Chapter 13
Ramsey
Four days of watching her bruises fade is four days too fucking long. Four days of planning, of waiting, of watching Reese slowly piece herself back together while I rage and die inside.
Tonight's the night. She's finally going to Reagan's, which means I've got a six-hour window to make this motherfucker disappear.
"You sure you're ready for hellfire Reagan?" I ask, watching Reese pack her bag. The purple and yellow under her eye has faded to almost non-existent, but I still see it. Still feel it like a brand on my own skin.
"No," she laughs, tossing her hairbrush in the bag. "But I can't avoid her forever. Penn's been blowing up my phone also, and the boys keep asking why Auntie Weese hasn’t come over in fourth-ever."
I lean against her doorframe, arms crossed, memorizing every detail of her. The way she moves, the slight wince when she reaches too far, the cautious way she holds herself. Like her body's still waiting for the next blow.
"I could come with you," I offer, knowing she'll say no, hoping she'll say no.
"And be the buffer between me and Reagan's interrogation?" She zips the bag shut. "No way. Besides, don't you have that thing with Cope tonight?"
Right. The "thing" I made up yesterday as my alibi. "Yeah."
The lie tastes like metal on my tongue. I've never lied to her before. Not about anything that matters.
"I'll be fine," she says, slinging the bag over her shoulder. "Reagan will fuss and hover, Penn will get all weird and inappropriate, and the boys will climb all over me until I'm too exhausted to think about anything else."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I want to grab her, hold her, tell her not to worry because by morning, Justin won't exist anymore. Not as anything but scraps of meat and bone.
I can't help myself. I drive her to Penn and Reagan's place, one hand on the wheel, the other fidgeting with the radio dial. When we pull up, I leave the engine running as I get out to open her door. "Text me when you're inside," I say, watching her gather her things.
I pull her against me, one arm around her waist, my other hand sliding into her hair. I press my face against the top of her head, breathing her in.
"Rams?" Her voice is muffled against my chest.
"Just be safe," I whisper into her hair, allowing myself this one moment of weakness before I do what needs to be done.
She hugs me back, then pulls away with a smile. "You too, weirdo."
Thirty minutes later, I'm back at our place, changing into black jeans and a dark hoodie.
I grab my duffel from the closet—the one Reese thinks holds gym shit.
Inside is chloroform, zip ties, duct tape, plastic sheeting, and a set of hunting knives I've had since I was sixteen. Other little odds and ends as well.
The drive to Harmony College gives me too much time to think. My knuckles turn white on the steering wheel as I picture that fucker's hands on her. The way her lip split when he hit her. The bruises on her wrists. By the time I hit the campus, I'm vibrating with rage.
Finding him is easy. I've been tracking his phone since the night he hurt her. On Friday nights, Justin Chambers drinks at a shithole bar just off campus called The Pit. Every fucking week, like clockwork.
I park two blocks away and pull up my hood. The bar is packed with college kids, music thumping so loud I feel it in my chest.
I spot him immediately—holding court at a corner table, surrounded by his douchebag friends, a bottle of cheap vodka between them.
I hang back, nursing a whiskey, watching. Waiting. Three shots later, his friends start to drift away, heading to the dance floor.
Justin stumbles to the bathroom but it’s full, so he heads outside to the alley. I brush past him, deliberately bumping his shoulder.
"Watch it, asshole," he slurs, grabbing my arm.
Turning slowly, I let him see my face. His eyes widen, recognition and fear washing over him.
"Blackwood?" His voice cracks. "The fuck are you doing here?"
"Looking for you," I say, smiling. It's not a nice smile. "Reese sent me with a message."
His face twists. "That frigid Blackwood bitch—"
That's all he gets out before my hand clamps the rag over his mouth and nose. He struggles, arms flailing, but I've got a hundred pounds and years of fighting dirty on him. His eyes roll back as the chemical does its work, and he goes limp against me.
"That's it, night night motherfucker," I mutter, catching his dead weight.
I drag him to my truck, pop the trunk, and dump him inside like the garbage he is. I zip-tie his wrists and ankles, slap duct tape over his mouth, and slam the trunk closed.
