Chapter Three
Austin
T his isn’t too bad. I’ve been in worse situations. Sure, I’m tied up and chained to a hot water pipe, which thankfully has yet to turn on. But I’ve put others through worse, and I’m not sure this entirely counts as torture.
The comfy bed, the memory foam pillow, the handmade blanket.
She’s gone out of her way to ensure I’m comfortable, which has me slightly concerned I’m here for the long haul.
But darling Olivia, such a pretty name , looked sick with guilt.
I bet she’s up there pacing as I lie here relaxed. The thought brings me a little joy.
The chains are good quality, not thin or wispy. She’s obviously done her research. The cable ties are an added touch—quite simple to remove if you know how, but I’ll leave them on for now.
I have a reasonable amount of room to move around despite the death-row-style chain around my waist binding my hands and feet. I’m almost surprised she left out the Hannibal Lecter mask.
I can bite, too, baby.
I scan the room. It looks like it’s under renovation.
The flooring is half complete, and spare wooden boards lean against the corner.
Sports equipment fills the industrial shelving unit: yoga mats, blocks, weights, medicine balls, and even one of those shaking dumbbells that tone your arms is on there.
Not sure I can imagine her using one of those very often.
She seems more of a no-frills kind of girl.
My mattress is pressed up against the corner of the room, next to an array of pipes that connect to a water heater on the other side of the basement.
The wooden stairs hug the far wall, and from my position, I have a full view of the entire space.
Despite the concrete floor beneath my mattress, a worn rug had been placed at the side so I could stand without placing bare feet on the cold floor.
Paint is peeling on all four walls, a small yellow water ring stains the ceiling on the far corner, and the window rattles as soon as there is a light breeze.
Basements generally aren’t where people’s interior design skills should be judged, and I bet that given her effort to make me comfortable here, the upstairs of the house is significantly homelier.
Standing up, my knees creak a little, and I try to stretch my muscles loose. I step off the rug and reach as far as possible. The chains impede much exploration. Like a dog tied to its kennel, I’m kept on a tight leash.
I can’t see anything obvious that I’ve missed.
The wicker chair she was perched on earlier has a little cushion.
I attempt to reach it, but it’s a few yards away.
No luck there, but its presence forms a small ball of anticipation in my chest. Perhaps she’ll be spending some time with me down here after all.
Now that I’m standing, I pat myself down, checking my pockets. My phone and wallet are gone. Clever girl—always remembers the details .
However, she’s left my shoes on, which means she probably hasn’t checked the small pocket inside my boot.
It’s a little James Bond. But when you’re the boss, you can indulge in a little excess. Besides, my past life isn’t entirely in the past, and it’s good to be prepared.
I lean back against the wall, balancing so I can awkwardly lift my foot and pull it over my knee.
Lifting my jeans, I slip my fingers past the tough leather and into the side of the boot.
I unhook the piece of string that's wound around a small button and pull out the tiny burner phone.
Switching it on, I call Luca, my right-hand man, oldest friend, and a ruthless bastard.
He answers immediately.
“Boss, fuck, I thought you were missing. You never miss Friday lunch. You know I like to get your opinion on the new experiments.”
“I am...technically. Although I’m starting to think I should miss Friday lunch every now and then. I’m starting to get a reputation.”
“You know you love trying the new product just as much as I do, old man,” he jests, despite being only six months younger than me. “So, where are you? I’ll come pick you up.”
“No need. I’m with someone, and I want to see how this plays out. Can you cover things for a few days?” I keep my voice steady and words vague.
“Yes, boss. What’s your favorite animal?” Our code question for situations like this. Another habit from our pasts that we haven’t been able to shake. My answer determines the message I want to convey.
“Polar bears.”
Cold. Ruthless. Killers. And complete goofballs.
I’ve told him I’m fine, and he’ll believe it now.
“Wait, did you feel that?” He panics.
“What?” I lower my voice, glancing up toward the staircase.
“The world has stopped turning . . . hell has frozen over . . . Austin Black is taking a day off.” He snickers.
“Fuck off, or you’ll be getting a permanent vacation.”
“You’ll have to catch me first, boss.”
He’ll never let this go. Luca was the fastest in our school, ran like a fucking whippet on cocaine which got him out of many sticky situations.
