11. Kinleigh
ELEVEN
KINLEIGH
The thing about living in fear for many years is that it has numbed my reactions. A bee zipping past my ear is no longer threatening. In the same light, when one of my father’s hands comes to my throat and the other goes to his belt, I’m no longer terrified.
I know what he’s going to do, what he’ll say, how it will feel, the sickness that always claims me afterward. I know all of that disgustingly well, which allows numbness to overtake what used to be fear and anger.
The last few days, though, fear has found me.
It’s back.
Somehow, someway, Colton Beckett has wandered his way back into my life. But he’s a hostage of my father’s and there is quite literally nothing worse than that. I would know—I am too. I mean, I may be his heir, but I have no vehicle anymore, I’m not allowed to leave alone and I have no friends because my communication is monitored.
Yet, I want more than anything to free him. To save him from the anguish and destruction of my father.
An hour ago, my father forced me to listen as he beat Colton senseless for denying the great Forrest Conway yet again.
Colton was always so smart. And it's clear he still is. My dad needs a man like Colton on his staff after losing Neely. He’s got my uncle Garrison, but he’s not around nearly as much as I know my father wants in a second-in-command.
Years ago, Neely left my father’s operation, though I have no clue why. But he was the brawn of things, the willing Robin to my father’s wicked Batman, the man who put the fear of God in everyone who dared to move against Forrest or his disciples.
Daddy dearest is trying desperately to replace him, and Colton is a bear of a man. Taller than I remember, he’s bulbous with muscle through his arms and chest, and lean and tight through his core, telling me he’s likely been working pastures and cattle somewhere. He’d be perfect for terrifying anyone who threatens the money-making machine that is human trafficking.
Colton refuses to comply and therefore continues to be beaten and partially starved. Once my father recognized that Colton’s presence affected me, his plans changed. Beating Colton into submission became a double-sided reward; he got to be the tough man and a new way to hurt me—two of his favorite things.
I chew the inside of my mouth as I carefully lift warm, dry plates from the dishwasher and stack them in the cabinet.
There’s another thwack, flesh slapping flesh, and though I don’t want my father to hit Colton in his face, an open-palmed smack is less dangerous than a boot to the gut. Passing by the window over the sink, hands full of clean dishes, I notice a patch of weeds in the pasture, one that somehow avoided the riding mower. In the cluster of toadflax and tansy stands one dandelion, tall and proud, immune to the light breeze that otherwise ruffles the grass.
I can’t fight my father.
But I can work on freeing Colton, and letting him get back to whatever life he left to come here. I don’t even know why he’s here, not for sure. Levi Beckett hasn’t been around in a few weeks, and the last time he was here for a meeting, he looked awful. Then again, most people in business with Forrest Conway have the same sick and guilty look usually. And those meetings—where I can assume Forrest flaunts his business to instill fear, or possibly used as a threat to frame or incriminate—are a cruel reminder to Levi that he’s not just veered off path, but he’s dealing with the devil, and there's no way out.
But I will help Colton.
I don’t know how but I will.
The door slams, boots clicking against the hardwood. At the sink, I turn on the faucet and place the kettle beneath the warming stream.
“I’m going out,” my father huffs, yanking his suede coat from the rack near the back door. He feeds his arms through one at a time, swiping beneath the collar to free the ends of his gray hair. “Feed him,” he tells me, his teeth clenched, the words low, like Colton may be listening.
That means he’s not unconscious at least.
My stomach clenches as my father reaches for the door handle. Heart pumping, adrenaline surging, I’m about to have a celebratory exhale when he turns, casting one eye over his shoulder at me. “ And dose him .”
I dip my head in a singular nod, complying to his order. The compliance is a joke because there is no other choice.
Once the door shuts, I cross the small kitchen and twist the lock. Obviously, my father and his men have keys to everything but I’ll never stop putting barriers between us where and when I can.
Returning to the clean kitchen countertop, I retrieve an armful of ingredients from the fridge, going to work quickly to make Colton a sandwich.
While the four slices of bread are in the toaster, I take care to thinly slice cheese, tomatoes and lettuce, pull fresh deli meat from the zippered bag, and all the condiments. I realize his palette could be different from when we were kids. I realize I no longer know what Colton Beckett likes to eat.
But my father has not allowed me to take him food regularly. When we keep transports here, he lets me feed them three times a day. With Colton, though, he’s been extreme in his captivity and punishment.
And today is the first chance I have to help. To start righting my father’s egregious wrongs.
After building two sandwiches, I scoop two apples from the bowl centering the dining table and shove them into my apron pockets. At the stove, the kettle sings, urging me to pour two large stainless-steel tumblers full of hot water before snatching the coffee press from the counter and tossing it into the wicker basket I brought to the kitchen this morning.
Screwing the lids on the hot water tumblers, I add them to the basket, with the press, and toss in the apples from my pockets. After wrapping the sandwiches, I add them too, and place two bottles of water inside. I lift it against my hip, toss my first aid kit inside over the towel, t-shirt, sweatpants and a bar of soap I’d stashed beneath the liner, and head to the cellar, all the while my heart is beating so fast, I’m wobbly on my feet.
