Cross the Line (Boston Love Story #2) (15 page)

“You won’t get away with this… This… whatever you’re planning.” My words sound remarkably steady, considering my insides have dissolved into jelly. “He’ll never pay the ransom.”

“He’ll pay with his money or you’ll pay with your life. ” He leans toward me, face dark with anger, those stunning eyes narrowed on my wide hazel ones. “Either way, the Wests are going to fucking pay.”

My throat convulses.

I’m totally going to die a virgin.

I steady my shoulders and force my face into a sneer, praying none of my fear shines through the thin mask of bravado. “You’re an idiot. You really think you’ll get away with this? The cops are going to be all over your ass.” I narrow my eyes at him. “And I have a feeling your cellmate at Walpole is going to be all over it, too.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“You think you can just kidnap someone and get away with it? Seriously? Have you never seen CSI?” I snort.

“I said
shut up
.”

“People know I was out with you,” I can’t help but point out. “Are you on crack, or something? Seriously, I’ve heard that shit really messes with executive functions—”

He moves so fast, I never see his fist coming. Suddenly it’s just
there
, cracking against my right eye socket so hard my head snaps back like a Pez dispenser. For a few sluggish seconds I stare up at the ceiling, waiting for the bright spots to clear out of my vision.

He hit me.

He actually
hit
me.

Holy fucking shit. If Parker finds out, there’ll be hell to pay. If
Nate
finds out…

They’ll never even find the body.

“Bitch,” Cormack spits, grabbing my chin and pulling my eyes up to meet his furious blue-green ones. With his other hand, he grabs the thin gold chain around my neck and snaps it off my neck in one sharp tug.

I cry out from both the pain of the necklace cutting into my skin and the horror of my most treasured piece of jewelry being destroyed with one careless snap of the wrist.

He’s still gripping my face. My eyes water helplessly as he swings the sunshine pendant in front of them like a metronome. “Maybe I’ll keep this as a memento. Or maybe I’ll send it to Milo as a reminder of you, wrapped up with one of your severed fingers in a pretty little box…”

“I’m going to kill you,” I yell, thrashing against his hold, tugging at my bonds.

He laughs as though he finds me hilarious. Leaning close again, he repositions the newspaper in my hands.

“Sit still, hold the paper, and keep your mouth shut until I say otherwise. Your father owes my boss a fuckuva lot of money. If he gives a shit about you, he’s going to pay up. And if you’re counting on the police bursting in to save the day — don’t. Your father is a smart man. He knows if he calls them, you’ll never get out of this basement alive.”

A shiver moves through me, at that. When he feels it, he smiles.

“Good. You’re scared. You should be.” His voice drops lower. I can feel his breath on my lips, stale and too warm. “The BPD knows better than to interfere with Bunker Hill’s business. Your father is barking up the wrong fucking tree with his plans to gentrify our town without Mac’s go-ahead.”

Who the hell is Mac?

I try to jerk my head away, but he holds fast. I’ll have bruises on my chin tomorrow.

If I’m alive tomorrow…

Cormack leans so close we’re practically kissing.

“You fuck with Mac’s territory, there’s a price. He owned this town long before your daddy ever bribed the city into zoning it for his precious little development. He won’t last a day without Mac’s blessing. And Mac’s blessing don’t come free.”

This is about the Waterfront project?

Is he screwing with me? He must be screwing with me.

“Now hold up the newspaper like a good little girl, so I can take the fucking video. Unless you want to stay here with me.” His tongue slides out of his mouth like a slug, dragging up the length of my cheek and leaving a trail of saliva in its wake.

I try not to gag.

“No?” He chuckles. “Shame. We could have fun, you and me.”

“I’m going to vomit on you,” I snap sweetly through clenched teeth.

He pulls back so quickly it’s clear he believes my threat. A second later, he’s behind the tripod, pushing a button on the iPhone screen to activate the camera.

“Tell him to pay, princess.”

