Darkest Before Dawn (4 page)

T
here’s
noise outside the door and my heart goes into a sprint. The lock clicks, then the other lock slides, and the door creaks open. Earl coughs as he enters the room. A hazy stream of light pours in from the doorway, and I can see there’s someone behind him hidden in the shadow of the other room, but that man’s not short and round like Bubba.

“Y’ant something to eat?” Earl asks. I shake my head. “Aw, now, come on. You gots to eat.” He grins, his dingy smile making my empty stomach knot. “Promise it’s good eating.”

I’m starving and weak, so hungry the thought of food actually makes me nauseous, but I don’t want anything from him. “No,” I say.

The man behind him steps into the room. He’s tall. The white T-shirt he’s wearing stretches over broad shoulders and muscular arms. The material is so worn and thin I can make out the tattoos covering his chest, some wind down his arms. His face is striking and for a moment, I can’t help but notice how attractive his distinctive features are: olive skin, cut jaw, straight noise, and his eyes are deep and dark, almost black. But even with how dark they are, they are not sinister. When his eyes meet mine, I see something human—sorrow. Pity. I see a soul and that confuses me.

“Told ya she’s purty,” Earl throws over his shoulder as he steps toward me. He grabs at his belt and my heart holds back several panicked beats. This is it. He’s going to rape me. Maybe they are both going to rape me. Something overtakes me. I know I’m helpless, but I hate it. I hate him. And I just wish he’d get whatever it is he wants to do to me over with.

“Fuck you!” I say through clenched teeth, scooting back toward the wall as a last ditch effort to maintain some dignity.

Earl’s eyes widen and he stops midstride. “Purty little girls shouldn’t have mouths like that.” He laughs before taking another step in my direction. “Now, girl. Yous gonna eat because I ain’t gonna have you dying on me, you hear?”

“What do you want with me then?” I whisper. “If you aren’t going to kill me, what do you want?”

“Oh, I gots plans for you.” He taps his finger over his temple and winks at me. “I’m a smart one.”

I glare at him, debating about spitting on him. “I can tell by your
impeccable
grammar.” The second the words leave my mouth, I cringe on the inside. That was stupid. Very, very stupid.

Laughing, he smiles before his hand reaches out like a snake striking prey. He fists my hair and drags me to my feet. I can feel several strands rip from my scalp as he brings my face inches from his, his smoker’s breath heavy in my face. “Grammar ain’t got much to do with it. And I suggest you watch your smart, rich-girl mouth, ’for I bust you in it.”

“Earl!” the man looming in the corner speaks as he approaches us. He grabs Earl’s hand from my hair and gently untangles it before pushing Earl back a few steps. “Just fucking calm down, would you?”

I fall to the mattress and suddenly, I feel safe…

Earl looks at me, then at him. “You know I don’t like people talkin’ ’bout the way I speak, Max. Makes me mad ’nough to spit.”

“I know.” Max pats him on the shoulder. “I know. But you don’t want to hurt her…” His gaze shifts from Earl to me, those coal black eyes of his narrowing. It’s like he’s studying me, taking me in. It makes me nervous because it gives me a shred of hope that he is a good person. That he will save me.

“Ava,” he says my name with such tenderness that my sleep-deprived mind allows my body to subtly inch closer to his. “I’m sorry about all of this, I am.” He bites down on his lip, dropping his eyes to his floor. “Sometimes life’s not fair, you know?”

And now I hate him. My emotions are in a state of havoc.

“May I?” He points to the mattress. I don’t move. I don’t make a sound. To be honest, I don’t even think I’ve taken a breath. He sits next to me, his weight causing the ratty mattress to dip. He looks up at Earl. “Go get her some food. A Pop-Tarts or something. Something wrapped so she knows it’s not poisoned.” Earl shuffles out of the door, locking only one lock this time.

Max’s attention turns back to me. I fight to keep my eyes from drifting down to that lip he keeps biting on. And here my mind goes, down some irrational path in an attempt to deny the dire situation at hand. Right now, instead of wondering how this man may kill me, I’m wondering what his lips would feel like over mine. I know how crazy this sounds, but the thing is, when you are in a position such as I am: bound and locked in a dingy basement, your mind grasps for some normalcy. In a normal situation, I’d be at a party with my friends. Possibly drunk and this guy, Max—we’d be alone in this room because he wanted to kiss me, fuck me. And if you were to take away the situation surrounding this moment—I’d let him. I’d want him to want me.

My eyes are locked on his and there is something about him, some weird connection that wants to surface that makes me want to experience him in every way possible. In a normal world, we would kiss. We’d fuck. And maybe I’d make him fall in love with me…

“Ava?” His deep voice drags me from my fluttering thoughts, from the protective realms of a daydream.

His finger brushes a stray piece of hair from my cheek and the warmth of his hand sends a slight electric jolt fluttering through me.
Maybe this is fate.
My mind tries relentlessly to make sense of why all of this is happening, and right now it is grasping at straws.

