Darkest Before Dawn (7 page)

T
he door closes
behind me and I turn, sliding both locks into place. I lean my forearm against the wood, rest my forehead against my arm, and stare at the ground. This is all part of it, as shitty as it is. But the most alarming thing to me is that I feel guilt with her. That woman makes me feel things I shouldn’t, but in life, a good many things that shouldn’t do.

Fuck, this early on and I’m already having issues. I drag in a deep breath and scratch my fingers over the rough door as I attempt to gather my thoughts. I swear I can hear her sobbing…or maybe I just
think
I can. Regardless of her tears, she
shouldn’t
affect me the way she does, but at the end of the day—I’m a fucking man. She’s a beautiful—no—
stunning
woman that radiates an air of innocence and rebellion, and I’m not even sure how it’s possible for one person to exude both of those things, but Ava does. I struggle with this as any man would. The key to successfully carrying out my job is viewing these girls as a blank canvas, not a person. And if I’m honest, I don’t know that there is any way to
not
see her as a person.

Taking one last breath, I push away from the door. Earl’s groaning on the floor as he attempts to get to his knees. If I’m honest, I want to kick him in the back of his head and not stop until his brains are leaking from his ears for doing that to her. It’s a rule that they don’t get raped, but fuck if rules don’t go out the window when this fucker starts drinking. He has little to no self-control.

“What the fuck’d you punch me for, Max?” he groans through several coughs.

“Because you’re a piece of shit. You’re not supposed to touch her.”

“Aw, I weren’t gonna really do nothing. Just give her a good scare.”

I walk over to him and grab him by the back of his shirt, yanking him to his feet before I place my face inches from his. “Don’t even
fuck
around like that.”

He starts laughing as he tries to steady his wobbly legs. “Act like you ain’t thought about it.” He clicks his mouth like he’s calling a dog. “She’s purdy.
Real
purdy.”

I glare at him before I slap him the back of his head. “Get the fuck upstairs.” I follow Earl up to the kitchen. He goes to the pantry and pulls out a bottle of Maker’s.

“Y’ant some?” he asks, peeling the red wax from the neck of the bottle.

“No.” I walk to the fridge, open it, and grab a can of Miller Lite. The sound of the beer fizzing when I pop the top settles my nerves a touch, but nothing compares to the relief that unwinds my muscles when that cold brew hits the back of my throat. I pull a chair up to the metal kitchen table and point for Earl to have a seat. “Have you talked to her brother?” I ask.

“Yep. Told him I dumped the body in the Coosa River.” Earl tips the bottle back and I watch the bubbles float up the neck. “We ain’t gonna get caught. He don’t care so long as she’s outta the picture. And you know what I’s thinking ’bout?”

I cast an annoyed look in his direction.

“That if he goes on and kills their folks, well, we ain’t gots to worry much about Frank Donovan.” He laughs.

I take another gulp of beer before slamming the can down on the tabletop. “Guess not.” I stare at the can, tracing my finger against the dark blue lettering.

“Think she’ll take long to break?” he asks. “Got this one guy wants a new girl, she’ll do just right for him.”

“A
new
girl?”

“Yep. A new girl.” He takes another swig of whiskey.

“What happened to the one he had?” I ask.

Earl shrugs. “Don’t know. Don’t care. He’s a paying customer and ain’t no business of mine what the hell he does with them after he pays for ’em.”

Exhaling, I toss my head back. I hate this. I hate every-fucking-thing about this. Something about that girl gives me this unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach. Call it intuition, a gut feeling—paranoia. But something very bad will happen as a result of her being here. I do believe that.

“Aw.” Earl sighs. “Come on now, Max. Don’t you got some fancy degree or some shit? What is it, psychic mumbo jumbo?”

My teeth grind against each other at this fucker’s ignorance. “Psychology. I got a degree in psychology when I had fucking ambitions.”

“Yeah, that. You know people’s fucked up in the mind then. People that’s right in the head don’t buy these girls. Just the sick-o’s and perverts.” Earl laughs, his eyes gleaming with something similar to pride because he’s one of those sick-o’s. “People like them, people like us”—he points at himself then at me—“we’re what makes people appreciate the good ’cause they gots to have something bad to compare it with.”