I stare into the camera for a long, suspended slice of time. I can feel my heartbeat pounding behind my eye, which is rapidly swelling. I’d bet Boo’s life it’ll be black as Cormack’s soul by tomorrow morning.

“Dad.” I clear my throat. “Whatever they’re asking for, please…”

Cormack goes tense with anticipation.

“Don’t give them a goddamn thing.”

I smile.

Cormack doesn’t.

When his fist flies out again, this time I see it coming. But as it cracks against my temple, shattering my consciousness, the world disappears before my eyes.

And for a while, I don’t see anything at all.

I’ve had hundreds of boyfriends.

So what if they’re fictional?

Don’t you dare judge our love.

Phoebe West, on the many merits of book boyfriends.

“Christ, you’re heavy. Dead fucking weight.” A feminine grunt sounds close to my ear, pulling me reluctantly back into the world of the living. “If I’d known you were this heavy, I would’ve brought a fucking sherpa.”

I groan as pain rushes through me.

Holy hell.

Did an elephant sit on my head? A rhino? Some other large-boned creature with a god-complex?

Judging by the excruciating pain needling through my temple, whatever brains I once possessed have been irreparably damaged. I’m having full-on auditory hallucinations, for god’s sake.

“We don’t have a lot of time so if you could snap the fuck out of it, that’d be great. Thanks.”

My hallucination is speaking again and now she’s
shaking
me.

I kid you not — there are two hands wrapped around my shoulders. I can feel tiny fingertips digging into my flesh.

“Come on, come on, come on.” Another girlish growl erupts. “They’ll be back any minute and then you’re on your own.”

My eyes sliver open and I see my delusions have surpassed the auditory stage and entered the physical plane.
Wow
. You know your brain damage is pretty freaking serious when you’re imagining a petite fairy princess verbally berating you while jostling your shoulders.

“Finally! I was beginning to think you were dead,” she hisses, her eyes locking on mine. The shaking stops momentarily. “Come
on
. Move your ass!”

I must say I’m surprised. I figured if my damaged psyche were able to conjure up anyone after twenty-four hours alone in a basement without food or water or use of a bathroom facility, it’d be Nate. Not a foul-mouthed pixie with navy eyes and a seriously great head of unruly blonde hair, currently pulled back in a high ponytail. Bitch could be a Disney Princess, with hair like that.

A fairy godmother, come to save me. How quaint.

“What are you supposed to be? Tinkerbell?” I mutter at my disturbingly vivid delusion, moaning as pain crashes through my head in a wave. “Ow. Crap on a sesame seed bun, that hurts.”

“Keep it down!” She shakes me again. “Jesus, do you
want
to get caught?”

I shoot her a skeptical look. “Fairy godmothers are supposed to be round, old, and kind. You are none of those things. You don’t even have a wand,” I inform her, albeit in a quieter tone. “This is
my
hallucination. Where is your freaking wand? And why are you in jeans and a hoodie? I’m pretty sure fairy godmothers wear magic cloaks and stuff.” 

Her eyes narrow on me. “I can’t decide if you’re brain damaged or just plain stupid. Frankly, even if we had the time to figure it out —spoiler alert: we don’t — I wouldn’t give a shit.” She grabs my hands and pulls me from the chair in a surprising show of strength for such a tiny thing. “Now let’s
go
, you cotton-headed ninny muggins, before I change my mind and let you rot down here.”

“Was that an
Elf
reference?” I ask, feeling some of the haze clear from my brain when I’m back on my own two feet. It’s only then I notice the bonds are gone from my rubbed-raw wrists and ankles. Tink must’ve removed them.

Her eyes cut to mine. “So?”

I shrug, swaying a little.
Whoa
. Woozy. “I mean… I’m just surprised. You say fuck a lot.”

“So?” she repeats, impatience saturating her tone.

“So, people who say fuck a lot don’t usually quote children’s movies.”

