Whistler by K.L. Savage
Isit back and watch as everyone yells at each other, debating on how to surprise Kenneth. Truth is, nothing surprises Kenneth. He’ll be ready no matter what they do or say or prepare. They can go in with guns blazing, but Kenneth will still take them out one by one. Kenneth might be an asshole, but he isn’t stupid.
“It isn’t going to work,” I say casually, pouring myself an ice−cold coke.
No one hears me and that’s fine. I don’t need them to.
Kenneth will expect them to come in a group or small groups or for them to sneak in, but you want to know what he won’t expect?
Me, showing up alone.
We have less than twenty−four hours.
They’ve killed the Scapegoat and sent his body to NOLA just like they promised. Mercy didn’t show mercy. I suppose he only saves that for ones that matter to him. Sitting here fighting about it isn’t going to do anything. It isn’t going to solve anything. It wastes time.
Something Whistler’s sister doesn’t have.
There’s one man that agrees with my way of thinking and it’s earned him a punch in the face from my beloved.
“Fuck you, Bolt. I can’t believe you would send a woman back to a man that abused her so badly for so many years.” Whistler has Bolt by the cut and Bolt dips into his pocket and pulls out a taser.
Zap. Zap.
He presses the buttons on the weapon, but Whistler doesn’t blink. “Go ahead. When I’m done twitching, I’ll get my bat and we will see whose weapon has more power.”
“Prez!”
The argument dies down when Tutu comes in with an envelope. It’s yellow, simple, but it means more harm than good.
The Scapegoat symbol is on the back and I set the coke aside, no longer thirsty.
“We have another delivery,” Tutu says, holding up the piece of mail.
Whistler snatches it from him and rips the paper apart until he pulls out another disc. “Fuck,” he curses and turns in the direction of the DVD player, pressing the button and inserting it in the slot.
“Where are those damn mob men that Irish guy promised?” Princess asks. “If we had them, I bet we could be having a different conversation with Kenneth.”
“Not coming,” Mercy replies. “There’s been an emergency and O’Crowely won’t explain or give details.”
“Fan−fucking−tastic.” Whistler shoves the disc in and it whirls loudly before coming onto the screen.
No need to press play. It begins automatically.
There are no words. No sounds. It’s just a pitch-black room.
“What the hell is this?” One fusses, shoving a chair to the ground. “Taylor isn’t even on the feed, damn it.”
Breaths begin to sound in the speakers and Whistler watches the TV with a hand over his mouth while One stands next to him.
I hurry to his side and take his other hand in mine, wanting to let him know I’m here when he throws an arm around my neck and buries me in his side.
Waiting to see what happens keeps me staring at the screen. Whistler’s hold on me tightens to the point where I almost can’t breathe. Almost. I love being needed so much.
“Nothing is happening. He sent this to—” One is cut off when Taylor falls to the floor, the camera zooming in on her pale face until we can see her tears and redness around her lids from crying. Her eyes dart back and forth before landing on the camera, staring straight into it as if she can see us.
It’s unnerving.
Her mouth is wide, and I can count every tooth she has as she lets out a murderous scream that causes everyone in the room to jump or curse from the unexpected sound. Her arms stretch out in front of her, her fingernails digging into the ground and breaking as she claws the floor. She gets pulled away, her cries echoing wherever she’s at.
“Turn it off! Turn it the fuck off!” Whistler cups his ears to drown out her cries and the sound of fists hitting flesh has me crying for her. “I said turn it off!” Whistler punches the TV so hard it spiderwebs and One unplugs it from the wall.
Whistler is a strong man, the kind that takes people under his wing and cares for them until he believes they are strong enough to stand on their own two feet. If it were anyone else, this would bother him too, but it’s his sister. He’s devastated. His eyes are red as he holds back his emotions and he grips the mantle and squeezes, so different than when he gripped the headboard last night.
A heartbreaking roar leaves him as the rage builds to a boiling point. I throw myself into his arms and he doesn’t push me away, he embraces me.
“She won’t make it another day. I’ll be carrying away her body if we do,” he says.
“I know,” Mercy slaps a hand on his shoulder. “We will figure it out within the next hour, okay?”
“I’m going to go get you a drink.” I kiss his cheek and slide my hand into his pocket and snag his keys before heading to the bar.
Twisting in and out of the path of the tables, I stare straight ahead and try to act normal. Bolt is sitting on one of the bar stools as I pop a beer open for Whistler.
“You’re going to do something that really pisses him off,” he says, stealing the beer from my hand as his own and taking a long swallow. “You agree with me.”
“I’ve always thought me going there alone was the best plan, whether he agrees with it or not.” I keep my voice low so only Bolt can hear me.
“I think it’s the best plan too, but you wouldn’t be alone. We’d just give you a head start. He won’t hear of it. Listen, I’m not about putting a woman in danger. We’d protect you.”
