Chapter Forty
The meeting ends shortly after my exchange with Sergei. Everyone departs in their respective cars. Though Dorian let me drive us here, he insists on driving us into Silving.
The sun is setting on the horizon as we cruise, lighting up the trailer parks and fields beyond the windows.
The closer we get to town, the more uncomfortable I start to grow.
Memories assault me, some of them good but most of them bad.
As we pass the sign that welcomes us into Silving, and farmland is replaced with old brick buildings, my heart speeds, as do my breaths.
I see streets that I had to walk down with crutches after Clyde fucked up my leg. I pass the school where I tried desperately to hide my abuse, the community college where I took advanced classes so that I could leave this shithole as soon as possible.
Dorian doesn’t say anything, but he must sense my distress, because he reaches over and puts his big palm on my knee. I can feel the heat of his hand even through my jeans, and the contact settles me. It doesn’t make my anxiety disappear, but it does make me feel like I’m not alone.
I’ve felt alone in this town for as long as I could remember—since my mom died. But not alone anymore. I won’t have to fend for myself with Clyde; I have Dorian protecting me.
I direct him down the main avenue, and then past a few winding streets that lead us to the outskirts of the south side of town, where the brewery and bar are located.
“You have your weapons?” Dorian asks me.
I deliberately wore baggy clothes so I could conceal the handgun strapped to my body and the knife in my boot. Dorian and Sergei’s men will go in with all their weapons, but it’s best if Carver assumes I’m unarmed.
“Yes,” I respond.
He squeezes my knee. “Everything will be fine, baby. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
“I don’t know why Clyde even wants me there,” I mutter. “He said that Carver wanted to see me, but I don’t understand his motivation. I’ve only met him a few times.”
“It could be that Clyde simply wants to fuck with your head and made up something about Carver wanting you there,” Dorian says.
“You bested Clyde and got away with it. He’s a vile, power-hungry man, and men like him aren’t good at letting go of old grievances.
He wants to make you hurt in return for the way you hurt his pride. ”
I sigh. “Yeah, probably.”
We pull into the dirt parking lot in front of a one-story brick bar.
The weathered building blends seamlessly with the rugged surroundings.
Behind it stands a longer, two-story building, bearing a faint resemblance to an old farmhouse with its barn-style rooflines.
That’s the brewery where the staple beer of the region is created.
Beneath it lies a sprawling basement for storage, where Carver is rumored to conduct his shadowy business meetings.
“There are men scattered around the lot,” Dorian mutters, his gaze bouncing around the area. “More hidden in those bushes flanking the left side, probably.”
I push my fingers through my hair, taking deep breaths in an attempt to steel myself.
I don’t have much time to get a hold of my nerves before three black SUV’s pull up.
Igor steps out from the driver’s seat of the SUV.
Sergei gets out shortly afterwards, his polished shoes and suit looking remarkably out of place in this dusty lot.
“This business should be over with pretty quickly,” Dorian says, just as the wooden front door of the bar opens. Half a dozen men file out, wearing ridiculous getups of ratty jeans and old leather jackets, as if they’re in a boyband. I only recognize two of them.
Clyde and Carver. Two abominations to this world, men who don’t deserve to breathe.
Clyde has mud-brown eyes, a balding head of black hair, and a distended belly that makes me question if he’s still in the business of killing Carver’s enemies.
Carver is slightly more put together, though not by much.
He’s leaner, a bit fitter, and has hazel eyes and dirty-blond, greasy hair.
Sergei looks back at our car with raised eyebrows. Dorian sighs. “Let’s get this over with, baby.”
He gets out and opens my car door for me, offering me his hand. I take it gratefully, drawing on his strength. I straighten my spine and lift my chin as we start walking toward the brewery. Sergei parked closer, so he’s already shaking hands with Carver.
Clyde’s eyes sweep the lot, ghosting over Dorian before settling on me.
A smirk spreads on his pudgy face; a taunting look that makes my skin crawl.
This is the man who abused me for years, who got my mother killed.
Nearly got me killed, in between the times he almost lost it and put me out of my misery himself.
The majority of the trauma I’ve endured starts and ends with him.
It's a struggle to keep my stride confident. A swirling storm of emotions overtake my chest as I face down the boogeyman who’s haunted my dreams for what feels like my entire life.