“I’m a classy bitch who happens to enjoy cursing and kid’s flicks. You can ruminate on it later. But right now…” She starts pushing me toward the back of the basement. “You need to
fucking
move your
fucking
ass before Mac’s boys get back or you will be dead
fucking
meat. Comprende, chica?”

“I never took Spanish, actually. My boarding school encouraged everyone to take Latin, said we’d do better on the SATs if—”

“Just shut the fuck up and follow me.” She starts moving along the wall, into the pitch black. “Christ, it was way easier to convince myself to help you when you were unconscious.”

My lips snap shut. Not because of what she said, but because at some point in the past minute I’ve realized I am not, in fact, delusional or brain damaged. (Well, maybe a little…)

Point is, Tinkerbell isn’t some figment of my imagination.

She’s actually here. Alive. Real. And currently saving my ass.

Crap on challah, hold the mayo.

“The stairs are the other way,” I call quietly, when I realize she’s moving away from our only escape route.

“There’s a storm entrance in the back. The door jams but if you’re small enough, you can wiggle through. Perks of being petite.”

“How do you know?” I ask, voice cracking. God, my throat is dry.

“Because that’s the way I got in here, genius.”

“But how did you even know I was here?”

“Are you reenacting the Spanish Inquisition? Enough with the questions.” Her voice is moving farther away by the second. “And FYI, I’m not waiting for you. So unless you want to stay down here alone…”

She trails off. With no other choice, I follow her into the dark. We move quietly through the vast space, trying not to trip over stacked boxes and broken furniture. It’s slow going.

“But—” I start again.

She groans. “This is what I get for trying to save a life. The most annoying fucking rescue victim of all time.”

“You’re kind of mean, you know.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Who are you?” I whisper-yell as we slither through the dark, hands thrown out to the grimy stone wall for guidance.

“Someone who’s tired of watching Mac and his boys steamroll over everyone in this goddamned hellhole of a neighborhood. Between the yuppies on the west side and the mobsters on the east, the whole place has gone to shit.”

“Why are you helping me?

She pauses. “Does it matter?”

“No. But it’ll make it much harder to send you a
thanks-for-saving-my-ass
fruit basket if you don’t tell me your name.”

She snorts. “Is that the going rate for saving the life of an heiress, these days? A fucking fruit basket?”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, Tink. Those edible arrangements are surprisingly—”

My words cut off abruptly as she slaps a hand over my mouth and stops in her tracks, stiller than a statue. I’m about to ask what the hell she’s doing when I hear them.

Footsteps.

The floorboards overhead are creaking with the weight of slow, measured footfalls as someone moves through the space above us. Dust drifts down onto our heads, coating our hair like snow. They come to a stop almost directly over us. There’s a sharp ringing sound, then murmured conversation fills the air.

They’re on the phone.

Saved by the bell-tower ringtone…

My heart starts to pound so loud I worry whoever’s upstairs will be able to hear it from a floor away. After a few breathless seconds, Tink’s eyes meet mine through the darkness, wide and alert. She nods slowly, and we start to edge backwards in unison toward the wall.

We’ve made it only a few feet when the conversation upstairs falls silent and footsteps start up again.

He’s moving away — I can hear his steps getting fainter. That would normally be a relief, except he’s heading straight for the door at the top of the basement stairs.

My heart pounds faster.

Any minute that door will open, the lights will flicker on, Cormack will walk back down here, and we’ll be more thoroughly screwed than the cast of Sex and the City.

“Fuck.” Tink’s curse is so low, it barely reaches my ears. There’s a muffled scraping sound, like wood being dragged across stone. “Help me, idiot. It’s stuck.”

I unfreeze, spinning to see she’s reached the storm door. Her hands are gripping the wood, trying to pry open the narrow sliver of space until it’s large enough to squeeze through. Before I’ve had time to blink, I close the distance between us, align my hands next to hers, and pull.

The footsteps are practically to the stairs.

We yank harder — muscles straining, sweat beading — and are rewarded when the door screeches open an inch.