“I know that,” I say, softening the expression on my face. “You don’t think I know he will find me? Whistler is going to lose his mind when he knows I’m gone.”
“When we are gone,” Bolt corrects, draining his beer and slamming it down on the bar. He peers over his shoulder to see his brothers arguing, their voices rising again. “If we leave now, they won’t know.”
“You’re coming with me?” I chirp sounding more like Luke Skyhawker than myself.
“I’m the only one that agrees with you. And besides, do you even know how to drive a motorcycle?” he quirks a thick brow at me, judging me.
“Yes,” I scoff, crossing my arms in defiance. I’ve seen Whistler do it enough. I can figure it out but I’m not about to look weak in front of a man.
“That right?”
“Yep,” I say, popping the P.
“Well, let’s see how you ride then, Ms. Charlie.”
I take a peek at Whistler who is in One’s face now, his best friend. I can’t let any other relationships he has get ruined because of me. If he’d just let me be the plan, everything would be taken care of. “Let’s go,” I state, dragging my eyes away from Whistler. If I look at him for much longer, I’ll lose my nerve and stay, which isn’t the right thing to do.
My dad is next door with his crew, drilling, hammering, and building without a clue in the world as to what is going on because while I’ve told him about Kenneth abusing me, I haven’t told him everything else that’s going on. He doesn’t know two of his crew members were murdered because of me.
The less my father knows, the better.
Bolt hides me by staying to the side and keeping me close to him, using his body to block anyone else from seeing me. Everyone is too into arguing and hearing themselves over the others to watch me.
I’m timid little Charlie. I’m always too scared to do anything.
Well, fear be damned. I’m doing something even if it means risking everything. Bolt runs to his bike and Whistler’s is right next to his. They look similar, only Bolt’s is matte black with a shiny black exhaust system while Whistler’s is more classic. Black tank, chrome everything, polished as if he just got it off the lot.
Okay. Please, let it start so I don’t look like a fool and please, don’t let me crash it.
Bolt starts his and throws his helmet on all while waiting for me to get my shit together. I’m sitting here, staring, afraid, nervous, and I feel like I’m going behind Whistler’s back.
God. I am fucked up in the head.
What woman would willingly lie to a man as wonderful as Whistler?
“Hey, we don’t have long before Whistler notices you’re gone and starts raising fucking hell, so we need to get going, Charlie.”
Right.
With shaking hands, I try to be confident as I start the bike. I throw the helmet on next, not bothering to clip it.
“I’ll hang back, but it’s all you, Charlie. You lead. I’ll follow.”
I nod and begin to back out, keeping my feet on the gravel as I ease it out of the spot. I’m doing it! Thank God. Now, I just have to get to the Hoover Dam.
I slam on the throttle and speed out of the parking lot with Bolt right behind me, putting Mercy’s bar behind me. The sun reflects off the side mirror and I don’t see anyone coming out of the clubhouse just yet. If I’m lucky, I’ll get ten minutes on them.
Ten minutes is all I need.
The sun is hot, burning down on my shoulders and the wind reminds me of my sunglasses folded in the middle of my tank top. With one hand, I flip them out and slip them on, lips protecting me from the wind and bugs.
To my right, Bolt chuckles but he seems impressed that I’m able to ride.
Even if I lied.
The ride to the Hoover Dam is short and the closer we get, the more flashes I have of coming here. I was high on that damn pill. It’s why I can’t remember fully, but I’ve been here before. The mountains are red and rocky, but between them is a road creating the Dam.
Another flashback hits me, and I remember driving over the bridge and pulling off to the side of the road. Bolt hangs back, losing speed until he is stopped on the shoulder and taking pictures, pretending he is a tourist.
Yeah, that won’t work with the cut on. He seems to have forgotten that minor detail.
My fists tighten and the bike jolts forward as I accidentally push on the throttle. I glance to the left at the body of blue water, my lost focus causing the bike to sway. Jerking my head so my eyes are on the road, I panic and overcorrect.
The heavy metal wins.
I slam on the brakes and the back tire fishtails in a half−circle, burnt rubber filling my nostrils and smoke clouding my line of sight. I cringe as Whistler’s bike scrapes against the road and when my leg hits the pavement. I let go of the handlebars and tumble, rolling away from the motorcycle.
Damn it!
I hold my arm when it begins to sting, and my jeans are torn and rubbed raw from the road. My vision swims for a second, and I can hear another bike grumbling. I know it’s Bolt.
“Charlie!” He rushes off his bike and drops to my side. “Jesus, Whistler is going to beat me with his bat when he takes one look at you. I thought you could drive.”
“I did drive,” I grumble, tasting iron in my mouth. “It got the best of me.” I lift my eyes from the road rash on my hand, witnessing Whistler’s bike continuing to spark against the road until it comes to a complete stop. “He’s going to kill me,” I mumble.
