Vanished: A Bad Boy Second Chance Romance (12 page)

              “What is it—“

              “Hello, Mason,” I hear a voice ahead of us say. I lean around Joey to see two tall figures standing at the end of the street blocking our path. They’re both tall, broad shouldered men in matte black suits, and they look like they mean business. Slowly, I peer behind us and see two more men of a similar cut. We’re boxed in.

              I feel my fear rise up inside me and I look to Joey, unsure of what to do. He stares back at the men through narrow eyes, unmoving, but I can see the tenseness in his body. We’re in trouble.

              “What, no hello? No, ‘nice to see you, Edrich?’ I’m surprised.” One of the men steps forward out of the shadows. His face is handsome, but worn and chiseled by a hard life, and there’s a deep diagonal scar below his left eye. Something about the way he moves just feels dangerous, and his hair is cropped high and tight like a military man.

              “What do you want, Edrich?” Joey speaks, his voice a low growl like I’ve never heard. I can hear the footsteps of the mine behind us slowly approaching. I feel Joey’s hand against my waist, and he pushes me away from him until my back presses up against the cold stone wall. My heart starts to race as the men advance on him.

              “Out for a nice stroll, eh?” Edrich says, raising his hands in a relaxed gesture. “Just enjoying a nice couples’ walk. How nice.”

              “You’re making a mistake,” Joey says in a threatening tone. “Does Kat know about this?”

              “Don’t you worry about Kat,” the man says, stopping a few paces before Joey. “Besides, we’re just here to talk.”

              Joey carefully looks over his shoulder, where the other two men have stopped behind him, their hands no longer in their pockets. I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my body. I look to Joey for a sign of what to do, but his eyes are fixed, unmoving on Edrich.

              “There’s nothing to talk about.”

              “Oh, I don’t know that that’s true,” Edrich replies with a laugh. “There’s always something to talk about. Why you left, for instance. We miss you, Joe.”

              Even though he’s doing a great job of appearing friendly, there’s something dangerous and threatening about the way this man speaks. Maybe it’s the way Joey is looking at him, but I can feel the hair on my arms stand up. And what is he talking about? Who misses Joey?

              “I’ve made my decision, Ed. You know that. It’s final.”

              Edrich nods, his eyes moving to the ground. He doesn’t speak for a long time, like he’s considering his options.

              “I see,” he says finally. “No way to change your mind?”

              “No. Now I suggest you leave.”

              “Sorry, Joe,” Edrich says, taking a step forward. “You know how this works.”

              He moves like lightning as he swings at Joey, but Joey is faster. He ducks the blow and counters with his own, striking Edrich in the stomach, causing him to double over. The man to his right raises his arm to swing, but Joey’s fist catches him in the throat and sends him sprawling to the ground.

              I feel the fear paralyze me, and I can only watch as the remaining two men snatch Joey from behind, pinning his arms behind his back. He struggles to get free, but they have a strong hold on him. Edrich stands, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out something dark and rectangular. With a metallic click, I see a blade snap out. A switchblade!

              He holds the knife out, advancing on Joey. He’s going to stab him! Joey sees the knife, and starts fighting to get free. I have to help him. Summoning all my courage, I rush forward, but it’s too late. Edrich is already swinging the knife at Joey. The blade streaks the air, the light from the streetlamp glinting off the cold steel.              

              Then, at the last possible moment, Joey jumps.

              He kicks hard off the ground and brings his feet up in front of him. One foot strikes the hand holding the knife, sending it skidding across the street toward me. And like some kind of gymnast, he twists backwards over both men to land on his feet behind them.

              He swings and knocks one of the men cold, his body collapsing to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The other man turns, but Joey’s knee comes up and connects with his nose. With a sickening crunch, the man tumbles backwards.

              Edrich is racing toward me, the switchblade only inches from my feet. He’s almost on me, and I reach down and snatch the knife up and hold it behind my back.

              “Give me that!” he screams as he races toward me. He stretches a hand out and snatches me by the throat, squeezing so hard I can’t breath. I feel his other hand circle around my back and grip my wrist of the hand holding the knife. My fingers start to open and I feel my grip slipping. I’m not getting any oxygen, and I feel his grip on my throat tighten. The world starts to grey and the edges of my vision start to blur and fade to black.             

              That’s when Joey hits him.

              I hear Edrich’s jaw break as Joey’s fist connects with his face. Instantly his hands release me as he topples over, slamming into a dumpster before crashing down to the cobblestones. Joey roars with anger and kicks him hard in the stomach. Edrich doubles over and yelps with pain, curling up in an attempt to protect himself.

              But Joey rains down kick after kick on the man, overcome with rage. I collapse to my knees, my hand massaging my throat as I try to get a breath. When I look up, I see light spilling out from a window above me, and a French woman speaking quickly into a phone. She must be calling the police.

              No sooner do I realize what’s happening do I hear the sirens. I turn to Joey, who is pummeling the fallen man, and I call to him, my throat dry and sore from where Edrich had his hand around me.

              “Joey!” I shout. He doesn’t hear me. I struggle to my feet and put a hand on his shoulder. “Joey, stop!”

              He turns to me, breathing heavily, dripping with sweat.

              “Are you okay?!” he blurts out, grabbing my face with both hands, pulling me close to him.

              “Yes, I’m okay! Who were they? Who were those men?”

              The sound of police sirens grows nearer. Joey hears them and snatches me by the hand.

