BAD WICKED TWISTED: A Briarcrest Academy Box Set (61 page)

He rose and grabbed my backpack before I did. “I’ll walk you.”

I shrugged. If the rock star of BA wanted to slum and walk me to class, I’d take it.

We walked out of the cafeteria together while it felt like every girl there watched, some openly glaring at me, some looking at me in confusion. Yeah. I understood that one.

“This is me,” I said, stopping at my Geometry room door.

He handed me my backpack, letting our hands brush. I froze at the delicious sizzle I felt when we’d connected. Oh.

“I bought two tickets to see Les Misérables in a few weeks. Primo seats. Wanna go?”
he asked.

“Guys like you aren’t part of my plan,” I said. Amen, sister.

“If that’s a challenge, then I accept.”

I arched a brow. “No challenge, just the truth.”

He hesitated, and I saw a flash of insecurity on his face. “Okay, tell me straight. Are you just completely disinterested in me? You say one thing, but your body is saying something else.”

“My body?” I may have raised my voice. He was crazy.

“Yeah, I’m getting this vibe from you. Makes me want to ditch school and drag you out to the barn at the back of campus where we can be alone. Maybe it’s all me, I don’t know, but I think you feel it too.”

Whoa. He went fast. “You really put yourself all out there, don’t you?”

“Maybe. If this is my only shot, I’m going for it.” He paused. “Let me in, Dovey.”

“Why me?”

And then he blew me away.

He sang out in a low voice, “Why do birds sing? Why do phones ring? Why does my heart fly? For all I know, you’ll make me cry. Why do fools fall in love? Why were you named after a dove?” He stopped and grinned.

My mouth opened. “That was the most atrocious thing I’ve ever heard.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “It was pretty cheesy wasn’t it?”

I nodded. “Award winning crap.”

“Don’t tell anyone I sing silly songs,” he said teasingly. “Football players are supposed to be tough and mean.”

Hmmm, visions of him in tight football pants came to mind. “Everyone says you’re pretty good on the field. That no quarterback is safe.”

“Maybe you can come and watch me play? I could use my own personal cheerleader in the stands.”

Ah. No. That was not me. I am not that girl.

“I’m pretty busy.” And then I said something ridiculous. “But I’d love to see you in uniform.”

His eyes widened. “That can be arranged. Maybe you could wear your little ballet skirt?”

Visions of him slipping his hand up under my skirt flashed through my head. Maybe I’d unlace his football pants, see what all the fuss was about him. Maybe he’d fall in love with me and—

I mentally slapped myself. Hold your horses, Dovey Beckham. This boy was wicked.

One side of his mouth tilted up. “Ah, I shouldn’t have said that. You’re thinking dirty thoughts.”

“Am not.”

“Uh-huh.” His lids lowered.

My breathing escalated and heat settled in my body and I strained to be closer.

Perhaps I’d jumped to conclusions about him.

Maybe Cuba was more than just his reputation.

Yeah, right. I was blinded by lust. Even a nun would crack under the charisma of Cuba Hudson.

“Get to know me, Dovey. Let’s hang out. I promise I won’t bite unless you want me too.”

And what a picture that made in my head.

And that cinched it. I inhaled a cleansing breath. “I appreciate your balls in coming up to me. I even applaud your whole ‘I dreamed about you’ line, because it was smooth. Just the right amount of humor with a touch of sexy. It’s obvious you’re a master at picking up girls, a real charmer. And the kissing part? That was excellent. Very subtle, and just enough to get my mind to thinking about us...you know…kissing.” My words faltered. “But at the end of the day, it won’t work. We aren’t compatible. We come from two different places. You’re rich; I’m not. You like to party; I don’t. You like high heels; I don’t wear them. Good grief, your friends call you Hollywood. Then there’s me. I work my ass off to get everything I have. So yeah, not feasible.”

He straightened up. “I’ll meet you outside your building after dance. I want to see you again before I go home.”

I sputtered. “No. I just gave you a list of reasons why we can’t go out.”

“Yeah, I may have missed some of it. I was watching your mouth move,” he murmured. “Got distracted by your lips.”

“Is this a joke?” I asked.

“I don’t play pranks.” He waved his hands between us. “We have a connection. I knew it the moment I sat down with you. You want to resist me, that’s fine. It’s like foreplay.”

He slid off his leather varsity jacket and wrapped it over my shoulders. “Meet me after your ballet practice. You can give me back my jacket then. That’s all. No more songs.”

But I kinda liked the way he sang.

Then he turned and sauntered away.

“Bad juju,” I murmured to no one is particular, stroking the supple texture of the coat. I made sure no one was looking and buried my face in the collar, inhaling his scent, sandalwood and musk. I wanted to wrap my whole body in it and roll around on the ground. I wanted to wave it around like a matador in front of all the snooty girls in my class. I wanted to take it home and sleep with it, maybe cuddle up to it like a teddy bear. Then I burst out laughing. Craazzzy.

And so, after ballet practice was over, I didn’t meet him like he’d wanted. Nope. Instead, I ran clear across the quad and left his jacket draped over his Porsche.

Because Cuba Hudson was a rich, spoiled boy who would only break my heart if I let him. He had danger written all over him and I didn’t dig danger.

And danger is why I now pushed that memory away and walked out of the kitchen, leaving Heather-Lynn to clean up after dinner. She seemed occupied, trying to think of a way for us to come up with the money, so I headed to Sarah’s gun safe in her bedroom. My gut knew Barinsky’s men would be back, maybe tonight, and they’d expect their money.

Sarah still slept, giving me the opportunity to open the safe. My eyes traced over the smallest gun, a Ruger, noting the blackness of the cylinder, the pearl color of the handle. I’d never fired it, but Sarah had shown it to me through the years, explaining the basics on how to load it and where the safety was. Her husband had worked out of town, and this had been her protection while he was gone.