The drive to Old Man Blackwood's property takes another thirty minutes, down winding back roads where no one ever goes. The old hunting lodge sits abandoned, surrounded by acres of dense woods. My great-grandfather, Clark, was a sick fuck who liked his privacy for his…hobbies. Like grandfather, like grandson, I guess. It seems to be a running fucking family trait at this point. For fucks sake, I hope Riot and Ransom don’t inherit all of our fucked up qualities.
I drag his unconscious body from the trunk, hefting him over my shoulder in a fireman's carry.
The cabin door creaks as I kick it open, revealing the sparse interior that Great-Grandpa Clark left behind.
It's perfect. Just a metal chair bolted to the floor, an old examination table with leather straps, and a workbench along one wall with tools arranged in neat rows.
The single bulb hanging from the ceiling casts harsh shadows across the concrete floor.
"Home sweet fucking home," I mutter, dropping Justin onto the chair like a sack of shit.
I secure his wrists to the chair arms with zip ties, cinching them tight enough to cut into his flesh. His ankles get the same treatment, fastened to the chair legs. The plastic bites into his skin, and I feel a rush of satisfaction watching red marks form around the restraints.
He's still out cold, head lolling against his chest. I grab the smelling salts from my duffel and wave them under his nose. His head jerks back, eyes flying open as he gasps and coughs.
"Rise and shine, motherfucker," I say, grabbing his jaw and forcing him to look at me.
His eyes dart wildly around the room, panic setting in as he realizes his situation. He tries to speak, but the duct tape muffles his words into pathetic whimpers.
"You know why you're here?" I ask, circling the chair slowly.
Ripping the tape off his mouth in one swift motion allows his screams to tear from his throat, more from fear than pain.
"Blackwood, what the fuck? You can't—this is kidnapping!" His voice is still slurred from the booze, high-pitched with terror.
I laugh, and it sounds unhinged even to my own ears. "Kidnapping is the least of your worries right now, Justin."
I grab a knife from the workbench—nothing fancy, just a hunting knife with a six-inch blade. I test it against my thumb, drawing a thin line of blood.
"You know what I can't stop thinking about?" I twirl the knife between my fingers. "How you put your fucking hands on her. How you marked her perfect skin."
"She's not even your girlfriend!" he spits, tugging uselessly at his restraints. "You're fucking obsessed with her, man. It's sick!"
"Obsessed?" I press the flat of the blade against his cheek. "Indeed, I fucking am. If I could stitch her to me, I would. I would sew her right here." I beat a fist against my chest.
"She was asking for it, dancing like a fucking whore—"
The knife slices his cheek before I even realize I’ve moved. Blood wells up from the shallow cut, and now he screams like the punk he is.
"That’s a strike, tsk," I tell him, wiping the blade on his shirt. "Call her a bitch or a whore again, and you’re in for a real treat."
"You know what? Fuck you," Justin spits, blood from his cut sliding down his cheek. "She's a fucking bitch who—"
I don't lunge at him like he expects. Instead, I just smirk, watching him flinch and brace for pain that doesn't come. His shoulders tense as I step back, reaching into my duffel.
"This is thirsty work," I say casually, pulling out a bottle of water. I twist the cap off and take a long, slow drink while he watches, confusion replacing terror for a brief moment.
I walk over to the examination table and hoist myself up, letting my legs dangle over the edge. The metal creaks beneath me as I swing my feet back and forth like a kid waiting for a doctor's appointment.
"You know, I've been watching your hockey games," I say, finishing the water.
He stares at me like I've grown a second head. "What the fuck are you—"
"You're pretty shit at it, actually," I continue, studying the water bottle label. "Coach only puts you in during the third period when you're already down by four. Did you know they call you 'Garbage Time' behind your back?"
His face flushes red. "That's bullshit."
"I counted. You've had four assists this season, zero goals." I whistle low. "That's pretty fucking pathetic for a senior. What was it your coach said to the scout from Boston? Oh yeah—'Chambers has the coordination of a newborn giraffe on ice.'"
"Fuck you," he growls, but I can see the humiliation working its way under his skin. Nothing hurts an ego like the truth.
"You're a loser, Justin. In every fucking aspect of your miserable life.
" I take another casual sip. "Your daddy's law firm won't even hire you as a paralegal because your LSAT scores were so abysmal.
Your frat brothers mock your small dick behind your back.
And the only way you can feel big is by hitting women who are half your size. "
He's seething now, veins popping in his forehead. "You think you're so much better than everyone with your Blackwood name and money—"