Rett brought out a part of me I never knew existed. He brought out a part of me that I’d been afraid to face. After what happened with Liam, I never thought I could trust anyone—man or woman—the way Rett asked me to trust him.
A smile came to my face as I recalled the stupid blindfolds.
I hated those things, and now, thoughts of each one brought me joy.
Rett had taken away something as simple as my sight in benign situations to teach me something I didn’t know I needed to learn. The simplistic act of walking to dinner night after night became easier each time we did it. My agitation at the strip of cloth morphed to acceptance and even anticipation. He didn’t rush me or force me. Each evening, I willingly handed him my independence and as he promised, he never allowed me to fall.
And when I did fall, when I ran, he came after me.
He saved me.
Rett didn’t let that misguided attempt to flee stain the progress we made. No, he continued with the blindfolds until I was so comfortable that I offered him one in return.
As I lay looking up at slats of wood, I accepted that I’d failed miserably in keeping my heart from Rett Ramses. That realization fueled a new goal; I wouldn’t allow him or me to die without him knowing the truth.
I loved Rett Ramses.
As I lay there, I had no way to judge how much time had passed.
No clock, computer screen, or even a view of daylight.
Jezebel had said she’d wake me, but as I’d lain upon the small bed, with each passing minute, my thirst had grown and my hunger was beginning to rear its ugly head. If I were to survive this place and these people, I needed sustenance.
With my high heels left behind, I walked slowly and quietly up the stairs in my bare feet.
Taking a deep breath, I reached for the doorknob and twisted.
The handle turned.
Remembering the dead bolt, I knew that it wouldn’t stop the doorknob from turning, only block the door from opening. Gripping tighter, I turned the handle and pulled.
Rett
“Where is Boudreau?” I growled.
The man’s lips moved, but no words came as his head moved slowly from side to side. His light brown hair was matted with dried blood. The flesh around his wrists was raw from the coarse ropes and more blood ran down his arms.
My grip fisted his filthy shirt and pulled him forward. “I asked you a fucking question.”
“I-I don’t know where he goes. He just shows up and then he leaves.” Blood dripped from his swollen lip and the skin around his left eye was red, changing to purple and black by the minute. That eye was only a slit.
The man was looking at me with his other eye.
I didn’t give two shits about this man. He was one of the disposable, fucking a dime a dozen. New Orleans was crawling with scum willing to do dirty deeds for next to nothing or maybe in search of their next fix.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“I-I...” He coughed and more blood splattered on his shirt. “Ingalls, I saw him today. I ain’t seen Boudreau in over a week. Ingalls been the one making the rounds.”
My blood boiled as it surged through my circulation. And my teeth were in dire danger of splintering with the amount of force I was applying. I stepped back and scanned this man. The rope securing his wrists was laced over a large hook suspended from the ceiling of the warehouse with a thick linked chain. It was similar to the way sides of beef or hogs hung in meat coolers. With his shoes gone and ankles also bound, his toes barely reached the concrete floor.
I would guess that this guy was at least eight inches shorter than me and probably fifty pounds lighter because even in his current position, I towered over him.
He’d been worked over before I arrived. The beating he took made his face less recognizable. When Leon and I arrived at the warehouse, I was informed of this man’s crimes against Ramses, not of his name, and I didn’t fucking care.
This piece of shit didn’t deserve an identity.
A long time ago, my father once told me that every soul deserved a name, and then with a laugh, he pulled the trigger of his gun, shooting the man who had wronged him between the eyes. The loud explosion echoed, blood oozed from the bullet hole, and chunks of brain matter sprayed over the floor and wall. The dead man wet himself as his body convulsed, still hog-tied on the floor of a cargo car in the train yard. My dad looked at me and with a grin, he patted my shoulder and said, “We’ll call this one Johnny.”