“Mira,” Clyde greets when Dorian and I come to a stop a few steps behind Sergei. When I don’t respond, he gives a mock pout. “No hello for your old man?”
“You’re not my father,” I say tersely. “I owe you nothing.”
Anger sparks in his eyes at my dismissal. “Thought I raised you better than that.”
“You didn’t raise me at all,” I correct. “I raised myself in spite of having to live with you.”
“You ungrateful little whore—”
“Enough,” Carver cuts in, sounding bored.
“We’re here for business, not for a family reunion.
” He looks me up and down, vague disinterest stamped on his expression.
“You’ve grown up, Mira. I remember you when you were just a little girl.
” He gives me another, slower look, one that makes goosebumps break out over my arms. I feel like a prize show horse he’s perusing, deciding if I'm worth a purchase or not.
“As touching as this reunion is, I haven’t traveled all this way to hear you reunite with my soldier’s woman,” Sergei says flatly.
“We have business to discuss. You want to join the operation I’m expanding in the states.
Your offer and production lineup is interesting enough to garner a few moments of my time. Don’t put it to waste.”
“Of course not,” Carver says promptly. “Come on in—we can talk inside, where it’s safe.”
The bar is abandoned, shut down for the night. Shitty wooden tables accompanied by bar stools are scattered around the space. Posters of old rock bands hang on the walls. Bare lightbulbs dangle from the ceiling, illuminating the shoddy interior.
Carver leads us through the bar and into the brewery, where metal machinery holds court, accompanied by wooden oak barrels lining the walls, holding aging liquor.
He takes us down a wooden staircase and into a basement used as additional storage.
The light in the basement is dim, coming from more bare lightbulbs.
The walls are cement stained with moisture, the floors covered with a thin film of dust.
Furniture is laid out around the center of the room—three couches, several armchairs, and even a few tables with accompanying stools. It’s clear that Carver uses this place often enough to merit furnishing it, even if his choice of décor is abhorrent.
Dorian stands at the bottom of the staircase, keeping hold of my hand, his gaze glued to Sergei.
Igor and two other men Sergei brought with him walk around the room, looking for any weapons or traps.
Carver’s men idle near the walls, postures alert and expressions menacing.
Every person here is armed up to the gills, and nobody bothers asking anyone to hand over their weapons.
Sergei doesn’t trust Carver, and Carver doesn’t trust Sergei.
Clyde is the last to descend the staircase. He stops right beside me, turning to gaze down at me, his lips curled into a sneer and eyes darkened with rage. “Are you enjoying being home?” he taunts. “Back where you belong?”
Dorian and I both ignore him. I long to pull out my pistol and shoot him in the forehead, but I can’t. Not yet. I’ll know the time has come when Seamus, Asher, and Connor make their appearance.
“You really want to ignore me, girl?” he hisses furiously under his breath. “Just because you’ve turned into an uppity cunt at your hoity-toity school don’t mean that I won’t teach you a fuckin’ lesson.”
“Speak to my woman like that again, and your brains will decorate these barrels,” Dorian says with eerie calm.
“Clyde,” Carver calls out. “Come join us.” It seems that Clyde is Carver’s right hand—or that Carver wants to keep an eye on Clyde, worried that he’s a loose cannon. He is.
Clyde stalks away after shooting me one last glare.
Dorian and I remain by the staircase since Sergei didn’t give us the invite to sit down.
He probably wants us vigilant and ready for shots to be fired at any moment.
God, I wish I didn’t have to be here. I wish I was in Vermont, back at Greywood with Dorian.
As if he can read my mind, he strokes his thumb over the small of my back. “Soon,” he murmurs in my ear. “Soon, baby. Trust me.”
The next half hour passes at an agonizing snail’s pace.
Sergei and Carver talk about the drug operation Carver runs.
Apparently, Carver does have an impressive production of illegal substances going on in this town, and he has lots of product he’d like to peddle into Central and South America, where Sergei has many connections.
Carver has a chemist in his crew that makes cocktails of meth, heroin, ketamine…
you name it, he cooks it. Sergei doesn’t give any indication that he doesn’t want to go into business with Carver.
In fact, he’s so genuine, I almost start to believe he’s truly considering making a deal here tonight.