My stomach turns over like a dog playing dead. I don’t want to be one of those people, but the thing is, I’ve been in this game my entire life. Before I could walk, I was desensitized to most shit that would make people lose their damn lunch. I have no empathy, no capacity for it. To me, all this shit, well, it’s normal.

There’s the
glug glug glug
of Earl tilting that bottle back again, and for some reason, I just want to yank it out of his weathered hands, smash him in the fucking skull with it, and watch him bleed. But I don’t.

“Yep,” he says, hitching his pants back under his gut. “People are fucked up.”

And I sit here in silence, drinking, trying to rationalize the fact that I’m just as fucked up as Earl.

T
he alarm clock
on the bedside table goes off. I groan. I curse. I toss and turn, pulling the comforter over my face. And finally, when the damn thing gets so loud I can actually see my pulse in my closed eyelids, I get up. I turn the alarm off. I take a shower, brush my teeth, get dressed. Today is an important day. Today I show her I am
kind
. I show her I
care
. In a world where everything is bad, I will make her see me as good. As a god. And as her only fucking hope.

The house is quiet. No one is up yet, except the dogs who are following me around like a shadow. I grab items from the pantry and cabinets, and when I start to cook, both dogs sit on the floor beside the stove, staring at me and wagging their mangy tails. Thirty minutes later, two plates are full of scrambled eggs, biscuits, and bacon. I turn around and a piece of bacon drops to the floor. Rufus snatches it up and Bear nearly knocks me over chasing him through the kitchen to steal it.

“Watch it,” I warn as I open the door to the cellar.

When I reach the door with both plates, I stare at the lock.
Well, fucking hell. I didn’t think that through, did I now?
I balance one plate on my forearm, nearly dropping it as I unlatch the locks. She’s still asleep when the door swings into the room. I attempt to shut it quietly, but when the lock turns, she jumps up in the bed, dazed. For a moment, the confusion is evident on her face. Her gaze bounces from my face to the plates to the door and around the room. She’s disoriented. And the moment she remembers where she actually is, well, it’s obvious because her entire body sinks.

“Breakfast,” I say as I take a seat on the end of the mattress. I hand the plate to her and she eyes the food. “It’s not poisoned,” I say.

“I don’t care if it is. I have no control here. I know that. If you want me dead, let’s be honest, not much I can do about that.” She grabs the plate and sets it in her lap. I take a forkful of egg and cram it inside my mouth. “Why are you eating with me?” she asks.

I shrug. “Why not?”

She studies me, and it seems she’s attempting to peer into places no one should try to go. We hold a silent and scrutinizing staring contest while we eat. Once she’s finished she sets the plate on the ground and sighs. I place my plate on top of hers and scoot back on the mattress, leaning against the wall. There’s a pipe that’s leaking and the constant drip of water is annoying as fuck.

Her eyes follow my gaze to the pipe. “Annoying, huh?” she asks.

“Yep.”

“Bother you, I guess?”

“Yeah, of course it does.”

“I’ll tape it up then.”

There’s a few minutes of silence again and then she sighs. “Can you at least let me know before you do it? Or before someone’s going to do it? I just want to know, in case I want to pray or something, you know?”

I look at her from the corner of my eye. “I’m
not
going to kill you.”

“You don’t have to lie to me. It’s not like you’re just going to let me go, even if you get what you want…
whatever
that is,” she grumbles.

Closing my eyes, I place my hands behind my head and get more comfortable in my spot on the mattress. “I don’t want to kill you.”

“But you’re going to.” Her voice has a slight tremor to it now.

“No.”

“Do you know why my brother wanted me dead?”

“No.” I swallow. Fucking Earl must have told her, and I am not willing to go any further with that, so I change the topic. “What size do you wear?”

“What?”

“Clothes. What size clothes? I’m gonna go get some clothes for you.”

She sits silently for a moment. “A six. Medium. Stuff like that. Not that it matters if it fits, you know.”

I reach over, placing my hand on her knee. “I want you as comfortable as possible. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but this has nothing to do with you.”

