Chapter Nine
Carrie
“Now, I’m only going to ask this once, Carrie, so be sure you’re paying attention,” Brandon said to me, smiling like we were old friends.
I said nothing.
We were in a new motel room, in a different state, and I was getting further and further away from Grayson.
I don’t know how long we’d been on the road, and I didn’t know where the hell these two idiots were taking me. What I did know was that Brandon was jealous of everything my dead husband had and that Monica was still in love with Robert.
Another thing I knew was that these two were the worst kidnappers in the history of kidnapping. Bar none.
And I was fed up.
At the last motel, Brandon punched me in the face, which hurt like a fucking bitch.
However, I wasn’t knocked out for long, because I came to as Brandon was dragging me back to the van—poorly. So, I did what any logical person could do in my situation: I took in the empty motel parking lot, the night sky, and closed my eyes again. There was no sense in trying to get away from this crazy asshole in the middle of a vacant lot. I was defenseless and didn’t stand a chance—not now, at least.
Once he got into the back of the van again, I laid there, staring at the ceiling and proceeded to listen to Monica bitch at him for practically jacking off in front of me. She was still in disbelief about the entire thing, and honestly, it confused me. She hated me, so I didn’t understand why she was upset. Of course, Brandon didn’t take it well and yelled at her, telling her she was ungrateful and needed to respect him. This went on for forty-five minutes, and I was rolling my eyes by the end of it.
On the plus side, the Nightwalker Brandon had drugged me with had worn off, and I was finally thinking clearly. I had control over my body again, and most of all, I was prepared to fight. I just had to bide my time and make a plan. If I didn’t, I would be dead. These two were idiots, sure, but Brandon still had a gun.
Still, I was going to fight. I had to fight. My life was finally worth fighting for.
I’d also found out that Monica was the one who called him to help.
She wanted me dead, that much was clear, but I was unsure about Brandon’s part in this.
What was he getting out of this? It certainly wasn’t Monica; she couldn’t fucking stand him.
I also counted the number of hours the drive was and when they finally parked the car, almost four hours had passed. Wherever they were heading, they weren’t in a hurry. This was the second time they stopped tonight, and that worried me. It was Brandon who wanted to stop again, ignoring Monica’s protests.
Now, here I was, tied to yet another shitty motel chair, in a room that, instead of smelling like old cigarettes, smelled of moldy cheese. The walls were painted a puke green, and there was only one bed, with stained cream bedding, and the carpet was brown. This was the kind of hotel people came to fuck and die in.
Brandon was standing a few feet in front of me, hands on his hips, Monica perched on the edge of the bed, glaring at me.
“Did you hear me, Carrie, or did I hit you a little too hard last time?” Brandon pressed, looking between me and Monica. He shook his head, sighing as he threw a hand out at me and addressed Monica. “See? I told you I shouldn’t have hit her. She might have a concussion.”
Wow, thanks for giving a shit, Brandon.
Monica shot daggers at him and hissed. “Just ask the fucking question so we can get on with this,” she hissed. “I told you I didn’t want to be here.”
Brandon glared at her, and for a moment, I was actually scared for her. Monica was evil, to be sure, but Brandon…He was insane. Finally, he looked at me and his entire demeanor changed, almost as if he was a different person.
“You’re going to give us your trust fund, okay? I’m going to need you to write down your account information for me. Can you do that?” His tone was friendly, almost playful.
I was over it.
I matched his tone and said, “No, I don’t think I can.”
Brandon blinked, the friendly facade fading. “What?”
I pursed my lips, ignoring the pain in my face. “I don’t remember the account number, and you two idiots didn’t think to grab my purse before you kidnapped me.”
Monica shot to her feet, pointing her long, thin finger at me. “Bullshit. I know for a fact you have the fucking account number memorized. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have been able to leave St. Louis.”
“Monica,” Brandon warned.
She whirled on him, raising her finger into his face. “No, I’ve had it with your games. We’ve been on the road for two days, and all we’ve managed to do is keep her drugged. She’s supposed to be dead already!”
My stomach twisted. Jesus, this woman really hated me.
“How long?” I asked.
Both of them slowly turned their heads to look at me, but I only focused on Monica.
“How long were you fucking my husband?” My words came out calm. Truth be told, I didn’t care that Robert was having an affair behind my back. There were times I’d suspected it, but I was too blind with the need for him to love and accept me to see it. I didn’t want to see it. Back then, Robert was my only path in life.
