Outcome (Aftermath #2) (6 page)

Chapter 7

Remy absently cupped his aching jaw and eyed the black steel cuff around his left ankle. This one wasn’t furry, but it had white fucking polka dots. Yet, it was sturdy as shit.

Minna's got to be a freak in bed
.

A three-foot long chain offered a bit of room to move, but not enough. The other end of that chain was attached to another cuff, which was secured to the solid, wooden footboard of the bed.

His plan had been to get back to LA and drink himself into oblivion. Instead he'd ended up in the middle of nowhere outside Tehachapi, a shitty little town some thirty-plus miles southeast of Bakersfield.

He pulled at the chain, not for the first time, and cursed. No luck. Trapped.

If Minna was a stubborn little imp, her brother was a sadist. A sadist with good intentions, but a sadist nonetheless.

When Minna had gone to bed last night, Remy had waited a couple hours before he'd tried to sneak out of the house. But the minute he'd stepped out into the hallway, the light had been switched on, revealing Andy leaning casually against a wall. He was fairly slim and lanky, but the death glare he'd shot Remy proved he was more than capable of kicking some serious ass.

Andy sort of reminded Remy of a vampire. Unlike Minna's brown waves, kind eyes in that violet color, and the way she scrunched her nose endearingly, Andreas took after their father with alabaster skin, black hair, and steel-gray eyes. Add ink, piercings, and the fact that Andy was fiercely protective of his little sister, and you had one lethal bastard. Sure, he was Remy's friend too—a very close one, or had been—but he was first and foremost Minna's brother.

"That’s strike two, Rem,"
was all Andreas had said last night. Next he'd proceeded to punch Remy in the face, then hauled him out to Minna's truck, leaving his own Cadillac behind. There'd been several grocery bags in the back seat, and when Remy had cocked a brow in question, Andy had only shrugged and backed out of the driveway.

An hour's drive into the black night later, Remy's heart had sunk when Andy stopped the truck.
The fucking cabin
. A small cabin Andy's father owned but hadn't used in years. That’s what you got for befriending people from an outdoorsy family.

What had once been a killer place for high-school parties was now Remy's prison.

The grocery bags told Remy that Andreas had been expecting this. He'd known Remy was going to make a run for it.

Everything smelled like wood, the material Remy was surrounded by. Wooden beams, boards—hell, even the furniture. It was rustic and quaint. Only the fireplace was made out of stone.

As soon as Andreas had secured Remy to the one and only bed, he'd switched on the power, the few electrical items buzzing to life with noises that screamed of disuse and age. The small fridge in the corner was made in the '70s, for fuck's sake.

The whole cabin consisted of one room and a sleeping nook. There wasn’t even a bathroom inside. There was, however, an outhouse in the back. If you wanted to shower, you had to go to the camping site farther down the hillside. Or you could step outside and shower under the garden hose, which, of-fucking-course, meant ice-cold water.

Lovely
.

The fridge that was now packed with food let out another ringing
trrrrr-kadunk
sound, causing Remy to scowl at it. He'd been quiet about this kidnapping so far because he didn’t want to meet the end of another fist, but when Andy returned…oh, Remy was going to pitch a goddamn fit.

Who knew where the sadist was now? Probably calling Minna. There was no reception up here, Remy remembered. But there had to be more to it, because Andy had been gone a few hours.

The old clock on the wall showed it was just past noon.

It was hot, high 90s, and Remy had the mother of all headaches. The trees in the mountain park cast a shadow over the cabin, but this was still California. In the summer. That meant heat, the night being the only exception. With the elevation…? The temperature dropped significantly at night, a big contrast to the dry boil of the day.

Leaving the bed, Remy took one step toward the window near the door. He grunted, the wall a few inches out of reach. The chain received a glare, as if that would help. Then he repositioned himself, stretched as far as he could, and finally managed to open the window with a push. Lastly, he got halfway to the round kitchen table in the middle of the room before the cuffs protested, but it was enough for him to snatch up the pack of smokes and a lighter from the table.

Andreas had been
kind
enough to leave a glass of water on the wooden nightstand, so Remy figured it'd be his ashtray.

He lit up the smoke and ran a hand through his messy hair. A gentle breeze hit his naked torso, reminding him he didn’t have any clothes here. He was only wearing a pair of basketball shorts, but perhaps his kidnapper was getting him some more?

