Blood to Dust (36 page)

There’s nothing different about the Aryan Brother. He is a barbaric savage, just like all the men in my life.
Except for one.

His rough hands stroke the curves of my tits to the sound of the dramatic music, lingering, pressing, moving down to my stomach and fumbling with my sex and ass. He is chuckling to himself as he spends long seconds sliding his hand up and down my behind. I remain stoic, knowing it’s not as fun for him when the woman isn’t distressed. When his hand moves from the length of my arm to my fisted palm, he pries it open.

“What’s this?”

“A stress ball.”

“Give it to me.”

“No. It’s made of foam. It’s not a weapon. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Godfrey?” He raises his voice, his eyes hard on mine.

“Let her keep her stupid toy.”

After a bit more touching and fumbling, he finally lets me go, thrusting me in the direction of the staircase.

“Godfrey.” It’s my turn to yell, gripping the golden rails of the fancy stairway with one hand and my stress ball with the other. I release the rails with a gasp when I realize what I’ve done.

Fingerprints, stupid.

“I’d expect you to cater to your guests and play some flipping Wagner. They’d probably be all over the anti-Semitic bastard. Hope you’re not pussy enough to have your wise guys upstairs. It’ll be just the two of us, right?”

The booming sound of violins and cellos is unnerving before he finally speaks.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll be completely alone. I want that just as much as you do.” A chortle.

Looking down at the first stair like it’s a challenge to put my foot forward and climb it, I close my eyes and inhale. I can do this.

I climb up, stair after stair after stair. As I do, the music gets louder, swallowing my thoughts. When I reach the wide, lengthy hallway of his second floor, I’m barely shaking anymore. The place is empty, occupied only by the intense symphony of notes and chords.

The minute I’m in his hallway, his voice sings.

“Second room to your left.”

Cameras everywhere
, I note. If I get out of here alive, I need to flee the country ASAP. Making a stop in Vallejo is a death wish. It’s risky as it is, with the officer who stopped us and the police chase.

I push the door open and stand in front of him.

He’s still weak.

Still clutching a cane.

Still in his stupid, big, orthopedic shoes.

Closing the door behind me, I notice he is indeed alone. His bedroom is simple, humble, even, with a queen-sized bed, no TV and sad, bare walls.

“It saddens me, what you did to Sebastian,” he says, getting up from his bed by pushing onto his cane. I erase the remaining distance between us. Pulling the sleeve of my leather jacket over my fingers, I reach for an hourglass sitting on a tabletop by his bed and turn it.

“He got what he deserved. Now it’s your turn to part ways with
time
.”

The stereo is humming in the background, changing movements.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he says with a smile. “I have a flight to London tonight and I am going to catch it. I wouldn’t miss my son’s wedding for the world.”

Squeezing my stress ball hard and releasing it slowly, I shrug.

“If you say so.”

Godfrey takes out a Glock from the back of his Bermuda shorts and points it at me.
Guns are for pussies
, I remind myself when my pulse grows erratic and I become light-headed. When I look into the barrel of his Glock, I realize that it’s not only a gun, but it is
my
gun. Bastard’s got a nice touch. He wants to end me with my own weapon.

“Thank you for making it so easy for me. Catching your boyfriend will be anything but a challenge. And you. . .” He shakes his head, grinning. “I wanted to give you to Camden, wanted to kill you from the inside before I slaughtered you in flesh, but I have underestimated you, Prescott. You can give real trouble. Now I simply want you dead.”

“Flattered,” I say, moving leisurely toward the bed and sitting on its edge, crossing my legs in complete nonchalance. My gun follows my every move, and Godfrey’s eyes widen in disbelief. I confuse him, and it’s making him stall. He’s wondering what I’ve got up my sleeve, when in reality, I’ve got nothing at all.

Confused people don’t act intelligently, they act stupidly. That’s what I’m counting on.

I’ve been on death’s door so many times recently, but never took that first step past the threshold. One more time is not going to kill me. Or maybe it will, but it’s a chance I’m willing to take.

Godfrey’s throat bobs, his gaze shifting from the night outside the window, to the door that’s still shut and then back to my stone-cold face.

“Why do you hate us so much? Me. My dad. My brother. . .” I choke, but my expression is icy. “You don’t normally ruin the upper-classes. You stick to the unfortunate souls, the ones who can’t fight back. Why us?”

This question has been bugging me for years, and it finally slipped between my lips. Today, I have a feeling, I will get an answer. No matter what happens in this room tonight, I know, only one of us walks out of here alive. It may not be me, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Any secret spilled inside these walls is not going to make it past the threshold.

“Her name was Marcia. She was American. Lived right here in San Francisco.” Godfrey’s fist chokes the gun tighter. I blink.

Camden’s mother.

“Was?” My stress ball keeps bouncing from side to side, dancing in my hands. “She’s dead?”

“She is.” He nods once. “Your father killed her.”

My blood runs cold, making my whole body numb. My dad? He’s incapable of deliberately hurting people. He’s too much of a wuss. Proved it time and time again. The way he treated Preston. The way he compromised me. The way he played into Godfrey’s game. . .

“My dad would never—” I start.

“It was an accident,” Godfrey interrupts. His tone is indifferent, detached.
Off
. “You weren’t even born yet. Camden was a wee baby. We’d just moved from England to San Francisco to be close to Marcia’s family. Marcia went across the road in the middle of the night to buy Camden formula at the Seven Eleven. Camden had been crying so badly, she was in a hurry and didn’t take the crosswalk. She always used the crosswalk, but not this time. Your dad wasn’t drunk. He didn’t lose control of the car. He didn’t go over the speed limit. . .” Godfrey’s eyes narrow on me. “But he was careless. Your mother took it hard, what happened to Marcia. She was the first to get out of the car and see what was left of her. Your mother lost it. That’s what ultimately led to her mental breakdown and the reason she checked into her very first rehab facility.”

