Golden Burn (Songs of Crime #1)

4. Etta

4

Etta

‘All Time Low’ - Jon Bellion

I ’ve never been to London. Never been anywhere, really.

My mom and my stepfather, Shaggy—real name, Troy—took me to SeaWorld in San Diego one time for my twelfth birthday.

We went down for a long weekend and were only meant to spend a single day at the park. But I loved it so much, I begged to go back the next day, and the day after that. I loved watching the orcas. I now understand the darker reality of their lives as an adult, but as a child, it was awe-inspiring to see such giant, graceful animals swimming alongside tiny humans who had crafted meaningful relationships with beings that couldn’t talk.

I’m sure Shaggy wasn’t a fan of being bossed around by a pre-teen, but Mom was happy to see that my interest in saving every stray animal was something I loved as equally as her. It was the first indication of what would make my soul sing, of what would give me purpose.

I loved that holiday.

I hate this one.

Laptop guy, who eventually introduces himself as Dominic, wraps a blindfold around my eyes before we exit the plane. I reject it instantly. Going so far as to kick my legs out as he approaches.

But tattoo guy (AKA Ford) takes a hold of my ankles and squeezes hard enough for me to get the picture. He raises his heavy brows in warning, his square set jaw and crooked nose saying enough about whether I would survive an altercation. It’s either play along or suffer the consequences.

Sensing my fatigue and growing impatience, the two men handle me carefully as they guide my blindfolded ass out of the plane and onto the tarmac. We walk for about a minute before I hear a car door opening and am instructed to take a seat.

Inside the vehicle, the chilled leather hugs my back, making me shiver. I’m still wearing my scrubs, still coated in sweat and dog fur, still wishing this was a dream.

No sooner have all the doors shut does the engine purr to life that I start to hyperventilate.

Fuck.

This is not good.

“Shit.” The blackness of my vision is throwing me out of whack, causing my senses to go haywire.

“What’s wrong?” Ford asks me. He must be sitting beside me. Which means Odin and Dominic are in the front. That’s good, I guess.

“I’m gonna pass out…” My voice wavers. My heart feels like it might pop if it beats any faster.

I’m dizzy, malnourished, and dehydrated. Bright dots of color are forming and dancing behind my eyes, and I can’t tell my left from my right.

“We provided food. Did you not eat it?” Why does he sound cranky with me?

“You could have poisoned it.”

He makes a disappointed sound and grasps my shoulders gently. “When was the last time you ate something substantial?”

I blink. My head won’t stop spinning. “Saturday?”

“What’s going on?” That’s Dominic.

“We might need to make a stop on the way through.”

“No stopping,” Odin declares.

“She hasn’t eaten anything since fucking Saturday.”

The voices fade in and out, like a microphone being pulled away and brought back to the speaker. I keep gulping in mouthfuls of air, trying to calm down.

“Just put your head between your knees,” Dominic tells me.

And kiss your butt goodbye! Isn’t that from a movie about chickens? Why am I thinking about chickens?

It’s too much. Everything needs to stop. I need a minute to think.

In the end, my brain overrides itself.

I faint into blissful numbness.

I had a dream that I was home. And that my kidnapping was, in fact, a movie I had watched. A very real, very detailed movie.

So, to wake up in a bed covered in robin’s egg blue sheets, with a thread count that must have cost thousands, is like a slap to the face.

The window to the left is blanketed by floor to ceiling curtains, closed to block out the light that is trying to break through and warm the space. The walls are perfectly white and perfectly clean, blending in seamlessly with the gray flecked marble floors and plush rugs. Opposite the bed is a gorgeous set of draws, accented with copper handles and an extremely large vase stuffed full of fake, bushy flowers. I make out undertones of vanilla bean and lemon, as if a candle is burning somewhere in the space I can’t see.

There’s a bathroom next to the set of draws. The door hangs ajar, allowing me glimpses of architecturally arranged silver tiles and a generous porcelain tub.

I fling the covers off myself, mentally preparing to find my body naked and brutalized. I whimper in relief when I see I’m still wearing my scrubs, no matter how awful they appear and smell. A bathrobe is draped over the end of the bed. It’s thick, like a ginormous towel, and long enough that I’m sure it will cover everything I want to keep hidden until I can get some new clothes.

Before I think about showering, I inspect the door that I hope leads to an exit. Without even touching it, I know it’s locked. There’s something formidable about it. The grooves make it seem like it’s frowning, peering at me with sympathy. I try it, anyway, groaning when the handle remains stiff.