Making sure the safety was on, I picked it up and held it with both hands, like I’d seen cops do on television. It wasn’t as heavy as I thought it would be, but when I saw my shadow on the wall, I got weak in the knees at the vision I made. It made my stomach roll, until finally, I cautiously sat it back inside the safe. Part of me, the tough girl from the bad side of town, wanted to tuck that gun in my boot and be ready for them when they came back and tried to slap Sarah around. But the smart girl in me knew I didn’t have a chance. They’d probably take it from me before I could pull it; they might shoot us dead with our own gun.

I paced around, debating on my options, finally realizing I really only had one, and that was to play it cool and see if I could convince them to wait a little longer for the money.

Later, after Heather-Lynn had left for her own apartment upstairs, I walked the house, checking all the doors and windows, making sure they were tight. Then, unable to sleep, I sat in the window seat that faced the street. And waited.

CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT, the grey Mercedes pulled up in the same spot Cuba’s Porsche had held earlier, proving that indeed, they were Barinsky’s men and not just some random import in the neighborhood. The realization that his men had followed me all the way from Highland Park was a chilling thought. How much did they know about me? Had they known who Cuba was tonight? Did they know I was friends with Spider? And why was twenty thousand dollars that serious? I mean, Barinsky was a huge gangster. That had to be a drop in the bucket for him.

Two men got out, and afraid they would wake Sarah, I bolted for the front door.

No way did I want them back in this house.

With clammy hands, I flung the door open and stepped outside. They froze, the two of them pulling out guns.

I blanched and held my hands up. Didn’t wanna die. Not here in front of Sarah.

Both of them were meaty, body builder types dressed in expensive athletic wear and probably five hundred dollar sneakers. One was blonde, his face scarred with a few knife swipes I figured, and the other had red hair and a toothy, dark smile. Neither of them were dream boats, but stick them in another setting, and they’d be twenty-something guys headed to the gym.

Blondie lowered his gun and spoke. “You know who we are?”

I nodded. My voice was gone, buried deep inside.

“We’re looking for Sarah or Katerina Beckham,” he added as the porch light caught on a ginormous, crested ring he wore on his finger. Had that big piece of jewelry cut Sarah’s skin? I hadn’t noticed when I’d checked on her, and I realized she’d probably been lying on her side where they hit her.

My panic swelled, and I swallowed convulsively, trying to get my throat wet.

“Look, Sarah isn’t here. I’m—I’m Katerina.”

“Do you have the twenty thousand we’re owed?” Red asked.

“No,” I whispered.

Were they going to kill me?

Instead, they put me between and escorted me to the waiting car. Sure, I could have screamed or kicked or tried to use my fists, but it wouldn’t do any good. No neighbor would dare poke their head out in this place to help me. Especially if Barinsky was involved. People saved their own skin here.

I slid in the back, once again sitting on expensive leather seats.

Blondie cranked the car while Red watched me from the front seat, his eyes hooded.

I glanced out the window to avoid his stare. It crossed my mind to jump out and make a run for it, but I had nowhere to go, and if I did manage to hide for a while, they’d go straight for Sarah.

“Where we headed?” I pushed out, picturing an abandoned field where they’d dug a hole for my body already.

Red chuckled. “To hell if we don’t change our ways.”

A few minutes later, we whipped into the parking lot of a dirt-brown warehouse with a neon sign on top.
Big Daddy’s
Pawn
it said, flashing on and off in a garish yellow color. Chain-link fencing with rusty barbed-wire on top surrounded the entire property, making it apparent they didn’t want anyone getting in or out.

We got out of the car. Blondie pushed me forward with his fingers in my back as Red used a key to open up the padlock on the gate.

Welcome to the headquarters of the Ratcliffe mob.

Close to the front door were two pit bull type dogs tied to a metal pole in the ground. The dogs growled softly as we approached, but when Blondie snapped at them, they shut-up. Overall, the place was terrifying. It fit right in with the whole I’m-going-to-kill-you-if-you-don’t-pay-me vibe.

An older man with a bald head and a pock-marked face opened the door for us, as if he’d been waiting. They led me in, and I expected one giant room, but there were several metal walls separating sections of the warehouse. There weren’t any items to buy, though, unless you counted the rows of expensive vehicles which took up open section of the space. It looked like a Highland Park car lot. Yeah, this wasn’t a real pawn shop, and those cars were probably stolen. I wondered what goodies lay behind the other doors. Was it drugs or guns or counterfeit money machines? Dead bodies?

Several grittier type men sat at a round table playing cards, guns strapped to their chests as they contemplated their hands. They nodded a greeting to Blondie and Red as we passed, their eyes following our progress. One of them waggled his brows at me, and I quickly averted mine. The less I saw the better.

We reached the back corner of the warehouse, stopping in front of a metal door that seemed to lead into an office. Blondie knocked and a deep voice barked a reply.

I stood there feeling frozen, taking several deep breaths, like I did before a big performance. But my heart didn’t slow, and my stomach felt like a lump of cement. The Big Bad was in that room. And he wanted to see me. I bent my head and said a tiny prayer.

Blondie and Red backed away, leaving me standing at the door.

Show time. I went in.

Alexander Barinsky sat behind a heavy desk like a king, his fingers clasped in front of him. Nearing forty, he was a handsome man with black hair and magnetic blue eyes that didn’t miss anything. He wore a gorgeous grey suit, and if I had to guess, I’d say it was Armani or one of those other famous designers.

“
Otets
,” I said, greeting my father with the Russian name for
papa
.

“Katerina,
dotchka,
” he murmured in his exotic lilt. “It’s been too long, daughter.”

“I prefer Dovey,” I stated.