And in this moment, her expression falls blank. She blinks. Her pupils swell and her eyes trail down to my lips. She swallows and quickly averts her gaze. I see the tiniest crack fissure through her. And as fucking wonderful as that is—I wonder what she’d look like in a soft linen dress, her hair brushed from her face. I wonder what her lips taste like, what her laugh sounds like…she’s too real. Too pure. Too human. I’m afraid I may be breaking, too.

And we mustn’t break together. That would be catastrophic. Without another word, I stand and leave the room. My mind reels as I make my way up the stairs, the old wood creaking under my weight.

I walk through the kitchen, grab the keys to my truck from the counter and my jacket from the back of the old wooden chair. The deadbolt clicks, and I hear Earl’s recliner groan as he sits up to most likely peer around the doorframe.

“Where you going?” Earl calls from the living room.

“To get her clothes. Don’t go trying to fuck with her. I swear to God, I will kill you if you do,” I say. “And she’ll tell me.”

He waves me off and flips the channel to some horrible movie from the ’70s. “I won’t touch your purdy little girl.”

Shaking my head, I push the screen open. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Boy, I’ll choke you in yer sleep.”

The door slams shut behind me and I climb into my car, driving the forty miles to town to buy my soon to be ‘pretty little girl’ some clothes.

* * *

I
found
myself worried with what she would like when I was shopping. That’s a first. And it is a warning sign I don’t dare ignore. I’ve spent the better part of the drive back to the house convincing myself of all the reasons I shouldn’t feel guilty: Lila…the ironic fact that Ava’s father took my family from me. In a way, I should see this as a form of fateful retribution—shouldn’t I? He kills my family, I destroy his daughter, but for whatever reason, I’m finding it all hard to digest.

The sun has nearly crept below the horizon when I pull back into the driveway. Barbara’s piece of shit Mazda 626 is parked in front of the porch. “Fucking Earl,” I mumble. “Shit!” I wipe over my brow.

We had a bit of a catastrophe a month ago with one of the girls getting out, nearly had to kill that one. After that we agreed to no visitors. Of course, Earl can’t keep to a simple fucking plan. At least it’s just Barbara. She’s always so fucked up on meth, completely out of her gourd, even if she were to stumble down to the cellar and into that room, she’d have no clue of it an hour or so later.

I grab the shopping bags and the takeout from Olive Garden and climb out. It’s freezing out tonight and my entire body tenses from the frigid wind blowing through the trees. The chains to the old swing on the front porch creak when another gust picks up, howling around the corners of the house. Bear and Rufus are huddled together asleep on the porch. I drop my keys when I reach the top of the stairs and Bear lazily lifts his head, eyeing me before deciding he’d rather go back to sleep than bother wagging his tail.

I jab the key into the lock and can already hear country music blaring through the speakers, the sound almost drowning out Barbara’s and Earl’s rough laughter.

“Come on”—I nudge the dogs as I open the door—“get your asses inside.” They both hop up and run into the living room, wrestling with each other. The entire foyer is filled with a thin cloud of smoke and the faint smell of burning plastic.
Low grade meth.
When I round the corner into the kitchen, there’s
five
fucking people—Earl, Barbara, Bubba, Jeb, and Judy—all in laughing fits, eyes glazed over and bloodshot. The very minute I glance at Judy, her eyes lock on me and I groan, heading toward the hallway.

“Hey, Maxwell,” Judy coos, batting her eyelashes as she slowly pushes up from the table and saunters over to me.

Judy is what you call “trailer park champagne.” She’s the best this little town has to offer: looks, blowjobs, bar fights. But as roughneck as I may pretend to be to hold up this façade, that kind of woman stands a better chance in hell than with me. Her hand comes to rest on my shoulder, and I shrug away from her.

“When you gonna let me show you a good time, sweet cheeks? First time’s on the house.” She smiles, her thin, pink lips showcasing overly bleached teeth.

I don’t utter a word. Just glare at the lot of them disapprovingly as I make my way into the hall.

“I’ll wait for you,” she says. I hear the legs of the chair scrape over the floor, and I glance over my shoulder. Their attention is now back to the pipe being passed around, and I’m able to sneak into the cellar without being noticed.

Ava’s sitting in the same spot she was when I left. She’s braided her long, chestnut hair, and she smiles—faintly, but it is a smile—when I step inside.

