146. Sterling
Chapter 146
Sterling
The lights go out in the Laundry Cabin.
Simpson steps past me and delivers his own kick to the back of the man’s thighs. “Bastard,” he hisses.
With my girl climbing into bed a few yards away, the need to get this man away from her becomes unbearable.
I bend down and grip his ankles, aware one is probably broken, and I start to drag him.
He lets out a cry.
I drop his ankles, spin to face him, and drop to one knee.
He holds his mangled hands up.
I bat them away with my left hand, then crash my right fist into his chest. Again.
As he once again struggles to breathe, I put all my weight onto his chest as I brace against it to push myself back up.
Fisher nods at me with impressed approval written across his features. “Want me to drag him?” he asks quietly.
I shake my head and scoop up the man’s ankles again, then start dragging him. “Leon wasn’t drinking tonight. Go wake him up and have him pull his truck up to the house. ”
“On it.” Fisher barely has the words out before he’s running away into the dark.
“What else you need?” Simpson asks, his voice full of emotion.
I’ll get there.
But not yet.
I’m not ready to be anything but furious yet.
“I need you to stay here and keep an eye on his buddies. Don’t interact if they come looking for him. Play dumb.” I look over at Simpson, and he nods. “I’ll figure out something to tell them in the morning.”
We reach the front of my house, and I drop the man’s feet.
He groans.
Simpson kicks him.
“I’m not sure how many more hits your ribs can take,” I tell the man. “So maybe shut the fuck up on your own, yeah?”
Simpson stands by my side as we stand over the Creep.
“You did good,” Simpson tells me after a minute of silence.
I stare down at the man at our feet. “I want to kill him.”
The man whimpers.
Simpson lays a hand on my shoulder. “You did good.”
Headlights cut through the woods, then Leon’s pickup comes into view.
It’s a big red thing with a topper. Ideal so no one can see our cargo, and so our cargo can’t fall out.
“Keep kicking him if he tries to move,” I say to Simpson before jogging into the dark.
I’m back from the Storage Shed in less than a minute with a length of rope in my grip.
Fisher, good with knots, helps me tie the man’s hands behind his back. Then we use the excess rope to tie his feet together before we not-so-carefully lift him into the back of the truck.
“You’re in the back seat,” I tell Fisher. “You can keep an eye on him through the rear window.” I roll out my shoulders. “My old ass can’t sit twisted like that.”
Fisher huffs a laugh as he climbs up into the back seat. “Maybe not, but your old ass can throw a punch. ”
I grunt and grip the oh shit handle to pull myself up into the passenger seat.
Leon is still behind the wheel, having stayed seated, quietly listening to classic rock while we hog-tied a man.
He turns his head to look at me. “Where to?”
That’s it. No other questions.
“The Inn.”
Leon nods, then shifts into drive and does a U-turn, heading down the driveway.
As we reach the end of the drive, we pass the gate that’s permanently open.
It’s not electric. Just a hunk of metal with a chain and rusted open padlock.
It wouldn’t help security-wise for guests who are already here, but maybe I need to start closing it at night. Or install a security system on the Laundry Cabin. Something with a panic button.
As Leon turns out onto the road, he stomps on the gas, and the rear of the truck fishtails onto the pavement.
There’s a thud, then a cry from the bed.
Leon looks at me. “Oops.”
Fisher snickers, then heaves out a deep breath. “I’m so fucking glad you were there.” I glance back, catching his eye. “After we got to the Bunk House, Simpson and I were both feeling weird about that guy. Didn’t like how he left the same time as us.” He shakes his head. “We decided to check on Court, make sure she got to her cabin alright. Then we heard the scream… My heart fucking stopped for a second. We thought it was her.”
I work to swallow.
I was right there.
Right fucking there when that slimy fuck tried to get his hands on Courtney’s door.
Even if he’d gotten his fingers on the door, I never would’ve let him touch her.
I have to keep reminding myself.
He never would have fucking touched her.
I was right there .
I flex my fists.
But he still got too close.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial Rocky.
“Sterling.”
“I need a favor.”
He hums on the other end of the line. “Consider me interested.”
“You know those security cameras you have behind your office building?”
“What cameras?”
The start of a smirk pulls at my lips. “I have some trash for your dumpster.”
“A happy camper?” I can hear the humor in Rocky’s voice.
Leon hits the brakes harder than necessary as we approach a stop sign.
There’s another thud. Another cry.
“He’s not that happy,” I answer.
“Noted. I’ll make sure none of my staff head that way for the cigarettes they think I don’t know about.” He pauses a moment. “You need anything else?”
“That’s plenty. I’ll owe you.”
“I’ll remember,” Rocky states before hanging up.
Leon chuckles. “Curious what sort of favor that man will ask for.”
“Me too.”
We stay silent for the rest of the drive until we near the Inn, then I direct Leon where to go.
Rocky Ridge Inn is a long two-story motel built into the side of a mountain, with the bar front and center. But about a quarter mile down the two-lane highway, around the bend in the road, is a small building. This is Rocky’s office. But from the one time I set foot in it, I saw it’s mostly just used for storage.
“Behind there.” I point out the windshield.
Leon pulls the truck around the far side of the building, revealing the dumpster.
There are dumpsters closer to the Inn, but I don’t want to leave this human garbage right next to someone’s motel room .
Leon puts the truck in park, then relaxes in his seat, clearly planning to stay put.
