Chapter 31 #2
Rose’s parents come into view, over near the edge of the parking lot.
Her father’s towering over a man with shaggy dark hair, chest heaving, as a heavily-tattooed bald man pushes him back.
His wife and two other sons stand off to the side, seemingly unfazed by the spectacle.
I wonder if her scream was all for show…
Even from this distance I can hear him, clear as the sun in the sky.
“Where are my daughters?” Patrick growls, lunging at the man on the ground again as he scrambles back in retreat.
“I know you know where the fuck they are!” Something tugs in my chest as his voice cracks with despair.
Knowing I could ease his suffering, then choosing not to, awakens the sickness inside me full force.
I pop the trunk, quickly depositing the groceries inside before gently closing it.
The maliciousness unfurls through my blood, making me put one foot in front of the other as I approach my new toy’s father.
My palm lands against Patrick’s shoulder, and he whirls on me, fist raised, ready to knock my shit out.
I raise my hands in surrender, the gun tucked into my belt rubbing against the base of my spine.
Heading into Bleakcrest without it was so unnerving, I slipped it back into its rightful place the second I was concealed in my vehicle.
“Whoah! It’s just me. Is everything okay?” I ask as the excitement coils inside me, liable to explode at any moment.
“My daughters were with these men last night.” Patrick spits the word. Clearly he thinks the two standing before him don’t deserve to be called men. I’d have to agree. It takes a real sack of shit to abduct not one, but two women, and then sell them into slavery. All while dressed like twins.
“Are you sure?” I watch as he crumbles further, assuredness withering as he’s second guessed by yet another person.
“Yes, I’m fucking sure. I’m not senile.”
The bald one pipes up, “How can you be so sure when you were snoring into your fucking martini?”
Shame swallows Patrick up from the inside, and he wilts.
“And how do you know he was asleep at his table?” I question.
“It’s a barman’s job to monitor all his customers.” He’s got an inner lip tattoo, and I immediately hate him. If he works for Mr. Smythe, it’s highly probable that he drugged the man of the family in order to make the kidnapping of Patrick’s daughters that much easier.
“Were you with Chelsea and Rose last night?” I snap. “I doubt this man cares what exactly you were doing with them at this point. He only wants to know they’re safe.”
The other man finally rises from the ground, brushing himself off.
“Yes, they were with us. We went to the main deck area, then the staff room for a game or two of pool, then we parted ways. Chelsea went with Brad, and Rose left with me. An hour or so later, she left. Alive. Where she went after that, I don’t know. ”
An hour? No way this guy could stick it to my flower for even half that time. He probably made her do all the work.
“You just let her leave? Couldn’t scrounge up the decency to walk her back to her room?” I love to break my toys, watch them fall apart because of me. But I always put them back together in the end. Otherwise playtime is over until something new catches my interest.
“I was tired.” He shrugs nonchalantly, and the pistol at my back burns, wanting to be unloaded into this man’s chest.
“What about you, Mr. Mixologist? Where did Chelsea go?” Patrick is a fuming statue next to me.
I’m quite surprised he’s letting me lead the questioning, but he’s probably grateful just to have someone on his side.
He’s getting no support from the other members of his family, and it’s setting off all the warning bells in my brain.
“I bent her over the safety rail, pounded that pussy until it was leaking my cum, then sent her on her way. Fell asleep in a deck chair after that, woke up at sunrise when the storm blew in.”
I risk a look in Patrick’s direction. His fist is clenched, shaking in silent anger.
His eyes flick to mine and I give a quick, slight nod, stepping out of his way as he flies at the man. Patrick’s fist connects with the tattooed man’s nose, and he drops like a rotten sack of melons, drool and blood leaking from his face.
The second man kneels beside his friend as he rolls in pain, one hand on his face and the other clutching his ribs.
That’s…peculiar.
“Fuck, man,” the one with the shaggy brown hair shouts. “Your daughters were alive and well when we last saw them. I swear it.”
Not a total lie.
“Then where are they?” Patrick hollers back.
“Shit, I don’t know. Rose said you were all sharing a room, so maybe they didn’t want to go back there all dishevelled.”
“Freshly fucked…” the tattooed one snarls around the blood seeping into his mouth.
“Will you shut the fuck up?” his friend grumbles to the writhing idiot on the ground.
I look to Patrick. He’s still pissed off, but there’s a flicker of doubt now. What if the men are right? What if the sisters waited until their parents left the room to go back? They could freshen up, and possibly grab a quick nap.
“When’s the last time you checked your room?” I ask, nearing my limit with this entire fucking situation. I’m an idiot for even coming over here. But at least I know who’s throat to slit for touching what’s fucking mine.
“We haven’t been back since the gangway was lowered.”
I huff, showing my feelings. “So your girls could have snuck back into the room after you left?”
“I suppose it’s possible…” Patrick doesn’t like to admit he’s wrong. His gut is telling him something is off, and it’s right. But I’m not about to deliver any of my knowledge.
Rubbing my forehead in annoyance, I say, “Look, I understand your concern. But you’re on the verge of two assault charges.
My advice to you is to return to the ship, do another investigation, and raise the alarm if your daughters aren’t located in a few hours.
They could be anywhere on the island. They aren’t children. ”
“You two,” I say to the cruise workers, “get the fuck out of here, and maybe go check the more secluded areas for Mr…”
“Melborne,” Patrick fills in for me.
The two, who I assume work for Maximus, turn and speed-walk their way to a path in the trees. A trail I know from experience leads right to Bleakcrest. If they aren’t careful, Mr. Smythe will kill them himself for simply being seen with the women.
Patrick turns to me, extending his hand for a shake. Reluctantly, I comply. “Thank you, Mr…”
“Keller,” I finish, the fake name rolling off my tongue like silk.
“Could you take this? In case you hear anything, or spot them walking around.” He pulls a business card from his pocket, passing it to me. It’s black, sleek, with embossed silver script.
“Sure,” I reply, taking it.
The entire situation now reeks of awkwardness. Neither of us knowing how to bring this encounter to a close.
“Can we fucking go now, Dad?” one of the boys pipes up from the sidelines.
His complete lack of concern for his sisters doesn’t sit right with me.
Though, his short buzzed hair offers no protection from the sweltering heat, or sun’s burning rays, and he’s slowly roasting in the rising temperature.
His annoyance, and desire to find some reprieve make sense, I suppose.
Patrick moves uncomfortably on his feet, giving me a silent nod. I return the gesture, then make a break for my vehicle.
Once I have the driver’s door closed behind me, the burner phone in the cupholder starts vibrating. Shantel’s name lights up the screen, and I know I’m about to have my ass chewed out for going silent on such an important day. She’s probably got the whole team worried half to death now.
Fuck sakes.
The phone silences, “23 missed calls” flashing across the screen before the twenty-fourth call starts.
Just to add insult to injury, I wait for the call to stop, then shoot a text to Shantel.
Rip:
Sorry, running late.
Got you some mangoes.
Her response is immediate.
Shantel:
You better have more than fucking mangoes if you don’t want a new hole in your face.
Well, that’s what the chocolate bars are for. Glad I planned ahead. Though, with the amount of time that’s elapsed, I wonder if whiskey would be better.