“Brought you some real food,” I say, holding up the bag of takeout. That gets me another, larger smile.

“I love Olive Garden. Please tell me it’s the Chicken Parmesan?” Her brow wrinkles. I can tell she’s confused by her own actions. That happens quickly in situations such as these. She is enthusiastic over something as simple as food. She heard that excitement in her own voice, and now she is questioning herself. It is all part of the process…

“I got a few things,” I say. “Didn’t know what you liked.” I place the food on the bed beside her before taking a seat. She grabs the bag and pulls out the first plastic container and set of cutlery. When she opens the lid, she squeals, rips the fork out of the plastic wrapping, and begins shoveling food into her mouth. One bite and she throws her head back, closing her eyes.

“Mmm.” She exhales as she swallows. “I forgot what
actual
food tastes like.”

And that makes me feel bad. Fuck!

She takes several more bites of food before looking up at me. “Aren’t you gonna eat?” she asks, using the back of her hand to wipe sauce from her lips.

“I already ate.” I drop the bags of clothes to the floor, lean back against the wall, and watch her.

She scarfs down nearly two plates of food, completely ignoring me in the process, before she places the bag on the floor, and all the while, I study her. The shape of her face, the dip in her lips. Her hair. Her eyes. Her mannerisms. Unlike the others, she was ripped away from a life of privileged, a life with promise. And I cannot convince myself this is a better life for her, so I remind myself that her privilege came from bloodshed. She is the daughter of a criminal and with that birthright comes shit like this.

“I am sorry,” I say, reaching over to tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Such a simple touch, but the soft feel of her warm skin under my fingertips, well, it’s really not enough. I want more. I swallow. “I’d much prefer to not have you in this situation.”

“Then let me leave.” She forces away the tears threatening her eyes.

Ava may be strong, but no one is this strong. If I had to guess, the only reason she is fighting those tears right there is because she doesn’t want me to view her as weak. In this world, weak people are easily disposable.

“Please,” she says barely above a whisper.

“I can’t.”

“He’d give you anything you want. As much money as you want…my father would give you anything. He’s wealthy. He’s very wealthy…” She inhales and sniffs back a few sobs before anger settles on her face. “And he’s a very
dangerous
man. He will find me and he will kill you. Slowly. Brutally. Without any remorse.”

I stand and head to the door. “I hope you enjoyed your dinner.”

Panic darts through her eyes. She jumps up from the bed, wedging herself between me and the exit. “Tell me why I’m here!”

“Don’t ask me that again.”

That panic flicker morphs into anger. “How many people’s lives have you taken?”

What the fuck does she thinks she’s doing with these questions?
“Only people who fucking deserve to have their lives taken.”

“Oh.” She snarls. “A vigilante? Is that it?”

I shrug.

“You think you’re some fucking savior? A hero?”

“Never said that. All I said was that I only kill bad people.”

Her gaze narrows. Her jaw ticks. Her tiny nostrils flare with anger. “I don’t believe you. Look what you are doing to me, look at what
you
fucking do,” she shouts. “
You’re
a bad person, a very bad person, Max.”

I almost feel as though I’ve just been scolded, and out of instinct want to feel a hint of shame, but I don’t. “Depends on your definition of bad,” I say.

“Look in the mirror. You
are
my definition of bad.”

“Why, thank you.” I smirk.

“And I hate you.”

“As you should.” I grab both her shoulders and move her away from the door.

“Please don’t leave me…” And just like that, she’s again swung from hatred to need. She drags in a breath. “I just…I just—I can’t take the silence, the being alone. Please, just stay. For a minute. Let me pretend something is normal.”

Our eyes lock for the briefest moment and all I can think about is kissing her. And that’s a terrible thing. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m cupping her cheek in my hand. Her breath catches and she freezes. A low groan makes its way up my throat when I brush my thumb over her plump bottom lip. The things that run through my mind at this moment: I want nothing more than to grab her by the hair, tilt her head back, and kiss her. I want to know what her soft skin feels like pressed against mine; I want to know what it feels like to have her—to take her in the most primal of ways… I close my eyes in an effort to regain control. I tell myself this is wrong.