn’t want him to wonder who’s taking him to meet the reaper.
His mask is shoved up on top of his head like a shitty little crown, blocking any light that might’ve helped him see where he’s going.
So when he catches a boot on a warped board, he lurches sideways and grabs for the slippery rope banister.
He shouts as he tumbles toward the black water below.
It happens so fast I don’t have time to rush to catch him—I don’t want the bastard getting off that easy—but with the miraculous luck possessed only by drunk assholes, he somehow lands ass first on a cooler instead.
In this position he kinda looks like his namesake plopped on a rock in the sun. The rusted edges along the cooler’s top are probably ripping his pants but he’s too blitzed to notice, and apparently it’s as good a place as any for a rest stop.
Now he’s half-hidden behind ropes, tarps, and stacked crates, his nearly bald head shining under the weak old lamppost overhead.
Every breath wheezes out through busted swollen lips loud enough for me to hear over the waves smacking against the dock pilings.
Only the phone in his hand lights up his sweaty face.
Curious despite myself, I ease out from behind the freezer locker and move quietly down the dock, sticking to the shadows until I stop behind a stack of crates.
He’s sprawled low against the cooler with his back braced against an upright wooden pallet, stubby legs spread wide as he squints at the screen, and in his other hand—
No.
No fucking way.
Ewww.
The bastard’s violently jerking off his short, chubby dick with one grimy fist.
My stomach turns so hard bile creeps up my throat.
What a disgusting mother—
“He said it was allergy medicine.”
My ears prick as Lucy’s voice wafts toward me on the wind.
“And you believe the bastard?”
There’s a pause.
“I do.”
Lucy’s telling one of her friends that she believes me? Some tension in my chest releases. That’s great news, I was so afraid I scared her off perman—
Wait a goddamn minute.
My vision whites out.
Rage strangles my lungs and burns through my chest as I finally realize what the fuck I’m hearing.
“That’s it… take it off, whore,” Frog wheezes. “Just like you did onstage.”
What. The. Fuck.
Is this asshole jerking off to my fucking wife while she has no idea she’s being watched?
That’s all it takes.
Every plan I had goes straight out the damn window, but some god above or below must actually like me, because the second I move, the streetlamp above us dies right on schedule.
Darkness swallows me, and I’m on him like a shadow in three long strides, ripping his phone away with one hand while the other punches him straight in his face.
“What the fuck!” His bulging eyes somehow grow wider. “It’s you—”
The rest cuts off in a shriek as cartilage crunches beneath my knuckles with a new strike. Satisfaction floods me as he topples sideways like a dead pine.
“That’s right. It’s me, motherfucker.”
He might not remember this tomorrow—if I let him live—but I’m glad he knows who’s trying to kill him tonight.
I catch him by the collar before he can hit the dock and drive another punch square into his flabby jowl. He nearly pitches straight into the freezing black water below, but his collar miraculously holds his weight.
“Oh no, you fucking don’t.” I yank him upright just before he plunges over the edge to his unfortunate demise. Unfortunate for me, because I’m nowhere near done teaching this asshole a lesson.
“Get off me—”
I slam him against a metal cabinet so hard the whole thing rocks backward, only stopping when it crashes into the lamppost hard enough to burst the bulb that had flickered back on above us overhead.
Darkness returns to the dock, but I can still see him well enough as he throws his arms up to shield his face.
I drive my knee into his stomach, making him groan.
His frog mask slips crookedly over his eyes, and I punch him again, cracking plastic into his face and spraying blood through the molded smiling mouth.
“You like getting off on women who don’t fucking want you?” I snarl in his face. “Oh wait. That’s the default setting where you’re concerned, isn’t it? No one in their right mind would want you.”
He coughs wetly behind the split mask, one swollen eye glaring at me through the crack.
“Castle’s gonna… kill you.”
A laugh barks out of me.
“You may have some weird-ass protection inside the club, but you’re outside now.” I shove him harder against the cabinet. “You’re mine, motherfucker. And now you’re gonna tell me how the fuck you get a feed inside The Rabbit Hole.”
I know next to nothing about the club’s owner, however, from what I’ve gathered, I get the sense he wouldn’t be the type to stoop so low as to put a camera in such a private space. Even if he did, he wouldn’t give the feed to Frog would he?
Then how did he get it? Dash wasn’t even sure he could tap into the club’s CCTVs remotely. I’ll have to tell my brother this mouth-breathing toad has managed it. He can’t stand when someone figures out something he can’t.
Frog’s mouth moves beneath the broken mask, but only blood and saliva come out, drooling down his chin.
“What’s wrong?” I sneer. “Cat got your tongue?”
“Y-you don’t…” He coughs hard enough his eye rolls back. “Don’t know… who you’re fucking with. If you did…” Another wheeze. “You’d piss yourself in fear.”
“Then enlighten me, asshole. I’m dying to know.”
“You… will… soon enough.”
“Seriously?” I scoff. “I’m about to kill you, and you’re edging me?”
I heave him against the cabinet again, knocking a hanging bucket loose. It crashes beside us, spilling rusted tools, crab traps, and oyster shells across the dock.
Then I reach for my knife, and—
Shit.
The bouncer still has it, the knife-thieving bastard.
I glance around to improvise, and find the next thing within reach—a random oyster knife from the overturned bucket—and jam the dull point beneath Frog’s chin.
“Talk.” I shove it harder into his throat. “Who the fuck is Castle? And why should I be afraid of him?”
Should Lucy be afraid of him?
Frog laughs. Actually fucking laughs. Sure, it’s a wet, rattling, sound, broken enough that it hurts my own chest listening to it. But it’s definitely a laugh.
“Do it.” His bloody smile stretches wider, red teeth glistening in the dark. “They’ll rip you to shreds.”
“Don’t tempt me, asshole—”
I stop.
“They?”
My pulse pounds and I press the blunt knife over his carotid artery hard enough to break skin, making him choke.
“Who the fuck are ‘they’—”
A massive fist suddenly crashes into Frog’s temple, a hit so hard it knocks him out of my grip. He drops in a heavy thud onto the dock, out cold before he even lands.
I whirl around.
“Why the fuck did you—”
Click.
Every instinct in me goes razor sharp.
“Hands where I can see them, Hatter.”