“He isn’t going to give a fuck about that bike. Are you insane? He’s going to kill me for bringing you here, but that bike is just a thing. It can be replaced. You can’t be.”
“Aw, isn’t this sweet?” Kenneth’s voice has the hairs on the back of my neck standing up and I crawl closer to Bolt who shields me from my ex…whatever the hell he is. “You’ve come, alone. That’s interesting, Charlie. Did you miss me that much?”
“She isn’t alone,” Bolt says, whipping out a long black nightstick like the kind cops use, but when he presses a button, blue lightning buzzes up the weapon. “Come here, mother fucker.”
“That’s so cute.” Kenneth claps his hands as if he is staring at a dog. “But it’s going to take more than that to stop me from taking her, you, and making you watch as I finish off Whistler’s sister. When I’m done with her, maybe I’ll start on you,” he says to Bolt.
Oh, we are so fucking stupid coming here alone.
Kenneth lifts his hand and signals someone. A soft puff rips through the air. Bolt grunts and falls to his knees, staring down at the tranquilizer in the middle of his chest. He sways and I crawl around him.
Bolt rips the small dart from his chest and throws it on the ground. There’s a green tip along with a vile that has a small Scapegoat logo.
Bolt doesn’t stand a chance.
He grins and takes my hand. “They’re on their way. We did exactly what we wanted,” he begins to slur.
“What’s that?” I pinch back the tears in my eyes as his eyes begin to close. I know he is just going to sleep but being on my own with Kenneth scares the hell out of me.
“The element of surprise isn’t gone. He won’t expect anyone else now,” Bolt manages to sigh his last words before falling asleep.
“No. Bolt! Wake up,” I whisper, shaking his chest. That tiny fucking dart can’t take down a man like him. “Wake up. Please,” I beg.
“I think I’m going to cry.” Kenneth pretends to sniffle and the sound of his expensive loafers clicks against the road.
The sparking nightstick is only a few feet away. If only I could—
I lunge for it, but Kenneth’s foot is faster and presses against my neck, pinning me to the ground. “I always knew you were a stupid bitch, Charlie. Always wanting to save the day when you can’t even save yourself. So sickly sweet.” He bends down and backhands me, picking me up by my throat with his hand and squeezing tight. “You’re also a whore,” he says, grabbing my waist and rubbing his cock against my thigh. “How many of them have you fucked since you’ve been out of my sight? I thought just the one, but now you bring him here and I have to wonder. Do you like men taking their turn?” He spins me around and pushes me against the concrete wall, shoving my head over until all I can see is the water below. “What if I fucked you here? Showed you how much you’re mine, then had some of my men take their turn. After you’re ruined, maybe I’d dump your body here. But then again,” he drags a hand down my back, “I’m too obsessed with you to give you up.”
I stomp against his foot and ram my elbow into his gut and run.
I run as hard and as fast as I can, but he has always been quicker than me. He reaches out and the boney digits of his fingers curl into my shirt and yank, ripping it.
“Come here, you fucking cunt,” he snarls, getting closer.
My leg is killing me, and I pump my arms, staring down the empty road. The sound of a gunshot rings out and I duck my head, turning my head to the right when the bullet hits the rock.
I see a door built into the mountain up ahead. I bet that’s where Kenneth’s headquarters are. If I can get there and get to Taylor, find her somehow and get her free, she can go home.
I’ll be able to get free eventually because after experiencing real love, after experiencing what good really is, there is no way in hell I’ll ever stop fighting again. I’ll always do my best to get back to Whistler.
Thunder rolls above us as a storm moves in, the clouds large and rolling over one another. Rain begins to spatter along the top of my head. I don’t know if it is wishful thinking or more thunder, but I swear I hear bikes in the distance.
I’m tackled from behind and my chin smacks against the road, clanking my teeth together. I struggle and dig my fingers into the road. Why do I notice it isn’t smooth and black but rough with chunks of rocks and pebbles? My nails break as I claw for freedom. The rain bullets down, exploding against the road, needling against my skin in an angry pinch. My hair becomes soaked, and I scream when a knife is at my throat and I’m flipped to my back.
“You better fucking stop struggling or I swear to God, I’ll hit you until you’re dead and cut that pretty face off.”
I’m freezing from the rain, shaking either from cold or fear, I can’t tell.
I wonder if this is what death feels like.
“Get up.” He yanks me by my hair, and I get to my feet, letting him lead me toward the door.
I turn to check on Bolt, but he isn’t there. I blink a few times and rub my eyes to make sure, but he really isn’t there.
Oh God, let him be okay.
The door creaks open and he shoves me inside which has me rolling down the metal staircase. My breath is knocked out of me when my back hits the wall.
Darkness is cruel. It engulfs me just as quickly as the happiness I found with Whistler. This time, I don’t know if there is a way out. Evil has me.
And if I’ve learned anything, there’s never more than one way out.
Either face it head-on.
Or die.
I’ve toed the line too long to keep doing both.
