Mercy's Angels Box Set (97 page)

Shit, my back ached, a deep, continual ache that pinched when I stood and stretched. If anyone dared tell me being a florist was an easy job, I would smack them upside the head. Hauling all those damn buckets in and out of the store room and refrigerator every day was turning my spritely twenty-three-year-old frame into something that better suited a seventy-three-year-old woman. I arched my back and grabbed my canvas satchel, looping it over my head and across my chest. Annie had already left for the day, her café already dark and quiet.

I walked down the long dark corridor to the back of the store and checked the exit into the alleyway. It was locked tight. As I turned, a loud crash to my right caused me to jump and a small, pathetic squeal escaped my lips. Shit, my heart just about fell out of my mouth. I hadn’t felt this jittery in a long time, but lately it felt like every shadow was jumping out at me. It didn’t help that my private investigator had lost track of him three days ago. I had found a comfortable rhythm in Claymont that I had been without for a long time, years in fact. Surrounded by friends, a few of which were ex-military and all badass, this was the safest I had felt since . . . well, forever.

Taking a deep breath and pushing aside my wimpy unrest, I opened the door to the store room. A broom lay on its side, having knocked over a vase full of white Phaenolopis orchids, which should have been in the fridge. I smiled as I wandered into the room. Twelve months ago I wouldn’t have had a clue what an orchid was, but with Rebecca and her damn lessons on all things floral, I now knew what a Phaenolopis orchid was, and an amaryllis, and a peony. I knew them all and the Phaenolopis orchid was my favorite. So fragile, yet bold, perhaps a little like me. Screw that, I wasn’t fragile; I was a survivor, a warrior.

I had been dealt more shitty cards in my short lived life than most people could accumulate in a lifetime. I didn’t dwell on it, though, and I sure as hell didn’t do the pity party. I was surrounded by men and women in my small circle of friends who had seen and done things that brought me to tears. No, my life sucked, but it could have been worse. I’d been running for five years, and before that, I hid. Hid right in plain sight, I made myself as ordinary and inconspicuous as possible. I tried to make sure I was rarely alone, and when I was, I tried to make sure he wasn’t around. Ben, my adopted brother, was a fucked up, hillbilly, psychopath, and apparently he wanted me. My adoptive parents tried to tell me it was normal, that brothers and sisters hugged and stuff, but Ben’s touch was far too intimate and far too sinister to be normal. But my parents didn’t care. As long as their adopted family took a good picture and kept people voting for my adoptive senator father, they didn’t care what Ben and I did.

I shuddered as memories tried to invade my thoughts. My OCD wouldn’t allow for me to simply leave the mess in the store room, so picking up the broom, I leaned it against the wall, and knelt down to collect the orchids. I carefully gathered them and placed them into a bucket filled with water and put them away in the fridge. Grabbing the mop, I cleaned up the spill.

Pulling the door closed, I wandered back into the dark hallway and out into the bright store front. I took a deep breath, swearing I could never grow tired of the perfumed smell of flowers that filled my lungs most days. I smiled as I considered how ironic it was that a girl called Lily would end up being a florist. Not Lily anymore, though, now I was Lola. Lily was a bright girl who liked to dance and laugh and loved designer clothes and pretty shoes. That girl was gone, replaced with awkward and solemn Lola who dressed in black and lived her life according to her quote-a-day calendar.

I set the security alarm behind the desk and hastily walked to the front of the shop. I had thirty seconds to get my ass out of here before Montgomery Securities would be advised of a security breach. As I stepped out into the street, I paused. It was later than I had expected, and the sun had already dropped behind the mountains. The street was quiet, empty in fact. At this time of the night, it was normal. It wasn’t like the café and floral shop were smack dab in the center of town, so once business finished for the day, the surrounding area became somewhat of a ghost town.

My car was parked across the street, and my one bedroom apartment was only a ten minute drive away. I turned to the door and pulled it shut, grabbing my keys from the bottom of my satchel to lock up.

“Crap,” I mumbled, dropping the keys as I drew them from my bag. I scooped to pick them up and found the shiny silver key for the front door. Sticking the key in the lock, I gave it a turn, satisfied when I head the heavy clunk of the lock engaging. Pulling the keys back, I turned and ran across the road, quickly climbing into my four-wheel drive Jeep. I loved my Jeep. We’d put in a lot of miles together, and I had even spent a few nights sleeping in her cool, steel embrace.

