Page 27 of Darkest Deeds
Ethan’s gaze follows mine, the fury in his eyes fading as he releases me. Running his hand through his hair, he paces in front of me. “Don’t do something stupid, Ava.”
Stupid? Everything I’m doing is stupid; it’s the equivalent of bathing in blood then wading in shark infested waters. “I can take care of myself. Been doing it my whole life, thank you very much.”
Ethan stops pacing and shakes his head. “That kind of thinking will get you killed.”
I turn away from his unrelenting stare.
“Fine.” Flinging the door wide open, Ethan avoids any further eye contact as he turns his back and walks away from me. “Keep dancing for the devil. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
* * *
“Rose, are you here?”My voice echoes throughout the tiny apartment. Dropping my purse on the table, I open it and run my finger along the gun tucked inside. I took a risk having it at Ethan’s tonight. If he got suspicious, he could’ve arrested me.
Or worse.
“Rose?” I call out again. The place is deathly quiet at two o’clock in the morning, which is strange. I know for a fact her shift ended the same time as mine. If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t give it a second thought, but this is innocent, straight off the tallgrass Iowa prairie Rose.
I really shouldn’t care. I learned long ago not to get emotionally attached to the other girls. It only deepens the guilt when they don’t show up for work one day. Or the next. Or the one after that. Eventually, they’re forgotten and never spoken of again. Keeping my distance is the only way to keep my sanity.
However, with her big brown eyes and sob story, Rose stabbed at what was left of my heart until I gave in and let her crash on my couch. Now look at me, stressing out like some big sister worrying that her wholesome younger sibling has wandered off and gotten herself tangled up with the wrong crowd.
I toss my bag on the table and dig my palms into my burning eyes. “You’re on your own, Rose. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” I don’t bother turning on the light as I stumble down the hallway toward my bedroom. Just as I reach the doorway, I trip over something on the floor and let out a string of curses as I hit the floor.
This fucking day.
Swinging an arm behind me, I swat the floor in the darkness until my fingers land on whatever lay in my path. I grab what feels like a strap and drag it toward me. It’s canvas, with a zipper and a pouch. That sick feeling sinks in the pit of my stomach again.
Something’s very wrong.
Holding it against me, I scramble to my feet and run my hands along the wall until I find the light switch. Brightness floods the room and my suspicions are confirmed.
It’s hers.
“Rose?” I sweep a glance around the room, and the minute my eyes land on her limp body, I don’t know whether to sink to the floor in relief or swing her bag and beat the shit out of her.
Seven’s newest ingenue is passed out drunk on my bed, one leg hanging off the side, her long hair covering half her face, and an open bottle of wine on my nightstand.
My wine.
“Rose!” I yell, trying to wake her ass up. She doesn’t budge, sleeping as still as the dead. Stomping over to the closet, I jerk a blanket off the top shelf and fling it on top of her. “No offense, but I hope you have one hell of a hangover in the morning.” Retrieving a second blanket and a pillow, I shift them under one arm and grab the wine bottle. “You won’t be needing this.”
Closing the bedroom door, I make my way back to living room. The clock on the cable box flashes 2:17 a.m., and I realize why I’ve been on edge all night.
It’s officially Saturday.
My father is home from Texas, which means I’ll have one more day before I have to look him in the face. One more day to find whatever the hell it is Ethan needs me to find. Saturday is always “game night” at his compound in Sunny Isles, so, fortunately, I never see him until sometime on Sunday.
Of course, game night for Sergei Chernov doesn’t involve chips and cards as much as it does chains and whips, and the players don’t walk away with their winnings at the end of the night. They don’t walk away at all.
I shudder and make my way to the shitty beige second-hand couch, that I both love and detest. It’s ugly as hell, but I bought it myself. One of the only things that don’t belong to him.
At first, my father put his foot down, demanding I live at the compound like all his other possessions, but after almost a week of refusing to shower, he finally caved. I literally became a dirty whore, affecting his bottom line. It’s the one victory I’ve ever gained over the man.
Of course, I’m not sure how much of a victory I’d call low-rent housing with bare minimum furnishings and surveillance cameras feeding into his guard dog’s monitors. But I don’t dare ask for more. Being out of that house is enough.
I love my little sanctuary. It reminds me of the attic where I spent most of my childhood. After my mother died, it became my only place of refuge. The one place I’d run to escape the parade of evil and other horrors hiding in the shadows. The faces burned into my memory. The fear that lingered long after the screams in the basement stopped.
The night those screams belonged to me.