Originally, I planned on the chapter for this week just being early to celebrate my birthday. I have since decided that last chapter was a bonus chapter. Hench your eyes graced with the view of this chapter right now.
Chapter 49
I treated Callum Jennings the exact same way that I would my old classmate Mooner when he forgot his court date back in Trenton. It was a little trickier, given that we didn't have the shared history for me to fall back on, but I'd learned enough about Star Trek over the years that he accepted me into his home to finish off the last episode of the marathon, slurping happily on the purple frozen drink I'd brought along for him.
Bronson and Yetti stood in the doorway to the living room, feet shoulder width apart, arms crossed over their black clad chests, and shooting me stern and incredulous looks throughout the entire half hour. I ignored them for the most part, instead focusing on the excessively large television screen in front of me, and how it was the conduit for bonding between me and Mr. Jennings.
When the credits were rolling and the little notification in the corner of the screen announced that some other show was coming up next, Callum stood, slurped up the last of his drink and set the empty cup on the coffee table.
"Let's get this over with, then," he said, turning around and holding his wrists together. I hadn't actually been planning on cuffing him, figuring he would just walk out with me like Mooner did, but I suppose Callum was used to the Men in Black busting in, cuffing him and dragging him out against his will. He didn't know any other way.
I hesitated, hand on my cuffs as I glanced to the men still lurking in the doorway. Bronson raised a single eyebrow at me, and I knew I had to do this part by the books. We were supposed to have the skip restrained to avoid unnecessary injury and lessen the chances that they would make a run for it. Giving a short nod as I accepted this inevitability, I snapped the cuffs onto Callum's wrists and started leading him out of the house. On the porch, I handed Callum over to Yetti for a moment while I locked up, and then we were on our way.
Callum made no fuss as we loaded him into the SUV, nor when we unloaded him at the station, and before we knew it, he was in a holding cell, waiting to be rebonded, and we were back out at the car, discussing the best method to get Bowdler while we buckled up.
"I know you're keen to demonstrate more skills for us," Yetti said as he pulled out of the parking lot for the second time today, "But I don't think that's wise with Bowdler. Last time we had to bring him in, he broke Frankie's finger."
I grimaced. Having broken my own finger on the job before, I wasn't exactly looking forward to a repeat event. Once was more than enough for me. "No problem," I agreed. "I'll just observe like I'm supposed to."
"Good," he said, sounding relieved. I don't know why the men always sounded like that when I gave in without argument. It wasn't like I was that stubborn… was I? "I'm glad you said that, because if you didn't agree to stand back and let us handle it, I was going to have to cuff you to the sissy bar."
Bronson snorted in the backseat, which I interpreted to mean he wouldn't mind doing it anyway. "Trenton would have a field day with that," he commented.
I nodded. He wasn't wrong. "They wouldn't be especially surprised, though," I said. "Considering my first ever skip broke into my apartment and handcuffed me, naked, to the shower rod."
"Kinky," Yetti grinned, and we all fell silent until he pulled to the curb half a block down from the target's house. "Bronson," he said, unbuckling and turning to face the man. "You take front. I'll take Steph and cover the rear exit. Steph, stay out of sight and clear of doors and windows. Standard bag and tag."
Bronson, who had been checking his weapons while Yetti spoke, gave a short nod, then reached behind the back seat, coming back with what I recognised as a bullet proof vest. He passed it forward and waited until I'd taken hold of it before instructing me to put it on. He then got out of the vehicle without another word.
"Wha-?" I uttered staring at the closed door he'd just exited through. "I-" I glanced from the vest in my hands to Yetti, still in the driver's seat. "He didn't put on one himself?"
Yetti gave a small smile. "Bowdler isn't usually armed," he explained. "He's never pulled a gun or shot at a Rangeman employee that I know of."
"Then…?"
"Bronson's just taking a little extra precaution," he said, the small smile twitching on his lips like it wanted to grow into a grin.
"But why?" I asked. "Doesn't he hate me?"
This caused Yetti to laugh. "I don't think he hates you" he said. "I think it's more that you remind him too much of his annoying little brother."
"Brother?"
Yetti shook his head. "Now's not the time," he said, taking a moment to check his own weapons. "And I'm not the person who should tell you. Put that on and let's get in position."