The irony seeped into him, but instead of finding it funny, dread filled him. More guilt, too. He was complaining about his friends keeping him away from drugs and alcohol; meanwhile, the men who had been kidnapped by his half brother more than three years ago…they knew
real
suffering.

As it often did, the guilt threatened to crush him, which was exactly why he preferred to stay intoxicated.

The sound of wheels crunching on rocky dirt outside made him push away those thoughts for now, and he kept his eyes trained on the door until Andy entered the cabin with two duffel bags and a white table fan.

"I see you haven't chewed off your leg to escape." Andy gave him a mild look on his way over to the corner cabinets by the fridge and the small sink. He stuffed the cupboards with everything from clothes and soap to blankets and water. "If you succeed, you can always walk down to the campsite, sell your ass for a few bucks, and take the bus to LA."

Remy didn’t take the bait. Didn’t show that it stung because it was well-deserved. "How long are you planning on keeping me here?"

"As long as it takes." Andy shrugged and sat down at the table, twisting the cap off a bottle of Coke. He also followed Remy's lead and sparked up a smoke.
Menthols
. Gross. "I won't be here all the time—I got the studio and my girl, too."

Right. Remy had almost forgotten Andy's fiancée. Last he heard, she was pregnant. "You can always let me go right now."

Andy's mouth quirked up. "'Cause you've been doin' such a bang-up job on your own."

"Depends on what the goal is."

Andy nodded with a dip of his chin. "Well, our goals aren't the same. I don’t give a flying fuck if you're stuck out here for months. You're gonna get all the toxins outta your system, get rid of the worst of the itch, and stop putting your friends through hell."

Months? Try, until breathing wasn’t a chore.

And Remy was a Stahl, wasn’t he? Putting people through hell was evidently what they did. "For the record, I haven't had a fucking drink in over a week now, and—"

"And who can you thank for that?" Andreas shot at him.

Remy gnashed his teeth and continued. "Secondly, I'm not your responsibility."

"We don’t want your death on our conscience, either." Andy looked tired, but no less ticked off. "It's one or the other, Rem. Guess which one we're going with." He shook his head and flicked away some ash into a miniature ceramic cup. "I know what you've been through, but what do you think those guys—the men who were taken by Ben—would think if they knew you were throwing away your life?" He leveled Remy with a serious look. "They had no choice. You, on the other hand, are wasting away willingly."

Remy knew Andy was right, but it didn’t erase the fact that Remy believed he was worthless. During his thirty years on this planet, he'd caused more hurt to people than he'd helped. He'd caused more pain than he'd done good.

"Send me to rehab." It was his last attempt to get away for now.

Andy smiled. "Do I look stupid? As far as I know, you haven't committed a crime, so they wouldn't exactly be able to detain you. You'd be free to leave whenever, and we can't have that."

Remy admitted defeat.

*

The whole day passed in silence.

Andy played with his phone, disappeared a few times to call Minna and his fiancée, prepared a few sandwiches for lunch and dinner, and flipped through a couple body-art magazines to pass time.

Remy did nothing, aside from take two bathroom breaks where Andy followed him like a guard dog. Remy dozed off here and there as well, but sleeping without chemicals in his system to knock him out cold didn’t work. There were too many nightmares. If he didn’t see his mom's body in a pool of blood or
feel
the piercing screams of ten men being burned alive, he heard Ben's scratchy voice asking for more cash.

In the distance, he could hear a vehicle coming closer, and Andy didn’t look surprised. Remy guessed it was a shift change and Minna was going to take over.

"That would be my replacement." Andreas stood up and grabbed the keys to Minna's truck. Did that mean Minna was driving Andy's Cadillac? Probably. "I almost wanna stick around to make sure he won't kill you, but Minna's vouching for him."

Remy sat up straighter in bed. "Who's coming?"

Aside from Minna, it was slim pickings. Of course, it could be Dan or Martinez, who worked at Andy's studio, but Remy had never been that close to them. They were friendly, sure, and they'd all gone out together in the past, but he doubted they'd be up for babysitting an alleged addict.

"I think you know him." The sadist's eyes glimmered. "Chase Gallardo?"