Happiness was merely a myth, baby. Until you.
Grayson’s words echoed in my mind, and my heart fluttered.
“What did you just say to me?” she whispered, not hiding her anger.
“How long were you and Robert fucking behind my back?”
“You don’t know—”
I cut her off. “You’ve been stalking me for months and planned out this whole killing me thing.”
She scoffed, flipping her thin hair over her shoulder. “You know nothing.”
I held her gaze. “I can hear it when you say his name. The pain. The love .” My words hung in the air between us like a hangman’s noose, swaying back and forth as her dead eyes flashed when she jerked back.
Brandon whistled low. “Maybe she’s not as stupid as you thought.”
I ticked my head to focus on him. “Why were you kept a secret? Why didn’t Robert tell me about you?”
“You have a lot of fucking nerve,” Monica seethed, her chest heaving now as her body shook with anger.
I ignored her, keeping at Brandon. “You told me in the store that before you killed me, you would tell me all the things I didn’t know about Robert. If you’re really about to kill me, the least you do is keep your promise.”
A cocky smile stretched across his face. “Alright, sis. You got me there.”
The last thing I wanted was for him to call me that, but I needed answers, so I let that slide, waiting for him.
Monica looked at him, eyes wide. “You’re really going to tell her?”
He looked down to her, his eyes hard. “At the very least, she deserves to fucking know, Monica. Don’t act like a fucking saint. You were fucking him since high school.”
Thankfully, the two of them were too distracted to notice my small flinch. I wasn’t expecting that. At the most, I was expecting a two-year affair, thinking Robert had met her at work or something, but high school? My lips parted as I looked down to my lap. Our entire relationship had been a lie.
As the two of them continued bickering back and forth, I felt something snap inside me, the final flayed piece of the cord that tethered me to the old Carrie, the broken, abused woman who had been so desperate for love. I wasn’t her. I had nothing tied to her anymore.
Now, even bound to this chair, I was truly free.
I looked back up at them, watching as they argued, yelling in each other’s faces as my soul smiled.
The old Carrie wasn’t just dead. She was erased.
Monica shook her head and threw her hands up in the air. “I should have never called you,” she barked.
Brandon rolled his eyes and ignored her, turning to me. “Robert never loved you, Carrie. He always loved Monica here, and between you and me, I never understood why. She was always such a cunt, even when we were kids.”
A single tear fell down Monica’s cheek as she tried to keep her composure. “Fuck you, Brandon.”
He slowly twisted his neck to look at her once more, scratching his belly with his meaty hand. “Go somewhere so I can get on with this,” he clipped, the friendly tone vanishing from his voice completely.
I silently cursed. My plan worked…to an extent.
Monica shot a look to me before she sneered. “He hated touching you.”
I said nothing.
“He hated fucking you.”
Again, I said nothing, staring at her.
She let out a growl of frustration and surged forward, getting in my face. “He couldn’t stand you. He hated your fucking hair. He hated the way you looked. You were always too fat for him,” she hissed before yanking up her shirt to show her mid-section.
My heart stopped at the sight of it. Her ribs were showing, as well as her hip bones. It felt almost as if I was staring in the mirror, the old version of me crying out for mercy.
My eyes flicked up to hers, feeling sorry for her, even more so at the pride sparkling in her eyes.
“This is what a real woman is supposed to look like. You could never achieve this,” she boasted, trying to taunt me.
All at once, Brandon faded from the room, and it was just her and me. I didn’t care about getting answers out of him, not anymore. I didn’t care if he was losing patience. I didn’t even care if he was in the room at this point. Before I could stop it, the heavy question fell from my lips.
“Is the pain worse in the mornings or at night?” I whispered.
She jerked back, her shirt falling again as that sparkle of pride in her eyes died, leaving behind the usual pain and hatred. I continued, “For me, it was in the mornings. I didn’t need an alarm clock; the hunger pains usually woke me up. I couldn’t wait for Robert to make me my daily breakfast.”
“Stop,” she breathed, shaking her head.
“Two egg whites and a single piece of buttered toast,” I whispered, a lump growing in my throat. “Some days, took thirty minutes just to eat the meal so I would feel fuller longer.”
“You don’t—”
“Of course, this was after my morning workout.” My eyes scanned her face as I added quietly, “Did he make you workout too?”