I’m not worried my father will return and catch me.
I don’t exactly know why my heart is racing.
Quietly, as not to wake him in case he’s dozing, I push the door open, resting my foot on the top step as I wait. There are no noises from the cellar, so I cautiously make my way down the stairs, the basket of care balanced on one hip.
The cellar has always been cold and it’s always smelled like dirt. But as I take the last few steps, there’s something else in the air. It’s slightly pungent, and it spans beyond what a man would smell like after two weeks in a cellar without a shower. My nose wrinkles as my eyes survey the small bucket in the corner, unused.
“Kinleigh.” My name is shattered in his masculine tone, fragments of energy and care shoved together, but no heart behind it.
I twist to face him, almost nervous to lay eyes on him after what I just heard.
His face is mottled with purples and blues, the edges of his hairline dotted in old and new blood. His lip is swollen and cut. One of his eyes is swollen again. Black and red stain his clothes, signifying traces of prior beatings.
He looks horrific, his massive frame reduced from hunger, tipped forward in a diminutive slouch. And on the floor near him is vomit.
I lower the basket to the floor and turn, heading back up the stairs for my cleaning supplies but stop at the top step as chains clink together behind me. He’s trying to move. Despite his beaten, fragile state, he’s trying to move for me .
Quickly, I run up and grab the cleaning supplies from the corner cupboard, and take the stairs two by two on my way down, snatching up the basket. His eyes soften as I return.
I wasn’t going to leave you.
I never wanted to leave you.
Things I can’t say.
Avoiding the vomit for now, I sit next to his knees, facing him. He’s pulled himself up on the bed, back to the stone wall, his frame hollowing beneath his flannel and vest. From the basket, I hand him a wrapped sandwich. His eyes hold mine as his filthy hands tear into the food, taking big, hard-to-chew bites.
While he works through the first sandwich, I bring the first tumbler of hot water out, setting it on the concrete. My eyes meet his, and while he continues to chew, we are motionless otherwise. In his eyes, I feel the happiness of our love from years ago. I see our memories there, as if they exist only for us, and that neither of us can fully rediscover them unless we’re together. Maybe a kiss would unlock the old us and set us free. Maybe my touch would help him remember what we once had.
I never wanted to break his heart.
My life’s single biggest regret.
Can’t go back in time, I know that, but I can help him now, as much as I can.
My focus falls back to the coffee canteen in my hand, our intense eye contact proving to be too much for me right now. I control the tremble that runs through my veins, making my hand itch to wobble. He’s the one imprisoned here, just a few miles from his father’s home. I shouldn’t be shaking.
I fill the press and make an entire carafe of coffee, knowing that even if he doesn’t typically drink it, the hot liquid will feel good on his aching body. And the caffeine will counteract the traces of succinylcholine chloride still in his system. At least, that’s what it does for me.
I refill the tumbler with piping hot coffee and pass it to him.
His large hands wrap the tumbler, and my stomach clenches at the sight. He was always a big boy, especially compared to my smaller size. But now, a grown man who has clearly been working land for years, he's not just big. Colton is powerful, a man that makes other men take note, a size that causes women to do a double take, his sharp jaw covered by an unkempt beard so sexy that even in his beaten filth, I find myself aroused.
I’ve only ever wanted what’s best for Colton, and I still do. Even if what’s best isn’t me.
I almost laugh at myself for having that ridiculous thought flit through my mind. Can’t be me? I broke his heart over a decade ago, he left and never once looked back. Why would I think I have any claim to his heart after all of that?
I meet his eyes again, and I get the distinct impression he’s been watching me. After he finishes the coffee, he lowers the tumbler to the concrete, his chains clanking against it, reminding me that we are not having a moment.
He is a prisoner.
“Kinleigh,” he says my name again, making heat flash across my flesh and hope spark in my gut.
I love the way my name sounds coming from Colton. I always have. He reaches out, taking my wrist, and the contrast of his chained hand next to my free one almost elicits a laugh from me again.
He is in chains but so am I.
Reaching into the basket, beneath the liner, I retrieve the smuggled contraband and lay them out between us on the wool blanket. I think they give inmates better blankets than this one, but alas, that’s my father. Regular human torture isn’t enough.
Rising, I carefully walk to the opposite side of the small cellar, which is not much bigger than a single-car garage. Slipping out the loose paver a foot above my head, I reach inside the dark hole to find the water pipe, and give it a tug. It’s retractable, meant to stash away and hide–that much I’ve always known.
I never knew why until I turned eighteen and started working for my father.
Bending down, I slide a piece of concrete off the drain in the ground. A bit out of breath, I glance over at Colton, who is sitting up off the wall, watching me.
He doesn’t say anything as I go back up the stairs, returning a minute later to find a wobbly stream of lukewarm water pouring from the pipe. I place the clothes, soap, and towel at the foot of the bed, grab my wire brush and gloves, and take a knee near the vomit, ready to scrub. Turning to him, I pull my skeleton key from my pocket and slip it inside the lock at his wrist, freeing him on one side, then the other. I kneel and free his ankles from the shackles too.
If he runs now, my father will undoubtedly kill me for it.
But he’d be safe, so it’s a risk I’ll take.