The next thing: shower. I’d love to sit around in my own filth, annoying the shit out of those men. But if I stay one second longer in these scrubs, I think I might scream. I need to wash my skin with stinging hot water and mountains of soap until I’m human again.

It’s sickening that I find myself oohing and ahhing at the ensuite. It’s just so… pretty. Clean and spacious, with a mirror lined with movie-star bulbs for people to do their makeup in high definition. And that’s all kind of fucked up. I smack my cheeks and get to business, discarding my clothes and stepping under the huge shower head that mimics a tropical waterfall.

As much as I want to crumble to the floor, lie on my back and let the world stop for a little while. I have to get moving. I have to find a way to contact someone—tell them where I am.

But who?

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I start to cry as I try to compile a list of people to call.

Shaggy? No. He’s busy with his new ‘wife’. Shaggy rekindled his relationship with his high school sweetheart and moved in with her almost immediately after Mom’s death. I haven’t spoken to him in months. I swore I never would. He’s too much of an asshole.

My ex? No, definitely not.

I could call work, but I need them to run the clinic and look after the animals. With me being absent, I’m sure everything has gone to shit. Besides, I would never ask them to buy airline tickets to London. No one has the kind of money to spare for that.

Fuck. I hope Betty and SpongeBob are okay.

And Juniper, too.

As time drags on and my list remains empty. I come to a staggering, saddening conclusion.

Other than the police or the FBI, I have no one to call who might come to my rescue.

I have no serious close friends. When you work almost eighteen hours a day and never take holidays, friends slip away to live their own lives, unaware that yours is stuck in the same place and beginning to rot from the inside.

I have no family. My mother’s parents died when I was young, my mother just recently. She was close with her siblings, but they live all over the place, and I only speak to my cousins at Christmas and the occasional wedding or funeral.

I have no one.

Fuck. I really am the most perfect person to steal.

The tears increase to a chest cleaving sob.

A WWI movie I saw a few years ago comes to the forefront of my mind. The harrowing scene where young men, blown to pieces and strewn across a muddy battlefield, called out to their mothers with the last few breaths in their lungs, tears streaming down their burnt faces.

Although my situation is vastly different and lacking the horrors of war, I understand the desperation, the keening call to a parent who provides the only safety, comfort and love that a person in their most dire hour needs.

God.

I want my mom. I want my mom. I want my mom.

My arms wrap around my naked middle, trying to hold my soul together as the foundations shake, the pieces pulling apart. In the year since my mother passed, I have cried rivers. Oceans. My loneliness only ever abated for brief respites, when I was forced to go to the clinic to continue her work, and eventually, clean up her unintentional mess.

The bitterness of her passing, the crushing grief, hits me as hard as a cannonball to the stomach every time I remember she’s not here . She’s… gone. And I can’t ask her for a hug right now. Not ever. I’ll never hear her say, “What’s up, chicken?” I’ll never hear her full belly laugh. I’ll never watch her skilled hands stitch and pet and help and cook.

And she’ll never be able to be there for her only daughter left on this fucking earth without her guide. Her home.

The next few minutes, I have to gulp down breaths, forcing myself to forget. To focus. I watch the water mix with my snot and tears until I can no longer spot the difference. Then I stand tall, shove it aside. I lather every part of me with the fancy soap available, scrubbing till my skin is raw and as exposed as my very being. I rinse off for an absurd amount of time. If they can afford this place, they can afford to pay for the water.

By the time I decide to turn off the shower, I’m hungry, hollow and desperate for answers. Facing those three men is going to be incredibly hard. But I have to do it.

I take comfort in the fact that this residence is fancy. That they didn’t remove my clothes when I was passed out. That they haven’t physically harmed me beyond a few pointed shoves and tight grips.

I dry my body, wrap myself in the luscious robe, and stalk toward the door.

My hand is hovering in the air when the handle twists and the door swings on the hinges. I freak out and step backward, my hands flying up to cover my face with two nervous fists.

Beyond my knuckles, Ford stands in the doorway.

His expression is… unreadable. Is he annoyed? Amused? Do I look fearsome in my warrior pose and fluffy robe?

He clears his throat and says, “Come with me.”

Okay. At least he’s not going to take me by force. This is good. My fists unclench as I begin walking after him.

He’s in a new suit since I saw him last. More casual, less bodyguard. His deep brown hair is perfectly styled, and his cologne is woodsy, yet soft. Just peeking through the top of his collar, below his hairline, is the top of another tattoo. Clouds maybe. Or some cotton candy? I don’t know why that comforts me, but it does. Better than a knife, or a gun, or you know… a dead woman.