The vest was a bit big, but not so big that it wouldn't do its job. It felt heavy, not that I was about to complain. I had a feeling that whatever it was about me that reminded Bronson of his brother, wasn't necessarily a good thing.
Once we were all on the sidewalk, Yetti and Bronson exchanged a brief glance before Yetti dragged me down the path beside the nearest house. The next thing I knew we were climbing over fences and cutting through yards until we found the right house. How Yetti knew which it was, I had no idea, but he was confident enough that I had to trust him. We sidled up to the back door, carefully positioning ourselves on either side and out of the way of the windows. I stayed silent, recognising the look of pure concentration on his face as he pressed on ear to the wall. A lot was riding on Yetti's ability to gauge what was happening out front.
I pressed my own ear to the wall as well, attempting to hear anything that might be going on, but my hearing wasn't all that in tune with small noises happening on the other side of the building, so I gave after a few minutes. The waiting was excruciating for a person who had never been accused of being patient. Every cell in my body was itching to move, or at the very least speak. There were so many questions floating through my head about Bronson and his mysterious brother. I didn't know how much longer I would be able to keep them inside.
Taking a deep breath, I was just debating whether I could ask one quick question to quench my curiosity a little in order to concentrate better, when there was a crash out front. Yetti leapt into action without hesitation. "Stay here," he instructed, kicking down the door and disappearing inside.
I'd never been very good at following instructions like that, but he was serious, and Bronson had been concerned enough to make me wear this vest. I should stay put for once in my life. I should stay beside the door and wait for them to let me know it was safe for me to come out. I should-
The unmistakable sound of a gun being fired filled the air, followed by a male shout that I could have sworn belonged to Bronson, interrupting my resolve to do as I was told. I pushed off the wall and took a single step to follow Yetti's progress through the house, but hesitated. If I went through that door, I could become trapped, and make myself more of a liability. I needed to know what was going on, first. I had to assess the situation.
Loud voices were drifting out of the house as I peeked around the corner, but I couldn't see anything. The hallway didn't lead straight out the front. Making a split second decision as another shot rang out, I hurried around the side of the house, creeping as quickly and quietly as I could toward the street side. When I reached the front corner, I peeked carefully around. Nothing to see on the small front porch or lawn. The window next to me was covered. There was no way of knowing what was going on inside unless I entered. And I didn't think I'd be met with very happy Musketeers, if that happened. So instead, I pulled my gun from belt, and skulked back to the back door. That's where I was expected to be. That's where Yetti was relying on me being.
No sooner had I taken up my position beside the door once more than heavy footsteps sounded from inside, clomping through the house, closer and closer until a large man in a stained singlet and sweatpants burst out. Acting purely on instinct, I shot off a round as he landed on the concrete path a few feet away. Lester had once insinuated that I couldn't hit the side of a barn from six inches away. He was exaggerating, of course, because I'd proven him wrong several times. I could shoot with at least some accuracy. And I'd been working on it a lot more with Barrel. The problem was, I hadn't take the time breathe right and the bullet that had been intended for Bowdler's leg ended up grazing his arm. Not so much incapacitating him, as enraging him.
He spun on his heels as he slapped a hand over the wound, snarling out something that didn't register in my brain. I was locked in that moment before fight or flight.
"Run, Stephanie!" someone yelled from inside the house, breaking the spell the look on Bowdler's face had cast on me. My feet obeyed without consulting the rest of my body.
Gun still in hand, I bolted toward the side of the house I'd crept down just a minute ago, intent on my escape. I'd barely made it a few steps, though, when I was grabbed from behind and hauled up against a hard chest. I was shocked. I hadn't realised the guys were so close behind me. I was about to say something, when the arms encasing me tightened and a voice rasped at my ear, freezing the blood in my veins.
"What is this," he seethed, adjusting his grip. "Rangeman hiring whores now?" His left palm came up to roughly squeeze my breast and I couldn't do anything to stop it. I was paralysed with fear. My mind blanked. The only part of me that still seemed to be moving was my heart, thumping against my ribcage so forcefully that I thought it would break through any second. "I can see why they would want a slut like you around," he added, his other hand snaking down my stomach. "So pliable."