"Wh—?" Remy choked on his own saliva. In a heartbeat, his entire posture changed. Fear threatened to cripple him, and he broke out in a cold sweat. It reminded him of the days after Minna had kidnapped him and he'd ached, sweated, and shaken for alcohol. "You're k-kidding." There was
no
way Chase would come here, was there? No. It didn’t make any sense whatsoever. Unless…

Unless Chase had tracked Remy down—couldn’t have been that difficult—and had charmed his way into Minna's good graces, gotten directions to the cabin, and was now going to beat Remy within an inch of his life.

That
made sense.

"No." Andy shouldered his messenger bag and stuffed his magazines into it. "Minna's under the impression you and Chase have unfinished business, and maybe she's right. Maybe you guys need to talk." He shrugged and reached for the door. "Chase has questions—that’s all I know."

Remy couldn’t answer because he was too busy fighting off a panic attack.

"I'll be back tomorrow." A flicker of concern flashed in Andreas's eyes before his mouth tightened in determination. Whatever he and Minna believed was about to happen, they were clearly on board. "We want the old Remy back, man. Do you understand that?"

No, Remy didn’t. He hardly remembered his old self. It was a whole other person—one who had a sharp wit, loved sarcasm, was carefree, worked hard, and helped his friends whenever he could.

The soft, muted click of the door being shut behind Andy echoed in Remy's head, the sound reverberating inside his skull. Left alone. For now. He could hear quiet voices outside, but no words were clear enough.

His heart was racing, and he swallowed convulsively.

Why did Andreas and Minna insist on this?

His
money had funded a kidnapping.

By default, that made him guilty.

Chapter 8

Chase could barely believe he was here. A world away and mindfucked, it felt like.

He pulled off his helmet and pushed down the kickstand on his bike. Around him, he saw trees, a small cabin, hillsides, and more trees. The ground was dry and all but empty of leaves, the shimmering sunlight bouncing off the sandy ground. Laughter traveled with the slight breeze—or maybe it was within earshot—from a nearby campsite he'd passed earlier.

Removing one of the black bandanas he kept tied around his wrists, he wiped his forehead with it, then stuck it into the back pocket of his jeans.

With everything happening so quickly, Chase didn’t feel entirely present. It was only yesterday he'd spoken to Austin about seeking out Remy, and now Chase was here. In the middle of nowhere.

I have twenty-four hours when I'm not even sure I'd like twenty-four minutes.

The man who exited the cabin introduced himself as Andreas Eriksson. He seemed polite enough but threatened Chase much like Minna had, although their approaches were completely different.

Chase had only needed to give Minna his full name, and then she'd known exactly what was going on. She knew who he was. Maybe she knew about the letters, too. Maybe she didn’t. They weren't mentioned. Minna's only concern was to get her best friend back.

"I think—I think it could be good. If you talked, I mean."
She'd stuttered over her words, through her tears.
"But don’t hurt him. My brother will kill you."

"Touch one hair on his head…" Andreas let his warning hang there.

Chase was honestly too busy admiring the loyalty and protection Remy had in his life to be scared of Andreas. Chase had a couple inches on the man, was broader too, but he was sure Andreas could inflict some serious pain. But physical pain didn’t really touch Chase. He didn’t fear it.

"I only wanna talk to him." Chase didn’t shy away from Andreas’s stare, nor did he fumble or fidget like he'd done yesterday. "Your sister told me she'd be here tomorrow. She'll find Remy in the same condition you left him." He'd made too many arrangements for this to fail now; perhaps that had been enough to let this whole situation settle.

The only time Chase had really hesitated about coming out here was when he realized he couldn’t just up and leave his bar. His hands had been shaking when he'd picked up the phone—too chickenshit to just see Austin and Cam in person—and asked for help. To his surprise, though, Austin had been all for it.

"I'm going crazy being home alone anyway. Riley's with friends, and Cam's working late this week before his vacation starts."

Flooded with gratitude, Chase had probably rambled too much, over and over assuring that Donna could fill Austin in.
"She's already agreed to work double shifts."
Hell, he had
friends
, and he owed them. Repeating the fact that he had friends never got old. Making things up to them would feel…good. 'Cause he fucking cherished them, and he wanted to be a good friend in return.

Refocusing on Andreas, who was obviously considering and regarding, Chase realized he had his own Andreas and Minna at home in Bakersfield.

It strengthened his resolve to get through this, and it was almost as if Andreas could see the determination in Chase's eyes 'cause he nodded.