“I just need you to do what we ask,” he says with such a sense of calm, my rapid heartbeat begins to slow. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. I really don’t, but you telling Earl to fuck off…” He stretches his neck. “Well, he’s got a bit of a temper. Killed people over shit like that, all right?”

I nod.

I nod.

I nod.

Because that’s all I can do.

“Please…” I don’t even realize I’m talking, and although I tell my mouth to stop, it doesn’t. “Please, just let me go. I promise I won’t tell anyone. I won’t say a word. Not to my father. No one. I’m only nineteen. Please.” And now tears are free-falling down my face. I’m choking on sobs. And I’m so tired, so disoriented that I find my face buried on Max’s shoulder. His shirt is drenched with the spicy scent of Dior’s Sauvage. Bronson wore that. And now I find myself weeping harder while he remains rigid.

His large hands grip my shoulders and he slowly pushes me away from him. His fingers trail down my arms and then he grabs onto me, bending me over my knees. “Goddamn it, Earl,” he mumbles beneath his breath as he takes my bound wrists in his hands. Leaning over, he reaches to the leg of his jeans. When he straightens up, there’s a hunting knife in his hand. Fear consumes me. That tingle from a sudden shot of adrenaline covers my skin, my head swims, and before I can really react, he’s cut my wrists free. “Not like you’re gonna go anywhere, now is it?” he asks.

I quickly bring my hands to my lap and stare at the purple marks. There’s some dried blood where the rough cord broke the skin. My fingers are swollen and blue. After a few seconds, I feel needles in my fingertips from the blood rushing back to them, and I find myself trying to shake the uncomfortable feeling away.

“What do you want with me?” I ask. “At least tell me that.”

A pitiful, soft smile twists over his lips. “You don’t want to know.” He rubs over the back of his neck. “I really hate this. I really do, but it’s kinda part of it, you know?”

“No, I don’t know.” And I don’t know why I’m talking to him.

A slight smirk plays over his lips. “‘These men turn from the right way to walk down dark paths. They take pleasure in doing wrong, and they enjoy the twisted ways of evil…’ You know, all that shit.”

I glare at him. “Don’t quote Jesus.”

“That wasn’t Jesus. It’s actually from Proverbs.”

I stare at him, almost dumbfounded. “Yeah…”

“Bad people need Jesus more than good people, you know?” he says as he drags in a hard breath. “I am sorry about this. Just don’t piss Earl off. And to be honest, I’ll be spending more time with you than him.”

“Please.” With my hands now free, I grab onto his, gripping them for dear life. “Please, just let me go. I’m a student at the University of Alabama. I’m majoring in premed microbiology. I want to get married one day, have kids. Please,
please
, don’t let this be the last thing I experience.” A sob bubbles up my throat. “Please!”

His chin is to his chest and he’s leaned over his knees, wringing his hands. “Just do what they ask,” he says.

The lock clicks and the hinges groan as Earl steps back into the room. He has several items in his arms, which he dumps onto the mattress.

“There you is. Some waters. Gat-or-ades. Pop-Tarts, cereal bars, Twinkies, a few Oatmeal Creme Pies, and then there’s some of ’em protein bars with nuts in ’em.”

“Fuck, Earl.” Max swats at the food. “You want her to go into a diabetic coma?”

Earl glares at Max. “You said to bring her them wrapped foods. Well, that’s them.”

Max shakes his head and pushes up from the bed. He shoves past Earl and waits in the doorway. Earl’s gaze keeps jumping from the pile of overly-processed foods to me. “Earl, come on!” Max shouts, causing Earl to jump. I keep my gaze fixed on the edge of the mattress. The door closes. Locks slide. And I’m alone once again.

Solitude. Like a prisoner serving a life sentence because I am fairly certain that is what this will be. Me, here in this room, until my life is finally taken from me.

A
va-fucking-Donovan
.

I stare slack-jawed at the Facebook profile picture on the computer screen, my hand hovering over the mouse. She is Frank Donovan’s daughter.
Fucking hell, Earl!
Anyone in this underworld would recognize that name. He is a fucking hitman. That man is violent and ruthless. And he’s a fucking genius. The CIA can’t touch him. As far as anyone outside of this world is concerned, Donovan is nothing more than a businessman because he is a chameleon. The most successfully evil people are the best at appearing to be normal, they
are
the people you want to have over for dinner because they are so charming.

Frank Donovan.

Funny, the way fate weaves its sick little web. Donovan—I hate him and his fucking family. I tap my fingers over the desk, sweat building on my brow as I recall the moment I accepted that there’s a sliver of darkness that lives in us all. I fight it. I grit my teeth, willing my mind to stop, but like a black hole that memory beckons me, drawing me inside the despondency the second I give in and close my eyes.