The blank slate of my thoughts suddenly exploded in a vision of a dark back alley, a man groping at the hem of my dress. My ears rang with obscene shouts in an all too familiar voice. Scornful expressions swam before my eyes. My head was filled with the words that had cut me deeper than any knife could ever reach. The breath in my lungs caught there, not moving. Frozen in time like the rest of me as the hand reached my belt. This isn't happening, I thought, trying to shake myself free of the mental torture screaming in my head so that I could do something about the physical invasion.
His body jerked, jarring mine as well, and suddenly I was released. I knew, on some level, that I was free, no arms crushing me in their vice like grip, no hands touching me, no voice rasping in my ear. I felt like I was floating. Without the weight of my attacker holding me down, I felt like could drift off into the atmosphere like a helium balloon. As a wave of dizziness crashed over me, I gave into the floating feeling, eyes squinched shut. I was finally flying. Rising through the air. I wondered if I could reach the clouds like this.
"Steph," an urgent voice called, penetrating the fog filling my head. "Stephanie!" And then there were hands on me again. Gentle this time. I became aware of the fact that I was no longer vertical, the hands guiding me toward the ground. "Steph, can you hear me?"
Blinking my eyes open, I was met with Bronsons's furrowed brow. "Bronson?" I asked.
"Dammit, Joel," he snapped. "Why didn't you fight back?"
"I-" I started to reply, but speaking was hard. Words weren't forming in my mind the same way they usually did. Did he call me Joel?
*o*
I woke up in my bed. I don't know how I got there, or how long I'd been there. All I knew was that I was exhausted, and tucked into my bed, still wearing my standard black Rangeman uniform, minus the vest, belt and boots I knew I'd had on last time I'd been aware of myself. The memories of what happened at Bowdler's house flood my brain as I stretched. The bullet grazing his arm. Bronson yelling at me to run. The hard chest I'd thought was either Bronson or Yetti. The realisation of how wrong I'd been. The agonising, paralysing fear that surged through me as he groped, and whispered. My mind screaming out Morelli's accusations, replaying the security footage from the club.
A sob escaped my chest as I gathered my pillow tightly around my head, hiding from the reality of what had happened. I'd never frozen like that on the job. I'd been grabbed thousands of times, touched more times than I should have, never had I had that kind of reaction. As I burrowed further into the pillow, wrapping the comforter more tightly around myself to muffle the wretched sounds of my crying. I could still feel Bowdler's breath on my neck, his hands on my body. I didn't like feeling this weak. This vulnerable.
Kicking my way out of my cacoon of sorrow and wiping the tears and snot from my face, I stumbled to the bathroom, turning the hot tap of the shower on full blast, stripping my clothes off and stepping straight under the flow of water. It was scalding, but I didn't care. I needed to melt away the feeling of his hands on me. Bowdler's hands. Hernandez's hands. I needed to scrub Morelli's words from my mind.
I stayed in the shower for a long time, waiting for the water to run cool, my usual indication that it was time to get out, but it didn't. I'd forgotten that this was the Rangeman building. Rangeman, no matter the location, had a seemingly endless supply of hot water. Eventually, I turned on the cold tap to even out the temperature, stood there for a few more minutes, then spun the dials to end the torrent, reached for a towel, and stepped out. My skin was cooked lobster red, which had never been such a great look on me, but I didn't care. Right now, all I wanted to do was find a pint of Ben and Jerry's, and eat my feelings while watching Ghostbusters.
Towelling off, I wrapped my hair, moisturised to ease some of the damage I'd no doubt done by boiling myself in the shower, and slipped back into the bedroom where I pulled on yoga pants and the sweatshirt Reese had given me. When I opened up my bedroom door, intending to follow my gut to the kitchen and the tub of vanilla ice cream I'd battered with Yetti to bring into the building a week ago, I was met with three black clad figures, in various states of repose in my living area.
Bronson was on the couch, his head tipped back as he stared at the ceiling. Yetti leaned against the kitchen counter, a coffee cup clutched in one hand as he spoke to Stitch, who sat at the table nearby.
"Steph," the latter said, standing from his post and closing the file in front of him. "How are you feeling?"
"Fried," I replied flatly, moving past him and Yetti and straight to the freezer. "Why are you in my apartment?" I didn't have the energy to pretend to be okay right now.
"We wanted to be sure you were okay," Yetti said, sliding to the side so that I could grab out a spoon from the drawer he'd been blocking.