"All right. There's some shit you gotta know." Andreas pulled out—
what the fuck?—
a
small key from his pocket. "For the past year, Rem's been drinking too much. He's not a stranger to drugs, either. Hard drugs."

*

Remy nearly jumped out of his skin when the door opened and Chase walked in. He closed the door and stood still, keeping his back to Remy.

It's a nightmare. He's not really here.

Too bad he couldn’t lie to himself.

Remy had been too terrified to analyze Chase Gallardo's appearance last time, only registering
handsome
and
sexy
, but he was prepared this time. Forget about how hot Chase was, though. Remy didn’t have a one-track mind. All he could see now was a badass biker in his late thirties who'd been born and raised in conservative Bakersfield.

Not only did Remy carry blame for the kidnapping, but he was a
fag
.

Chewing on his lip ring, he recalled Cameron Nash and Austin Huntley; he knew they were married. Could Chase be friends with them?

The silence was deafening, and Remy couldn't be more on edge. He sat on the bed, his bare feet touching the wooden floorboards. He felt…exposed, and not only because he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Shirt!
Oh shit, shit, shit
. He quickly pulled up a leg, his arms hugging it to him.
There.
Hopefully, that was enough to hide the Joshua tree he had tattooed on the side of his ribcage.

After what felt like an eternity and a half, Chase turned. His dark gray T-shirt stretched across his chest, and he only gave Remy a quick glance before he closed the distance to the round table in the middle of the room. Remy followed every movement. Chase tossed his leather jacket over a chair. His helmet landed on the table. There was a small gym bag that was dropped to the floor.

Chase sat down in a chair, imposing and large, and lifted a booted foot up to rest it on his knee. He eyed the pack of smokes Andreas had left behind. He ran a hand through his hair, blew out a breath, scratched his scruffy jaw—Mother of Christ, Remy was losing his mind. Was he even breathing? He kept waiting for Chase to pull out a knife or a gun or something.
Chinese throwing stars?
Who knew.

When their eyes met, Remy swallowed against what felt like razors. Chase's stance was composed and casual, but it was forced.

"Are you here to kill me?" Remy finally blurted out.
Shit
.

Chase's brows lifted then dipped into a frown. "Is that what you want?"

"What—" What kind of fucking question was
that
? Remy scowled, impatient now. If Chase was gonna beat him, kill him…
get it over with
. There was no reason to sit around and chitchat about it. "Are you asking me if I want to die?"

Chase offered a one-shouldered shrug. "After what your friends have told me, I'd say it's a legit question."

That worked like a cold shower, and Remy looked away. Had Andy and Minna told Chase about the drugs, too? Fucking obviously. Otherwise, Chase would've asked about Remy's left foot being cuffed to the bed.

He couldn’t reply. His words got stuck in his throat. Because it was easier to treat your loved ones like shit. Sad as it was. He never bit his tongue around Andy and Minna, but telling a stranger about his fucked state…no. And definitely not a stranger like Chase.

"Kidnapping seems to be a running theme around here."

Remy flinched at the reminder. "I'm sorry." He stared at the floor, haunting memories assaulting him hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. There was no way he'd look up now. "Why are you even here? I have to be the last person you want to see."

Chase didn’t answer right away, and Remy wondered why. He knew the answer, and Chase didn’t strike him as a man who sugarcoated things or held back the truth to spare someone's feelings.

Why
was
Chase here?

Remy couldn’t exactly forget the fury Chase's glare had unleashed in that bar. He couldn’t forget the only response he'd gotten to his letters, either.

Don’t ever contact me again.

"You know it wasn’t your fault, right?"

At that, Remy's head snapped up. He must've heard that wrong. Right? Chase's statement had been so quiet; maybe Remy was imagining things now, too.

Blinking past the stinging, Remy's vision cleared enough for him to see that Chase was being serious. Which was un-fucking-believable. It wasn’t
fair
. For  the past year, Remy had walked the path of destruction he was comfortable on. He
belonged
there. There was a sense of gratification in suffering because his conviction that he deserved it was bone-deep.

Hearing Chase, the ultimate man and threat and victim, say it
wasn’t
Remy's fault… He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

He got desperate. He needed clarification. "Wasn’t my fault that Hitler killed so many people? True."