The hammer feels heavier than it should in my hands. My palms slick with sweat, my heart drumming into my throat. Each beat pulses in my eyes, my vision threatening to go black. I’ve never been this mad and can understand now how people have fucking heart attacks from sheer anger. I’m standing at the end of the couch watching this motherfucker breathe. In. Out. In. Out. I want to stop his goddamn chest from rising.

This fuckface works with my dad, and every so often he gets so sloppy ass drunk he passes out on the couch, just like he is now. I’ve never liked him. He’s an arrogant piece of shit, and there’s been plenty of times I’ve wanted to knock his teeth down his throat, but what I heard my sister telling her friend earlier today—I’m going to kill him for it. She was sobbing. Johnny Donovan—this piece of shit lying on my fucking couch—raped her. She’s fucking fourteen. I close my eyes, trying to tell myself to breathe. He jumps in his sleep and shifts on the couch, knocking several beer cans to the floor in the process.

My jaw tenses, and I take a step toward him. Then another, stopping when my shadow falls over him.
This is not wrong. It’s not.
I lift the hammer and slam it down over the back of his head. What a sound it makes. It’s not exactly a crack, maybe more of a pop or plop—a wet plop at that, like smashing a fucking pumpkin wide open. He shouts, grabbing the back of his head and turning on the couch. Too bad for him, the next blow lands on his face. Blood explodes from his nose. “You raped my sister, you sick fuck.”

“Stop,” he groans, spitting blood from his mouth.

I slam the hammer over his mouth, his teeth shatter. “Did you stop when she asked you to?” I scream. I’m fueled by rage, and a rage like this—it’s not something you can easily stop.

This little devil inside of me demands I keep hitting him, that I make him pay for what he did to her. He struggles, flailing around, but I continue to go at his face, whack after whack, until my muscles are actually too fatigued to raise the weapon one more time. I drop it to the floor and stare at the mess. Blood and bits of mangled flesh are everywhere. The wall, the lampshade, me—even a little splatter on the ceiling. I drag my hand down my face, wiping away some of the blood before I turn and walk to the kitchen. I sit there, drinking water and staring at what is left of Johnny D. Fuck him.

I come out of the lucid memory with a smile.

I never knew a single person could be so brutal to another human—that
I
could be that fucking violent. We all have an evil little beast that lies just below the surface, scratching to get out. That moment, killing a man when I was only sixteen, well, that was like having a blood-stained version of Pandora’s Box opened right in front of me.

My father came home an hour later. He asked only one question: why? I told him. He nodded and we cleaned up the shit, dumping Johnny’s body in the Coosa river. Two weeks later…Frank Donovan broke into my house and took my family as revenge, and now, Frank Donovan’s beloved daughter is locked up in that fucking cellar. Funny how life comes full circle.

Jesus H. Christ, Earl!
My pulse bangs frantically in my temples, and I quickly reach for the pack of smokes on the edge of the desk, pull one out, and light it. Taking several puffs, my stare fixates on the family portrait set as Ava’s Facebook profile picture. I push up from the chair and pace the length of my room, smoking the cigarette down to the filter before stabbing it out in a tin ashtray. This is some shit. Some serious fucking shit.

I sling the door open, storming down the steps to the living room. Earl’s asleep in his recliner. There’s a burnt out cigarette dangling from his lips and beer in his hand.

“Earl!” I shout and he snorts, jumping and knocking the can of beer out of his lap.

“The fuck, Max?”

“Frank Donovan…”

He swipes a dirty hand down his face. “Yep,” he groans. “What ’bout him?”

“That girl down there”—I point to the floor above the holding room—“is
his
fucking daughter.”

His eyes narrow to mere slits as he scratches the stubble on his face. “Don’t say, huh? So I guess Brandon’s her brother?”

Tossing my hands up, I pace. “I don’t fucking know.”

“Well, he’s the little shit that wanted her killed.”

“Her brother?”

“Yep. Wants the insurance money. Guessin’ he’s gonna kill his folks, take the money. Greedy little bastard.” Earl laughs.

I shake my head and clench my fists. “I don’t care what the fuck he wanted. Her father is Frank-motherfucking-Donovan and when he hunts her down—because he will—the devil would be kinder in dealing out our deaths.”

Earl’s not even phased. He just leans back in the recliner and waves me off. “Ain’t gonna find her. We’ll get here fixed up and sold off to some poor fucker and
that
is who should concern himself with Donovan.”

Anger swells inside me and before I realize what I’ve done, I’ve punched a hole through the sheetrock by the doorway to the kitchen. I shake the sting from my hand on my way to the sink. The only thing I can think about is how fucked up all this is. I turn the faucet, and while I watch the blood and debris swirl down the drain, I get a sinking feeling that this is beyond my control. Some things aren’t coincidence. Some things, no matter how you try to intervene, the outcomes are already set in fucking stone.