My heart freezes in my chest but I never stop bouncing the ball, because it’s important.

Keep playing with the ball, Cockburn
, Nate’s voice teases me in my head.
Keep it moving
.

My parents never told us. But surely, dad knew when he got into business with him. . .

“I took Camden and moved back to London. We had nothing to stay for in the States after her death. He was raised by nannies while I tried to move on. Your father was let go, and there was nothing I could do about it. Believe it or not, back then, I wasn’t after him. It was the phone call that made it all change.”

I’m looking away. Blinking the pressure out of my eyes. Still bouncing the ball.

“The phone call?”

I take a deep breath, gritting my teeth. This can’t be right. All of this happened. . .because of my dad?

“Remember what I said about only forgiving once? One chance, no more. The plan was to ruin your father. Not you or your brother. But when our business ties grew tighter and you’d met Camden, I couldn’t stop you two from falling in love. I told him to stay away from you. Told him the Burlington-Smyths were not our allies, but our enemies. He didn’t listen. He knew who you were, and that made him bitter.”

Is that why Camden cheated? To get back at me for his mother? To avenge something that had nothing to do with me? I’m shaking, tossing the stress ball faster from one hand to the other, squeezing the death out of it every time it switches hands.

Don’t stop moving. His gun is still pointed at you, but he is getting used to your hands flying around.

“So when you emptied his bank account and ran away with the money, I had no choice, I had to take care of you too.”

“And Preston?” I grit. “Did you do anything to him? Is that why he ran away?”

“Ran away?” Godfrey takes a strained step toward me, my gun now just inches from my face. “If you ever get to Camden, which you won’t, I’m sure he’ll be able to let you in on what happened to little Preston. Your brother came to us willingly.”

“When? Why? Where is he?”

I’m not even sure I want to know.

The symphony gets louder, the violins shriek in horror.

“Don’t let me ruin all the fun. That’s our grand finale. You’ll know if you get out of here. But. . .that’s not going to happen, is it?”

Tears stream down my cheeks. I’m breaking in front of him, because it won’t make any difference. He’ll be dead soon. The trumpets roar.

“It’s a terrible thing, taking a life. You should know. You took Seb’s. But sometimes,” Godfrey says, leaning forward, pressing the gun to my lips and digging them open until it looks like I’m sucking on the barrel. Our eyes are holding each other’s stare.
So close
. “We’ve got no choice.”

Do it now,
I hear Nate’s voice in my head.

I shove the stress ball straight into Godfrey’s left eye with full force. He stumbles back and falls to the floor with a bang, surprised more than hurt, and a bullet fires from the gun, slicing the mattress open. I jump to my feet and rip the gun from his fingers. It’s not difficult to do, seeing as he’s weak and lying on the floor, unable to lift himself up without his cane. So weak. So troubled. So dead.

Guns are for pussies.

I tuck the gun into the waistband of my underwear and roll my dress back down. Walking behind him, I grab the collar of his Hawaiian shirt and twist it around his neck from behind, knotting it against his throat.

Horns. Flutes. Chaos. War. A symphony of life and death in the background.

Now
that’s
more personal. The noise Godfrey is making is unbearable. Gagging and gurgling, gasping for air, he tries to free himself of the shirt that’s choking him to death. I remember what Nate wrote in his diary about Frank. How they suffocated him on Godfrey’s order.

Turning red.

I glance at the hourglass. The sand is running out, and I squeeze his jaw with my free hand, willing him to look at the hourglass I hate so much.

Time.

It represents all the evil in this world.

“This is for Nate,” I growl, pulling the shirt tighter, using all the strength in me, dripping sweat all over. The fabric slices his pink and wrinkled skin, creating a growing necklace of blood around his throat. The music screams in pain, absorbing Godfrey’s cries for help.

Turning purple.

“It’s for Marcia too. I bet she would have hated to see how you and your son turned out.”

Turning blue,
and not fighting as vigorously as he did before.

“But you know what, Godfrey? More than anything, this is for me. When I walked into this place today, outnumbered and out of my mind, I thought to myself that there was no way I would be leaving here in one piece. But the need to kill you was too strong. Now I see that God—the real God, not you, Godfrey—is on my side. Not because I’m good, but because I’m fair. That’s why I’m going to England, on that plane you planned to take tonight, and I’m going to kill Camden. I’m going to take from everyone who took from me and save my brother. Time is too precious for second chances, remember? Your words.”

At the mention of his son’s name, Godfrey lets out a pained final choke before his body goes limp. Driven by paranoia and fear, I keep choking him for a few more minutes for good measure. Then, I put two fingers to his throat, checking for a pulse. Nothing. It’s time to figure out how I am getting out of here with the Aryan Brothers swarming outside. I didn’t bring my phone. It’s still with Nate.

Aware of the presence of a dead body in the room, I peek outside the window. I’m not sure how many of them are standing behind the door of this room, but there are at least four walking back and forth at the entrance of the house. I look down, calculating the height. If I jump down, I’ll break a leg. Maybe a hand. Probably both. I won’t be able to run away fast enough to get away from them. And I have no idea how far I should run. Maybe for miles. No promises Nate stuck around.

Though I know he has. I know my lover. My man.
My peace.

Trembling fingers covered in my jacket's worn leather grasp the doorknob, intending to swing it open, when I hear a shot. Then another one.

They didn’t come from my gun.

What the hell?

Ten minutes later, homeboy officially loses his shit.

Fuck it. I’m going in and if I die, at least the pain of knowing she didn’t make it will go away. Dead people don’t feel. Ghosts can’t be haunted.