Still not wide enough.

“What, are you afraid to break a nail?!” Tink hisses. “
Pull
the damn thing!”

“I’m trying!” I snap. “Maybe if your arms weren’t the approximate width of toothpicks—”

“That’s rich, coming from a girl who probably thinks yoga is a sport.”

“
You
try balancing your chakras in a 98 degree sweat box, then we’ll talk.”

I hear the sound of a boot hit the top step.

The storm door creaks a half-foot wider.

Just a few more inches.

The overhead light flips on, burning my eyes with sudden intensity.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

“Hey — what the hell?” A man’s voice rings out with alarm at the same moment the door finally gives beneath our collective weight.

“Go, go, go!” Tink’s words are intent and her hands are rough as she pushes me bodily through the tiny opening.

“STOP!” I hear the man call, pissed beyond belief. The sound of running footsteps reaches my ears. “Stop right fucking now!”

Does he really expect us to listen?

Tink gives me a final shove and I fall through the gap, flailing as I go. Thankfully, my face breaks my fall. (Because it wasn’t already bruised
enough
.) I moan as my head smashes against the storm steps but before I can gain my feet, the weight of a small body lands on my back, knocking the breath from my lungs and flattening me back against the concrete.

“Ugh,” I grunt as Tink scrambles off me, grabbing my hand and dragging me up. Mere inches away, the man is struggling with the door, trying to squeeze through the sliver of space. His arm snatches at the air above our heads.

“Let’s move!” Tink tugs at my hand. “He can’t fit through there, but he’ll be out the front in less than a minute and you can bet your ass he won’t be alone.”

Ignoring the pain in my shredded palms, scraped knees, and battered head, I drag myself into a semi-vertical position and make my way up the stairs after her. Our fingers stay twined tight until we hit the asphalt of an abandoned parking lot, its every streetlamp shattered and dark. I barely have time to look around, because we’re running. A dead sprint, faster than I’ve ever run in my life and still somehow not fast enough. My arches ache as my stilettos crash against the pavement without mercy.

Maybe Nate was right about my impractical shoes, after all…

We cut past dumpsters, through ditches, across lawns — never slowing, barely breathing, not once looking back to see if we’re being chased. Buildings pass in a blur — dilapidated row houses with lights long dimmed for the night, run-down businesses with metal grates dropped fast over their glass windows. I can see the Tobin Bridge, glowing dim over the water in the distance. Its presence grounds me, and I suddenly know exactly where I am.

Charlestown
.

I’m in Charlestown. Less than a mile away from the zoning site for my father’s new development.

I don’t have time to think about that — there’s no room for it in my head, what with all the terror and adrenaline monopolizing the space.

We run.

Arms pumping, feet lifting, one step after another until I think I’m going to die right there on a cracked sidewalk in one of Boston’s most notorious crime neighborhoods.

“How do you…run in…those damn…shoes,” Tink wheezes, rounding a corner at breakneck pace, her black Toms never losing stride. “Take…them…off.”

“These…are…my…best…Manolos,” I gasp, outraged and breathless. “No…freaking…way.”

“Idiot,” she pants.

“Bitch,” I croak.

After a few blocks, the rough edges of the neighborhood give way to something a bit softer, more gentrified. We pass houses with small, well-manicured lawns, businesses with flower boxes lining their windows. In the space of a few streets, we’ve entered civilization again.

“Think we… lost them…” Tink’s voice is choppy. “Fucking… finally.”

She finally slows to a walk by a covered bus stop on a narrow side street, pacing in tight circles so her limbs don’t cramp up. I have no such patience or perseverance — limbs be damned, I collapse onto the stained wooden bench, uncaring whether there’s lactic acid building up in my joints or gum clumping in my hair or a gazillion germs crawling onto my body. One more second on my feet and my heart is going to give out.

If Cormack catches us right now, so be it. I couldn’t find the energy to move if Tom Brady himself pulled up to the curb and offered me a ride in his Escalade.