Fisher and I open our doors at the same time and meet at the back of the truck.
I drop the tailgate and open the back window of Leon’s topper.
Blood is smeared across the truck bed.
Guess I’ll owe Leon a favor too.
“How do you wanna do this?” Fisher asks, eyeing the man.
I reach out, gripping the rope binding the man’s feet, and drag him to the edge of the bed.
He groans.
“Got your knife?” I ask my employee even though I know he does. He always has his fishing knife on him.
The man in the truck bed starts thrashing. “You can’t do this,” he cries.
“I can do whatever the fuck I want,” I growl and punch him in the kidney. “And if you say another fucking word, this knife is slicing your throat. Under-fucking-stand?”
The sound of steel clearing leather has the man stilling.
I look over and Fisher holds his knife out to me, handle first. Looking totally okay with me threatening this man’s life.
With my free hand, I grab the man’s ankles again and yank him so his legs are hanging off the back of the truck.
I slice through the rope binding his feet together, then fist the front of his shirt and drag him the rest of the way out of the truck.
“Stand up,” I command when his feet hit the ground.
He stumbles.
Fisher slaps him. “He said stand the fuck up.”
I bite down on the inappropriate urge to smile.
The Creep manages to stand, his weight all on one foot, and I hand Fisher’s knife back to him.
I pat the man’s pockets until I find his phone, then I pull it free.
“Password.” When he doesn’t reply, I look up and meet the man’s swollen eyes. “Your face is too fucked up for facial recognition. So you can either tell me your password and I can call an ambulance for you, or I can smash your phone right here, right now, and you can walk your ass to town.” You can’t see the Inn from here, and chances are he doesn’t know there’s a thriving business around the corner.
I drop his phone onto the pavement.
I lift my boot.
“One, one, six, four,” he rushes out, his words garbled. Probably from his broken face.
“There. That wasn’t so fucking hard.” I slap him on the back.
He stumbles forward and falls.
But with his arms still tied behind his back, his landing is… rough.
“Ouch.” Fisher makes a face.
I type in the code, and the phone unlocks.
It takes me a moment, but I get all of his contacts deleted. All his texts deleted. Call log wiped. Messaging apps deleted.
It won’t stop him from getting a hold of someone, but it’s going to make it a hell of a lot harder. Especially if he’s not one of the few people who still memorize phone numbers.
I drop the phone back on the ground, then look up at Fisher. “Help me lift him?”
“Can do.”
We step up on either side of the man who is face-first on the ground and each grip him under the arm.
He’s crying now.
And to be fair, he’s in tough shape.
Broken fingers.
Broken wrist.
Sprained or broken ankle.
Broken ribs.
Broken nose.
Jaw fucked up.
And those kicks had to hurt.
But he needs to save his energy because it’s getting colder.
Not cold enough to kill him overnight. Probably . But cold enough that he’s going to want to climb out of this dumpster and get to his phone sooner rather than later.
His best bet will be calling for an ambulance.
But ambulances come with questions. And cops .
Sure, he can give them my name and the name of the Lodge and explain exactly what happened.
But he’d have to explain exactly what happened. Why I attacked him.
If it would actually land the Creep in jail, I’d call the cops myself. But I stopped him before he broke the law. So calling them wouldn’t do shit.
But beating the man half to death has been very satisfying.
And hopefully his surgeon sucks, and his hands cause him pain for the rest of his miserable life.
“Cut his hands,” I say to Fisher as I nod down to the man’s tied hands.
Fisher drags the blade over one of the man’s palms.
The man cries out.
I raise my brows.
Fisher’s mouth forms an O . “You meant the rope.”
“I meant the rope.”
Fisher slices through the rope, and once they’re free, the man jerks his arms in front of him, holding them to his chest.
“Up on one,” I say to Fisher.
“Am-Ambulance,” the man chokes out.
“They’ll come when you call them. One.” I grunt as we lift the man by his hips and armpits, then drop him headfirst into the partially filled dumpster.
There’s more moaning and crying as the contents of the dumpster rustle around before everything goes quiet.
I don’t know if he passed out. Or if he’s just playing dead. Either way, he got less than he deserved.
As we walk back to the truck, I drop my hand on Fisher’s shoulder. “Appreciate what you did tonight.”
He dips his chin. “We’re the Black Mountain family. We look out for each other.”
“That we do.” I nod. Then I nod again before I crack a smile. “You meant the rope,” I say with a lightly mocking tone.
Fisher grins.
Showered and dressed in new clothes, I climb the steps to Courtney’s front door.
I type my master code, and the deadbolt unlocks.
But I don’t enter.
Not yet.
Watching that man lunge up these steps… That was the scariest thing I’ve ever witnessed.
And I’m so glad… so fucking glad Courtney didn’t see it.
I take a deep inhale of the night air.
I don’t know if it’s the right call, but I’m not going to tell her.
Knowing what almost happened won’t help her.
And I want to tell her to listen better. To be aware of footsteps behind her.
But I don’t want her to be afraid.
I don’t want her to look at every guest with suspicion.
I don’t want her to not feel safe.
I take another breath.
The visual of him following her is going to haunt me.
But the way he fell face-first when I dragged him off the stairs…
That was satisfying as fuck.
My knuckles throb as I flex my fingers.
I’ve had enough pain and violence for the night. It’s time for comfort.
I open Courtney’s door.