You know the phrase you don’t need to be faster than a crocodile; you just need to be faster than the guy next to you?
Yeah, that was Luca, and unfortunately for me, I was the guy next to him.
I’d been caught by a few crocodiles in our thirty years as friends, but luckily, I’d made it out alive.
“I’ll call you if I need you, but otherwise, it’s radio silence until then. I should be no more than a week.”
“Yes, boss.” He still sounds unsure. He’s my right-hand man and as ruthless as they come, but we grew up together. We’re basically brothers in every way except by blood.
“I'll call each day to check in—when I get the chance.”
“Thanks, boss.”
I hang up, taking a deep breath. Time for my second phone call and the one where I’m not the boss.
An excited thrill rips through me as I dial Dr. Alfie’s number.
He’s not going to believe this happened.
I mean, sure, he’ll be furious. But he’ll realize my obsession has been reciprocated, and I just need to work out why.
I started talking to Dr. Alfie two years ago. I’d been working for my father since I was fourteen and raised to be a ruthless killer. Actually, no, that’s not right. I was raised to be obedient. To follow orders. The killing was a byproduct of that arrangement.
Then, one day, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I’d lost all ability to function, let alone whip some fucking runty drug dealers into shape.
I lost my edge. I hesitated. So, at Alfie’s suggestion, I took a week off.
And well...that week turned into two years.
Of course, as far as everyone was concerned, I still worked for my father.
God forbid anyone thinks there’s trouble in the regime.
During my initial week off, I got blind drunk and tried to fuck anything with a pulse. As I was puking my guts up, clinging to the wrist of some poor woman who was trying to get back to her friends, I looked up, and that was when I saw it: a huge fucking billboard of Alfie Adams from high school.
Now you might think we’d rekindled some sort of friendship, but in reality, I was an asshole in school. Not more than I am now, just different. The kind of high school bully who doesn’t stand up for others and makes himself look bigger by cutting everyone around him down.
Dr. Alfie had made it big on some network show where they called him Dr. Angel.
What had been a scrawny specky nerd had turned into the ultimate glow-up.
He filled out, his muscles hard and his suits tailored.
Hell, he wore the fuck out of those suits.
On occasion, he’d wear tortoise shell-rimmed glasses, giving an intellectual, academic vibe. The man had style.
And not only that, he had the women of the Pacific Northwest eating out of the palm of his hand.
He was gruff, straight-talking, and commanding.
Hell, he put me in my place a few times, and I’m not ashamed to admit it: the man would have made an excellent gangster.
You know, if he hadn’t taken the Hippocratic oath to be caring and considerate or whatever they fucking promise the community. Maybe he should be a Daddy instead.
Despite our difficult time together in high school.
I’d stormed into Alfie’s office with the intention of threatening to kill him unless he helped me.
I mean, sure, a few threats were made, and once his current patient had left shaking and in tears, and thanks to me, a thousand bucks richer, he agreed to be my therapist.
There were conditions to our doctor/patient relationship, of course. He couldn’t repeat a goddamn word I said, and I couldn’t kill anyone anymore. Easy. I didn’t want to fucking kill anyone anymore anyway. It’s the whole reason I sought him out.
And the past two years, Dr. Alfie—or Dr. Angel when I try to irritate the fuck out of him—and I had been working toward my goal of cleaning my ledger and building a life that I could be proud of.
One where I wasn’t controlled by my father or his business and where I could take ownership of my own actions.
Of course, there was a teeny tiny problem with the self-loathing and self-sabotaging side of me, but hey, therapy is a process, and I’m not afraid to say that he’s basically saved my life .
No one knows about our sessions, and they never will.
If it ever got back to my father, he’d kill him. Of that, I’m certain. And I’ve grown rather fond of the handsome bastard.
And despite what he’d tell you, I’m sure the grump is quite fond of me, too.
I was supposed to have a session today, and one of the rules of Dr. Alfie is that you never miss a session without good reason.
I’d say that getting myself kidnapped on purpose by the woman I’ve been semi-stalking for the last two years might give me a free pass, but that remains to be seen.
“Mia, hi. It’s Austin. Can you patch me through to Dr. Alfie, please?” I ask Alfie’s receptionist.