Chase's forehead creased. "What?" He sat forward. "Why are you bringing up the Holocaust? Are you high?"

I wish
. "No. I just want to know—specifically—what is not my fault."

"Then fucking say so." Chase sat back again and fiddled with the lighter on the table. "It's not your fault that you had a sick brother who—"

"Half brother." Remy would never refer to Fred and Ben as his brothers. There had been a time when he would've claimed otherwise, but no more. The mere thought made him sick. "We don’t have the same mother."

"It's not your fault," Chase repeated. "This shit is all on Ben."

You're wrong
, Remy wanted to tell him. He wanted to fucking scream it.

Gone was the fear. Replaced with anger. Anger toward Chase for even attempting to put a pothole in Remy's road. He'd continue to walk it until the day he died. No one could erase the guilt—not even the man who was Remy's biggest source of it.

"We all have our opinions," he told Chase instead. Fuck, he'd actually lost respect for the man. He'd relied on Chase's disgust and fury. He still needed Chase's rejection to burn like a goddamn wildfire. "Who are you and what have you done to the guy who told me to fuck off?" He got pissy.

This was really getting to him.

Chase chuckled humorlessly. "Kid, if you figure me out, be sure to let me know. Hell if I have a clue." He scrubbed his hands down his face. "Up until a few days ago, I was fine trying to ignore the past and live on anger." As he spoke, his gaze never strayed from the lighter.

A muscle in Remy's jaw ticked. The irritation wouldn’t budge, but he was curious, too. "What changed?" But even as he asked the question, he suspected the answer. Something or someone had triggered Chase's change of heart, and it infuriated Remy to believe it was himself.

"When you left my bar…" Chase trailed off, frowning.
My
bar, he'd said. Remy filed that away. "I went through your letters again—"

"You kept them?" Remy asked incredulously.

At first, Chase looked at him blankly, as if it wasn’t weird he'd saved Remy's letters. Then a flicker of embarrassment—because he realized it
was
weird?
Let's hope so
, Remy thought dryly. It was weird. It was completely fucked-up that Chase had kept such a reminder of his past. But, regardless, a neutral expression took over, and Chase nodded curtly.

"I read them again, and I didn’t…react…as strongly." Chase cleared his throat, uncomfortable. Remy could tell a mile away, and his image of Chase was shattering. "I got sorta lost in my head. A friend intervened, read the letters, and told me to contact you. I agreed. I think."

Remy couldn’t believe it. The stone-faced bad boy had caved. Just like that? What, his hatred for Remy had simply evaporated?

"You're out of your mind," he said flatly.

That caused a reaction Remy actually wanted.

"Watch it, kid," Chase gritted out. "I'm not that fond of you, and I don’t have much to lose. Breaking my promise to your friends about not laying a finger on you wouldn’t take much."

Remy stiffened and went from a condescending prick to a skittish animal looking for an escape. Chase's glare made Remy feel two feet tall and scoot backward on the bed. The chain clinked mutedly against the bed frame as Remy's back hit the wall.

The sound of the chain garnered Chase's attention, and his mouth twisted into a mocking little smirk. "That’s cute—with the polka dots. Does it come with matching wrist cuffs?" He lifted his gaze to Remy's face.

Remy bristled. Anxious or not, no one made fun of him. "Did yours?" he shot back and instantly regretted it.
Holy shit, what's wrong with me?
He could feel his face paling.

Chase said nothing. The only indication that he was furious was the tension in the man's jaw. A storm was brewing in his deep blue eyes.

"I'm sorry." Remy gnashed his teeth together, spotting the uneven, white lines around Chase's wrist. He was still fiddling absently with that fucking lighter, and the scars from Ben's torture shone like a beacon. Without consent, Remy's eyes strayed to Chase's other hand, but there was a black bandana tied around that wrist.

"No. Mine didn’t have polka dots." Chase's tone had softened, but it was—if possible—even more threatening now. Lethal. Barely restrained.

"I'm sorry," Remy repeated, whispering. He wasn’t breathing.

It dawned on him that he wanted to feel Chase's pain. Literally. Remy wanted to hurt—physically. He already had the emotional drama down. Now he wanted to be shaken, pushed, shoved,
fucking punched
. He wanted Chase to inflict it.

A Stahl had hurt Chase. Chase could hurt a Stahl, too.