She was stunned, her face twisting in denial. In her eyes, I could never understand her, but I did. She had to be better than me; if not, then what else did she have to hold on to? Robert was gone, and she had nothing, while I moved on and found everything.
“How old were you when he decided your natural body—your healthy body wasn’t good enough for him, Monica? Thirteen? Fourteen?” I pressed, my voice soft.
She may hate me, but we were the same.
We were both victims of Robert Hale.
The only difference?
She actually received his love, while I received his anger.
“When did you start smoking?” I asked. “You know, I contemplated it for a long time, smoking. I’d read in a woman’s magazine it could curb your appetite, but I was too scared that the smell would upset Robert.”
I leaned forward as much as I could after she took another step back, her eyes wide, her chest heaving. For the first time since seeing her, she looked alive—seen.
“When was the last time you had a decent meal, Monica?”
She looked at Brandon for help, but he would never understand. He couldn’t understand.
My curls fell over my shoulders now, hanging down in tangles, my face and body aching as I gave her the final blow. “Robert’s gone,” I whispered. “You don’t have to keep starving yourself. His approval doesn’t mean shit from the grave.”
Before I knew it, she was in front of me again, her palm connecting with the aching side of my face. My head snapped to the side as burning pain spread throughout my cheek and up my temple, leaving behind an intense throb. I kept my head to the side, clenching my jaw as she leaned in, hissing in my ear. “You know nothing .” Then, she was gone, the hotel door slamming behind her.
Slowly, I righted myself and leaned back in the chair, my eyes landing on Brandon’s. The goofy Brandon was gone, as well as the scary Brandon, leaving something else entirely in its place.
For a moment, just a mere second, I wasn’t staring at a deranged man. Instead, I was staring at a little boy—a scared little boy.
“My brother was fucked up,” he said softly, giving me a small, smile filled with pity. “More so than me.”
Then, he was gone, following Monica outside and leaving me alone.
A chill ran down my spine and suddenly, I knew that the secrets about Robert were darker than I could have ever expected.
“I want her dead,” Monica’s voice whispered.
I heard movement, followed by Brandon’s reply. “When I have my fucking money, you can kill her and go back to mourning my fucked up brother. Until then, sit down and shut up.”
Slowly, I opened one of my eyes to peak.
A few hours ago, after leaving me alone for about thirty minutes, Brandon and Monica came back into the room. Without a word, Brandon pulled out a gag and some duct tape. He told me it was to shut me up, and I complied, keeping my anger in check.
Monica was back to normal, ignoring me and Brandon—well, he was just…calm.
After Brandon gave me yet another creepy smile, they both went to bed. It was stupid of them, but I was grateful for the extra time. While they slept for a couple of hours, I tried my hardest to stay awake and plan while working the Zip-ties around my wrists. I’d had these on my wrists for days. When I was in the van, I rubbed them up and down against a jagged edge of metal for over an hour, and so while they slept, I kept working on getting them lose. It was hard, and it was going to take some time, but I was close.
Ten minutes ago, Brandon stopped snoring, and I closed my eyes, pretending to sleep.
Now, Monica had just woken up, and she was arguing with him again.
“She’s a waste of time. Just kill her, and we can go back to Astoria and get her bank information,” Monica insisted.
Brandon scoffed quietly. “Are you fucking kidding me, Monica? Do I need to remind you of the guy she was fucking before we nabbed her? You really want to face him? He’s got to be looking for her right now.”
Grayson.
They were talking about Grayson.
Goosebumps scattered across my skin, and I closed my eyes, heart pounding.
“He’s not going to be any trouble for us,” Monica shot back. “Just kill her now while she’s sleeping.”
Nope. That wasn’t happening.
My head shot up. “You know, you should really learn how to keep your voices down,” I said, making both of them jump. Brandon was under the covers, shirtless, while Monica was on top of the covers, using my yellow puffer as a blanket.
I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, glaring at her. Before she slapped me, I actually felt sorry for her, but now, she could rot in hell for all I cared—and she would.
Grayson would be here there soon enough.
Brandon sat up, throwing the covers off his body, and I tensed as he reached into the nightstand drawer, pulling out his gun.
“Let’s fucking get on with this,” he mumbled, rising from the bed. He scrubbed a hand down his face and looked at me.
When he started making his way to me, I stopped breathing.
When he stopped a foot in front of me, I gulped.
When he raised his gun and I could see down the barrel, all I thought about was Grayson’s dark eyes.