              “Come on!” he shouts, kicking Edrich one final time before pulling me down the street.

              “What? Where are we going? The police are coming!”

              “I know! Come on!”

              We sprint to the end of the street and instantly slow down as we emerge onto one of the main roads. Gripping my hand tightly, he pulls me behind him, turning left and walking in the shadows of the sidewalk. We take a left down a side street, a right, and then another left.

              Two police cars speed up the road toward us, sirens and lights blaring. Joey tilts his head down as they roar past us, then pulls me into an alley. I see his car waiting for us, and he leads me toward it.

              “Joey, where are we going? Why are we running from the police?”

              He pulls the car door open and ushers me inside. But I stop and look at him.

              “Joey? What is this?”

              “Get in the car, Mia,” he replies, struggling to keep himself composed. I look back at him, my eyes pleading for answers.

              “Please?” He pleads with me. “Please, just get in the car? We have to go.”

              I look into his eyes, and see his concern. It’s undeniable. But the man I see standing before me is not the man I thought I knew.

              “Please…”

              Finally, I give in and get into the car. He jumps in beside me, slams the door, and raps on the glass for the driver.

              “Let’s go!”

              The car roars to life and I’m pushed back in my seat as we accelerate out of the alley and onto the street.

              We sit in tense silence as the car races through the streets of Paris. Joey gets on his phone.

              “Yeah, we need it ready to go immediately. Yes.”

              I’m almost in a daze as I watch the lights of the city zip by out the window.

              “Just one. I’ll be coming in a few days.”

              The driver takes a turn and I realize what route we’re taking.

              “We’re not going back to the hotel?” I say, more of a statement than a question.

              “It’s not safe here any longer,” Joey replies, hanging up the phone.

              “Safe? What’s not safe? Joey, what’s going on?”

              “We have to get you back to Stonehill, Mia. I’m so sorry. I should have never have involved you.” I can hear the shame in his voice. Shame mixed with anger.

              “Involved me in
what
, Joey?” I say, raising my voice, feeling my own anger rise inside me, all the suppressed emotions I’d told myself I could handle.

              “It’s better you don’t know,” he replies. “I’m sorry, Mia.”

              The car takes a hard turn as we pull into the airport, the suspension rocking as we take a speed bump too fast. I brace myself against the seat as I turn to him.

              “Stop telling me that! I need answers, Joey!”

              “I’m sorry, Mia.”

              The car skids to a stop and Joey hops out, goes around, and opens my door. He holds a hand out to me, but I stay seated, looking defiantly up at him.

              “Mia,” he says emphatically. “Come on, Mia. You have to go now.”

              “You know how I said I don’t need to know everything, Joey? Well…I think I do…”

              A look of despair floods over Joey’s face as he looks back at me.

              “Mia, please…”

              “What’s in the backpack, Joey,” I ask him, eyeing the bag he hasn’t let out of his sight since we arrived in Paris. He sighs deeply, and I can almost see his heart rate skyrocket. He nervously jitters a leg, looking away from me. Finally he turns back to me and meets my gaze. I stare at him, pleading with my eyes. I watch as a new look comes over his face, and he gives in.

              With a shrug, he swings the backpack so the pockets face me. The zipper to the backpack click as he slowly opens the main pocket. He tilts the bag down to face me and pulls it open, and I see what’s inside.

              Money. So much money I can’t even begin to imagine how much is there. U.S. Dollars and Euros, several passports, travellers’ checks, and other things I don’t even recognize. I gasp and put a hand to my lips. It’s impossible to hide my surprised look from him, and I look up at him with a look that must pain him, because I see sadness flood over his face as he zips the bag back up.

              “Where did you get that?” I whisper.

              He’s breathing heavily, starting to seem almost panicked. He takes a long time to respond. “I don’t want to lie to you, Mia.”

              “But…you don’t want to tell me the truth?”

              He looks so conflicted, but I need answers. I see how distraught he is, and I feel for him. I want to reach out and hug him and hold him and tell him everything will be all right, but that’s what
he
should be doing for
me
! This trip, these last few days, what has this all been? Who is he? I suddenly feel like I don’t know the answers to any of these questions.

              “I can’t get on the plane with you, Mia,” he says sadly, unable to bring his eyes to mine. “This is as far as we can go together.”

              My arms hang lifelessly at my sides. My throat feels dry and scratchy, and it’s almost like I’ve lost the will to fight for answers from him. I waited six years, and when he came back, I figured he would tell me eventually, and then I would know. I’d know why he’d chosen to leave me, why he had never returned, and why I should forgive him. Answers. That’s why I’d come. But now, standing here on the runway facing nothing but more questions, I lose all hope that those answers will ever come.

              Slowly, I nod at him, fighting back the tears welling up in my eyes. He can’t even look at me. Such a strong, brave man, able to fight off four men, but not able to look at the woman he loves.

              “Okay…” I whisper sadly, feeling the cool air blow my hair across my face. I look down at his hand. I want to reach out and take it, squeeze it, and tell him goodbye. But I force myself to simply walk past him, leaving him behind. If he won’t give me answers, I won’t give him consolation. None of this is okay, and he’s bringing it on himself.

              As I take the steps up onto the plane, I tell myself I don’t care that he’s upset.

              I tell myself I don’t love him.

              I tell myself I don’t care if this is breaking his heart.

              But as the door closes behind me, and I feel the cabin pressurize, I know I’m just lying to myself.