Pike (The Pawn Duet #1) - T.M. Frazier Page 0,80

thing about Darius Alban is that when he says something or asks a question, he’s always asking something else entirely. The trick is to read into the real meaning behind his words. It’s something I’ve perfected over the years.

He smiles curiously. “We were waiting for Pike to come exact his revenge on us.”

What did you tell him? Is what he is really asking.

“He doesn’t know that it was you who stole his shipment,” I lie. “Or that you are the one who returned it. He doesn’t know I’m with you. I didn’t tell him anything. I faked a brain injury.

“How did you manage to do that?” He raises a suspicious eyebrow and crosses one leg over the other.

I’m trying to figure out if you’re lying.

I stretch the truth. “Pike knocked me out when the others ran off.” I narrow my eyes at the men who came with me that night. “When I came to, I told him that I didn’t remember why I was there or who I was with. I convinced him that I’d lost my memory.”

“And he believed you?”

This is very clever. If it’s actually true.

I nod. “He gave me a lie detector test. I passed.”

“He didn’t see the brand?” he asks, suspiciously.

Did he see you naked?

“No. Another woman was responsible for my care, and she never saw anything. If she did, she didn’t know what it was and didn’t say anything.”

“Did he hurt you, my dear?” Darius asks, playing with the ends of his mustache.

Did he fuck you?

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” I answer, with my chin up and my hands behind my back like a good soldier. “This didn’t happen until I escaped.” I motion to my leg.

“He did not rape you?” he asks as if he can’t believe it because apparently I’m super rape-able.

This one he actually means.

I shake my head. “No. His interests were in finding out who I was working for. He spent his time with me trying to trigger my memory.”

Darius seems satisfied with my answers to his inquisition. He slaps the arms of the chair and rises to his feet. His face plastered with a victorious smile. “Welcome home, Michaela.” He opens his arms and wraps me into a hug. His heart beats against my cheek, and I resent each and every thump. “Our plans will continue as planned. You are a smart girl. I knew you would not let us down.” He snaps his fingers. “Someone get Banjo in here, and have him take care of her wound.”

The wound he’s referring to is the self-inflicted gunshot to my thigh. It’s gushing blood through the piece of Pike’s t-shirt I’d wrapped around it.

If you’re going to head back into hell and run back to the devil himself, you go prepared or not at all.

Darius places his arms around my shoulder and snaps his fingers in the air. One of his men opens the door behind his chair. “Only now, we have much to celebrate because your betrothed is finally home.”

Slowly, a figure appears from the shadows until he’s standing in front of the firelight. He’s tall and muscular. His shirtless, pale torso covered with hateful racist tattoos that extend up the back of his bald head to the center of his scalp.

Darius lifts his arm from my shoulder. “Go on. Greet your fiancé.”

I walk up to Percy and put on my best smile. I fake amazement in my eyes like I’m happy the fucking skinhead has been released from prison where he deserved to rot plus much worse. “Percy. Welcome home.”

Percy grabs my wrist and lifts my hand to his disgusting thin lips. “So, we finally see each other again,” he says, undressing me with his eyes. I try not to gag as he brushes his lips over my knuckles once again by imagining what his corpse will look like piled on top of his father’s.

On that thought, I take a deep breath, and even with a gushing bullet wound pounding with pain in my thigh, I finally manage a real smile.

Chapter Thirty

Mickey

Mickey

I hear a faint cry. I shake it off as the wind, but I hear it again. It’s not the wind. It’s human. Female. And…familiar.

I leave the room and follow the sound until I’m in the warehouse in the back of the property. I push open the doors. It’s pitch black, but the echoing cries tell me I’m in the right place.

I follow the sobs until I stop at what looks like a dog's cage.

Inside, curled in a ball, is an emaciated girl.

“What the fuck have they been doing since I’ve been gone?” I mutter.

The girl scrambles to the other side of the cage, making herself as small as possible.

“It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you,” I tell her. “I’ll get you out of here, I promise.”

Her body turns to stone. I don’t even see her back rising with her breaths. Then, ever so slowly, she raises her head, revealing sunken grey eyes the same color as mine.

I’m seeing things. I know I am. It’s one of my imaginary conversations. It has to be. But why would I imagine this situation?

“Mickey?”

I take a step back. Never in my imagination has anyone spoken before. Not Mallory or Maya or Mindy or my mother or even my father.

But, that’s because this isn’t my imagination. This is real. She is real.

I drop to the floor and grab the bars in both of my hands to steady myself. As a logical person, this isn’t just illogical, and yet it isn’t impossible.

It just can’t be.

She can’t be.

The girl crawls over to me and mirrors my position on her knees. I know for certain this moment is real when my sister places her hand over mine. I choke on a sob.

“Mindy?”