Putting the car into drive, I made my way through the small city center and out of town. My apartment was above a laundromat. It was old, small, and silent, just the way I wanted it. It was inconspicuous, and it was all I could afford on the salary Rebecca paid me. I could have dipped into my trust fund, but I was too scared he would be watching for activity on that account. I had seven thousand dollars in cash hidden away in a bag in my freezer, and with the money I was paid biweekly by Rebecca, it was enough to keep me comfortable. For a girl who used to want to so much, I wanted for very little now days.

Pulling in the back of the laundromat, I flung my satchel over my shoulder, finally locking the car before climbing the rickety stairwell to my apartment. I already had my key in hand, and following the directive of my barely concealed OCD, I tapped the key against my thigh as I walked up the stairs. I counted the taps. “One, two, three, four, five, six.” I repeated counting once more until I was standing at my door. I needed even numbers, odd numbers bothered me. Six was a good number; I couldn’t explain it other than it was even and felt right. In my other life, I had visited a therapist to help control my OCD urges. It had helped tremendously, but as soon as I was tired or stressed, I slipped back into old habits.

Lost in thought, I pushed open my door and would have stepped into my apartment if strong hands hadn’t pulled me in first.  I was abruptly forced against the wall beside my door and a hand covered my mouth and unfortunately my nose as well. My wrists were contained in a sturdy grip above my head. I managed a muffled scream as I dropped my keys, and tried to knee my attacker in the groin. He easily deflected the maneuver, and with a chuckle, his lower body forced mine against the cold wall at my back.

“Shhhhh, little sister, be quiet.” My entire body stilled, and my eyes rose. I swallowed back the bile that threatened to rise in my throat. Those evil eyes that filled my nightmares twinkled with amusement. “Miss me?” he said with a smile before leaning in and burying his nose in my neck. I squeezed my eyes shut as I tried not to tremble under his touch. “Fuck, you smell good. I could fuck you right here, against this wall.” His words made me panic, my breathing coming too fast as my body shook with fear. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to screw you against a wall for your first time, for our first time,” he whispered in my ear before dipping his head again and nuzzling my neck. “I want you in a bed,” he whispered as his tongue darted out to taste my skin. I would have recoiled had I physically had the room to move. I clenched my eyes shut, and my body stiffened further under his unwanted caress. “I want you at my mercy.” I whimpered when he bit hard on my ear lobe. “I want your body splayed beneath mine while I take my time with you.” Finally, he pulled his face away from my skin and grinned. Some might have called it a handsome smile, straight teeth, full lips. All I saw was the sinister leer of a sexual predator. “And take my time with you I will.” The hand covering my mouth blessedly disappeared, but when his gaze dropped to my lips, I found myself wishing it hadn’t. He kissed me hard then, and I clenched my lips together as his tongue probed relentlessly for entrance. I wiggled and squirmed for my freedom as he forced the intimate connection between us. Pulling away, he glared at me through hostile eyes. “Are you still a virgin?” I didn’t answer; instead, I stared right back at him, my chin lifting a little higher. He shook his head, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “You don’t have to answer me. I’ll find out for myself.” When his hand began to tug at the button of my jeans, I fought back, my body and mind refusing to just stand here and allow this invasion. I screamed, and the hand that had been busy trying to pull away my clothing suddenly slammed over my mouth again, muffling all but a smothered sob. “Guess we are going to do this the hard way.” He pulled his clenched fist back, and knowing he was going to hit me, my body automatically tensed for it.

“Fuck you,” I spat out as a tear rolled down my cheek.

“No, princess, I will be the one doing the fucking.” And with that, his fist caught my cheek and darkness descended.

“A day without your child is like a day without sunshine; a month without your child is like a month without laughter; a year without your child is like a year without your heart; a lifetime without your child is like a lifetime without your soul . . .”

Every forty seconds in the United States alone, a child is reported missing or abducted. The largest percentage of abductions is children taken by a relative or someone known by the family. Listen to child abduction reports, become familiar with that missing child’s image, share the Amber Alerts, stay vigilant, and help bring these babies home to their loved ones.

“Not all axe wielding maniacs suffer from schizophrenia,

And not all schizophrenics are axe wielding maniacs.”

The character of Phillip Lonergan was loosely based on actual events. These were the events of one person, one family, and they don’t reflect the illness as a whole. The first step in conquering this disease is asking for help.

Stay Tunes for the next instalment in the Mercy’s Series

Coming 2016

www.kirstydallasauthor.com

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