Bound by Obsession (Shadowed Souls #2)

4. Chapter Four

A loud bang jolts me from my sleep. Fluorescent overhead lights are disorientating as my head tenses. I easily could have taken a hammer to the temple, given the throbbing radiating there. My back aches from the twisted position I’m lying in on a solid wooden bench. Where the hell am I and what happened to me?

Suddenly, hands grab my ruined shirt, dragging me upright. I groan at the assault on my protesting body. Attempting to shove the overweight brute away, I discover my wrists are bound painfully in tight metal cuffs. No, not a brute - a cop. He shoves me out of a cell and then continuously prods my back with a blunt object to shuffle along a dimly lit hallway. In terms of small mercies, my eyes have a chance to adjust to the vice-like grip on my head. All self-inflicted, evidently.

A guard dressed in black pushes the door open at the end of the hallway, glaring at me in disgust as I walk past. Squinting, I find myself being prodded through a busy police station. Stacks of paperwork rival towers of empty donut boxes on dozens of desks. Officers either scowl or completely ignore me as a strong hand grips my shoulder and pushes me through another set of metal doors. After removing the cuffs, he barks at me to sit down before leaving the interrogation room. I just about hide my wince until he’s slammed the door closed.

Catching sight of myself in the two-way mirror, I can see why so many people were snarling. Even I’m appalled by my own reflection. My once-white shirt is covered in filth and blood, which I’m going to guess is mine judging from the line of disposable stitches running across my temple and into my right eyebrow. Many of the shirt’s buttons have been ripped off, my belt is missing and now I realize I’m not wearing shoes. My hair resembles a bird’s nest while my eyes are more bloodshot than green.

I round the table in the center, rolling my wrists and twisting my back. The door reopens to reveal a short Latina woman, her rigid posture and grimace not looking good for my immediate future. The navy uniform hugs her frame tightly and a shiny badge sways from her thick black belt. A similarly dressed male cop, who I vaguely recognize from somewhere, trails in behind her and shuts the three of us inside.

“Mister Hughes, is it? Take a seat.” The woman points to one of the collapsible chairs around this side of the table. I drop into it, despite the pain shooting through my back. My head is spinning but I keep a calm expression on my face. Sitting opposite, she opens the brown folder she carried in and places it on the table. A mugshot I don’t remember having taken is clipped to the inside cover, apparently before I was cleaned up since a blood smear covers my right cheek.

“Hughes as in Nixon Hughes? He owns the mansion up in Brookhaven?” The male cop asks. I nod slowly, trying my best to place his thinning hair and rounded belly. Where do I know him from? He makes a low whistle and smirks at me. “I wonder what your father would make of your overnight stay with us. Hardly up to par with your penthouse suite.”

“If you manage to contact him, feel free to ask.” I reply bitterly. Little Latino, as I’ve decided to call her, clears her throat to regain control of my apparent interrogation.

“Master Hughes, you’ve been arrested for damage to private property, possession of drugs and assaulting a police officer. These are very serious charges.” Staring at the picture on her file, I search my brain for the events that led me here. There was that waitress and her drugs, and the rest is fuzzy. Something about too much self-loathing and a mirror? I’m not sure. Something is triggered, because when I look back to the male cop, a smile pulls at my lips. I remember him now.

“How fortunate you were so close by,” I drawl, an image of him on the dancefloor with his shirt wide open and cuffs swinging around his fat finger springing to mind. “But I must ask, as a man of the law - what were you doing partying in uniform, Officer-” I lean forward to read his nametag, “Phallus?”

“It’s Phillis, you little shit, and I was undercover hunting for scum like you.” He sneers, something resembling pink icing stuck in his overbite. Crossing my arms over the disgustingly soiled shirt I’m still wearing, I lean back and ignore the rest of their practiced spiel.

Little Latino plays good cop and tries to reach my conscience as I laugh internally. I couldn’t give less of a shit if they locked me up and threw away the key. In fact, it may be preferable since my life is rapidly swirling out of control. I used to be someone to the Shadowed Souls. I used to think that to them, I was finally irreplaceable. I was wrong. I’m utterly alone and no one is coming to save me.

The door bursts open with a loud clang. Hold that thought . “Don’t say another word,” a dark haired man in a pinstripe navy suit strides in with a black briefcase in hand. Chunky gold rings adorn his meaty fingers, a shiny gold watch poking out from his cuff. He casually takes a seat beside me, not seeming fazed by the glowers he’s receiving from across the table.

“Sorry, who the fuck are you?” I break the silence. I place him around mid-thirties as his blue eyes slide to me.

“Jeremy Charlton, your lawyer.” He extends his hand which I hesitantly shake, still confused as to why he’s here.

“Did my father send you?” The easy smile on his face doesn’t falter, but he doesn’t answer my question. Opening the leather briefcase, he pulls out large images of Officer Phallus raving it up in the club and slides them across the metallic surface.

“My client was detained while the arresting officer was intoxicated, which makes his statement inadmissible in court. For all we know, you could have planted the drugs on him in a bid to boost your career,” he glares accusingly at the sweating man across from him. Officer Phallus blubbers and grunts incoherently in anger, his face turning a beetroot red. Charlton continues.

“As the son of a billionaire, I’m certain you wouldn’t want your boss to find out about this, so why don’t we agree that my client walks out of here with his record intact and he, in return, will not press charges?” My attorney cocks his eyebrows at me for back-up, so I shrug and nod. Following his lead, we both stand and exit the room without another word.