"And how do you find me?" I asked, ripping the lid off the ice cream and scooping out a large spoonful. "Am I okay?"
Yetti and Stitch exchanged a look that clearly said I wasn't, but I didn't care what they said. I stuffed the spoon in my mouth, and walked to the couch where Bronson still sat, staring at the ceiling. I sat on the cushion next to him and mirrored his pose, removing the spoon from my mouth so I could melt and swallow the ice cream. I took another spoonful in the same way and waited for Yetti and Stitch to give their diagnosis. If I'd had the energy, I might have wondered why Bronson was here at all. He'd made it clear throughout the day that I wasn't his favourite person, so why bother waiting around to see if I was okay?
The men in the kitchen went back to their quiet conversation. Probably talking about me, but I didn't care. They could discuss me all they wanted. I was done worrying about what others thought about me. A life time of agony in the 'Burg, an it took three months in Boston for me to finally grow a thick enough skin to push the opinions of others aside. Either that, or my current state had blocked that part of my brain.
"Are you gonna share that?" Bronson asked.
I let my head flop to the side, noting that he still hadn't moved. "Can you eat it?"
He turned his head to face me and I almost sobbed at the pain I saw in his eyes. "Yes," he assured me. "I can."
"You're not going to have an allergic reaction if I let you, are you?" I choked out, wanting to be sure.
"I'm not allergic to dairy," he said, returning his gaze to the ceiling. "I eat that ice-cream all the time." Closing my eyes briefly, trying to block his expression from my mind's eye, I scooped up some more ice cream and handed the spoon to him. "Thanks."
I blocked out Yetti and Stitch's conversation and Bronson and I shared the tub of ice cream, focussing only on the motion of spoon to mouth. Eventually, we reached the bottom of the barrel and had to stop, but still neither of us spoke. The men in the kitchen must have been monitoring our progress, because a moment later, the tub was removed from my hands as Stitch sat on the edge of the coffee table in front of me.
"Are you ready to talk?" he asked.
"About what?" I returned.
"About what happened with Bowdler this afternoon."
I scoffed. "I froze," I said simply. "I knew I needed to defend myself to get out of there and I just couldn't. The voices and visions in my head stole away the control of my body and I was stuck there."
"What voices?"
"You've always been just a big slut," I said quietly, my own voice devoid of emotion as I repeated the words from so many months ago. "No one has that many men trailing behind her without offering them a little taste of the honey pot from time to time. You're a slut and everyone knows it." Someone gasped. It didn't really matter who, so I didn't bother trying to lift my head and find out. "And then there a man lifting my skirt while I'm utterly defenceless. Countless hateful expressions. I couldn't escape it."
No one said anything for a few minutes. I wished they'd just get to the point of why they were here so I could get on with watching Ghostbusters and trying to deal with my life.
"That stuff about being a slut," Bronson said slowly. "Is that-"
"It's what my ex fiancé screamed for the entire food court at the mall to hear," I confirmed. "And then, because the Burg doesn't know how to keep their mouths shut, it was spread across all of Trenton by the time I got home."
"That bastard," Yetti uttered. "No wonder Tank moved heaven and earth to get you out of there as quickly as possible."
"This conversation is great and all," I said, lifting my head to look at the two men now sitting on the coffee table. "But I'd really like to just watch Ghostbusters and fall asleep, right now. So if you could get to your point and leave, that'd be great."
Stitch and Yetti shared another glance. "We're worried about your mental state," Stitch announced with no further preamble. "You've been through a lot in the last few months and it's taking a toll on you. There are deep seeded issues that you need to deal properly in order to fully recover from it. You are being put on mandatory stress leave for the next week and it is strongly advised that you seek professional guidance in the form of a psychologist. We attempted to bring the company psychologist on board for this, however he is unable to offer his assistance at this time. Our recommendation at this point is that you speak to Harry's sister Reese and ask for a referral to one of her colleagues."
I nodded. That all made sense. I probably should have gotten psychological help years ago. Who knows the extent of the damage my mother had inflicted on my brain throughout my childhood? "Okay," I agreed, rising from the couch.
"Where are you going?" Yetti asked, standing to follow.
"To get my phone," I said. "I need to call Harry."
In case anyone is curious, I got a head cold for my birthday. My family says I'm not allowed to regift it...