With more assurance than before, I stroll through the building, spotting my phone in a clear evidence bag on the edge of an empty desk. Swiping it, I push through the double doors leading onto the main street and inhale deeply. The crisp air of late afternoon fills my lungs, the dying sun peeking around tall buildings. Charlton clears his throat as I begin to walk away, gesturing for me to slide into the black limousine parked against the sidewalk. His driver, dressed in a suit and flat cap, flicks his half-finished cigarette to the floor and squashes it beneath his shiny loafer.

“Since when do attorneys drive their clients home in limos?” I ask. He pulls the door open with an easy smile, waiting for me to duck inside before following and slamming the door shut. That pounding headache is still ever present in the front of my skull. The driver takes his seat up front and rolls up the dividing window separating us.

“I’m not your attorney and you’re not going home.” Charlton chuckles as the limousine lurches forward and speeds away from the precinct.

From then on, the man with beasty rings becomes the annoyingly silent type, not answering a single one of my questions. The drive is long, easily over an hour but I do drift into a light sleep somewhere along the way. I try to wake several times but my head is heavy on my shoulders, my eyelids refusing to obey the screaming inside my ears. I don’t know these men and I can’t trust them, but I clearly don’t care enough about what happens to me either. Another mile between me and my new sibling is nothing but a blessing in my eyes.

I finally manage to rouse as we pull into a curved driveway. The limo circles a fountain beside a huge mansion. Twice the size of the one I grew up in, judging from this angle. A curved doorway is surrounded by exposed, gray brick and framed by potted plants. The rest of the building is a rich wood color with darker gray tiles forming the roof, as visible on the garage we stop next to.

Following Charlton out, I stop on the concrete and stretch my neck. As soon as I close the door, the limo pulls into the garage. Two muscled men, dressed all in black, exit the mansion and storm directly towards me. Charlton steps aside while I’m roughly patted down, although where or what they think I’m hiding, I don’t know. I removed my tattered shirt in the limo, so Mr. Handsy only has my trousers to grope, my phone hanging loosely in the side pocket. Grunting, he slowly rises to his full height and stares me down. His brown eyes narrow, then he gestures to follow as he turns away.

Either side of the main door, small lanterns flicker to life in the fading light of day as I pass. A vast staircase fills the center of the foyer, gold banisters complimenting the sparkling chandelier high above. Open archways either side lead further into the lower level, the same cream glossy wood flooring throughout. The guards guide us down a hallway to the right, Charlton’s shoes clicking loudly beside me as we stroll behind.

Meandering through a seemingly unused living room, Mr. Handsy knocks upon a mahogany door and waits to be permitted entry. Once a crackled voice sounds from within, he pushes the door open but nobody moves. All sets of eyes turn to face me, Charlton giving me a nudge with his shoulder so I enter the dimly-lit room.

I’m plunged into darkness as a click signals the door closing behind me. The beeping of a machine penetrates the strain of my eyes, guiding me forward. At the edges of the room, I notice the outlines of a sideboard and desk hinting that I’m in an office. Or what should be an office. I shuffle towards an armchair I noticed while I still had the light of the hallway to aid me. Finding the velvet material with my outstretched fingers, I round the chair and sit down to focus on the shadowed figure opposite. Only the occasional orange glow from a cigar and his heavy breathing alerted me to his presence, as well as the air of danger he’s shrouded in.

The silence stretches between us, my impatience starting to flare up but I bite my tongue. My instincts are yelling at me that despite the cloak and dagger routine, I shouldn’t be in a rush to piss him off. The routine beeping continues with each passing second, a rhythm I start to twitch my toes along with. Shifting forward, the man flicks on a lamp that burns my eyes.

Blinking to clear the spots from my vision, I spot the wires first, the figure before me hooked up to the heart monitor. A face mask hangs around his neck, linked to an oxygen tank that rests beside his high back wheelchair. His thinning slicked-back hair is a pale shade of gray, his skin scarred with years of drug and alcohol abuse. Also topless, blurred and faded tattoos litter his sagging frame that must have once held muscles to rival all of the guards outside put together. A horizontal scar lies across his upper left side, judging by his age probably from a pacemaker being inserted. Fear freezes my blood flow like liquid nitrogen as I consider that this man could be a future glimpse of who I’m going to become.

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Wyatt. I must admit, I almost lost hope.” His croaky voice fills the air, shaking me from my internal panic.

“How do you know my name? Why am I here?” The answering chuckle I receive is anything but reassuring. Lifting the lid on a cigar box balanced on his thigh, he weakly attempts to hand it to me. I shake my head slightly, more focused on what he has to say.

“I know everything there is to know about you, my boy. Despite how desperately Nixon has tried to keep me away all these years.” Creasing my eyebrows, I wonder which one of those sentences to focus on first. Has this man had his goons following me, and if so for how long? And how does he know my father?

“Forgive me, you seem to know a lot about me but I’m unsure who I’m speaking with.” I tread carefully, not wanting to become one of his guard’s punching bags today. I didn’t mind coming here, but I’m starting to think I may be in over my head and don’t have a way to get back home. Hell, I don’t even know where I am.

“Where are my manners? Ray Perelli.” He announces, as if the name should mean something to me. My blank expression causes him to frown. “He really didn’t tell you anything, did he?”

“Who?” I ask, utterly lost now. Fatigue is starting to seep into my bones, the headache I’d managed to shake taking hold again. A bath and bed would do me wonders right about now. Leaning forward into the light, his faded green eyes contain a surprising amount of venom for his age.

“The man who stole you from me.”