61 Where is Lee?

**Date = 26 June — 1 in the morning**
*The horrible day has passed.*
**Place = San Francisco (Black Pit)**
*A new place.*

**POV - Aria**

Dark.

Not pitch black, but dark in that gentle, creeping way where you’re not sure if your eyes are open or shut. It smells like salt. Like wood warmed by the sun. Like … laundry detergent and the ocean. Mountains.

And him. Enrique.

“Ow,” I murmur as a sharp pain pierces my head, little knives stabbing into my brain while images flash through my mind like a low-budget horror movie — the dirty mattress; Lee’s enraged gaze; the horrible smell; vile laughter; and that eerie screaming, similar to seagulls fighting over food.

My heart jolts awake before the rest of me does.

Fear paralyzes me. I lay super still, squeezing my eyes tensely shut. Trying to figure things out.

I am lying down. On something soft. A mattress. Covered in blankets. My limbs are tangled in something warm.

Someone.

The first thing I feel is pressure. Heavy. Solid.

The second thing I feel is terror.

I stay still.

There are arms around me. One under my neck, another curls possessively around my waist. A leg is hooked over mine. A steady breath against my shoulder.

I suck in air. Not sweet relief. Panic. I’m going to be rape. Butchered. Violated.

My pulse spikes so hard I think I might pass out again.

I open my eyes, taking a peek, without moving. I don’t want to alert any monsters that I’m awake. The ceiling is strange. White. Unfamiliar. Wooden beams, soft down lights.

I am not in the warehouse. I am not on the floor anymore. But I am still trapped.

No. No, no, no.

First, the screaming woman. Then they took Lee. Now it’s my turn.

They brought me somewhere else. They’re holding me on a bed.

I gasp, bracing myself for an impending panic attack. They’re gonna kill me. Or worse, rape me. Or the ultimate worst ― both.

I thrash, swinging my elbow backward into whatever — or whoever — is holding me. My blow connects solidly.

“AHH! WHAT THE — ?!”

I scramble out of the bed, hit the floor hard, and grab the closest thing to a weapon — a black lamp from the nightstand.

The person in bed groans and sits up, rubbing his face. The moonlight hits his hair just right — blond, tousled — and I freeze again.

Not in fear. In recognition.

“Enrique?”

He blinks blearily. “Aria?”

We both stare at each other for a second, breathing hard, blinking like sleep-drunk raccoons.

I’m still holding the lamp. He has bedhead and no shirt.

“You screamed and punched me in the face,” he mumbles.

“You were on top of me!” I shoot back.

“I was holding you!” He flops back down, rubbing his forehead. “You were cold. You looked like you were about to start crying in your sleep. I was just trying to keep you warm. Save.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or sob. So I sit there on the rug like a broken marionette, clutching the lamp.

Now that my eyes have adjusted, I take in the room.

Wooden walls. Black accents. White shelves. Huge windows that let in moonlight and a blurry view of the ocean waves in the distance. The place smells like mountains and flowers. Warm and citrusy, with a faint trace of food and something vaguely spicy.

I am safe. For now.

I let the lamp fall into my lap. “I thought I was still there. In that place. With the screaming …”

Enrique sits up properly, his expression softening. “I know. You’ve been in and out for hours.”

“Hours?”

He nods. I stare at his scruffy three-day beard. It’s annoyingly sexy since it outlines his manly features even more.

He slides down and cradles me between his legs, smirking childishly, while he removes the lamp from my grip. He moves me closer, not breaking eye contact, until I sit on his lap.

An immediate dampness forms between my legs. Holy cow, this dude can manipulate me with just a look. I’m such a whore around him, with no control over it ― and that’s scary.

He already broke my heart, more than once ― and he’ll most likely do it again. Robots are not built for empathy or emotions. No doubt I’ll be hurt again.

“You’re safe, Batnip!” He hugs my head tight against his exposed chest. The scent of his sponsored CK soap floats into my nostrils. I vouch that I might be a little addicted to the smell. But to my defense, that fragrance is like a drug.

“I thought I’ll never see you again,” I sob and nestle myself into his body, eagerly soaking up the warmth of his skin. I’m gonna seize every second of heavenly bliss I can get.

“Do you know how worried I was?” His breath tickles my hair. He was worried about me? The thought leaves a warm feeling in my heart.

I must be such a sucker for punishment, but I can’t restrain myself. I’m in love with this man. Deeply. Just can’t help myself … Enrique Blackburn has the ability to cloud any girl’s normal moral judgment. I mean, here I am sitting in his arms with a heated vagina — fully knowing it’s gonna end badly for me — instead of jumping up and getting the hell out.

“Is Leyla okay?” I look down at my hands. They are shaking.

“Yeah, she thinks we’re making a baby.” I smack his arm. He catches my wrist. Holds it for a second longer than necessary. His hand is warm.

My stomach flips. Not because of trauma this time. Just … him.

He looks at me for a second too long, eyes searching, like he is checking for cracks. Then he leans in and kisses my forehead.

Just once.

Soft.

Slow.

I forget how to breathe. I bite my bottom lip.

He looks down at my mouth. “You know … that always gets me up.”

He kisses me.

Like he’s been waiting to do it. I let him. Because I have absolutely fallen.

And right when I am kissing him back — moving my fanny in line with his hood — the door slams open.

“Good … you’re up!” Me or Enrique?

Jackson struts in.

“Was up,” Enrique mumbles. Because nothing kills romance like a storming psycho twin.

Enrique groans. “Why do you always walk in like you’re leading a SWAT raid?!”

Jackson doesn’t answer. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Again.

His eyes go straight to me.

“You okay?”

I nod. “I think so. Just … disoriented.”

“Where’s Lee?” he asks grimly. I blink. Haven’t they found him? Is he still gone?

“You didn’t find him?”

“Would I be here if we had?” he sneers. “Now talk!” He stands over me like a storm cloud in combat boots.

“What happened, Aria? Everything.” I realize it looks as if he owns the moonlight. Hoodie halfway unzipped, hair wild, jaw clenched. His whole body is tense … like he is ready to punch someone — anyone. Maybe everyone.

I turn, settling myself between Enrique’s legs, my back against his chest. I need his warmth. His strength. My voice wobbles, but I make myself speak.

“I followed Lee. He was meeting someone. Cindy. Gave her a bag of money. I thought …” I wipe my hand over my face.

“Hell, I don’t know what I thought. But Lee grabbed Cindy … had her at gunpoint …” I peek up at the crazy twin’s face. “But … eh, I got caught by T-Bone … so they took us both.”

“See, bro, told you she screwed it up.” Jackson’s fists clench. I think he’s mad at me. His eyes clot up my heart. They look out of this world ― you know ― like a vampire or werewolf or alien … or a demon … anything but human.

But right now they also look sad.

I shove my hand into my bra and remove the phone that’s still lodged there. It’s off. The battery died. But I hold it out to Jackson like a peace offering. “It’s Lee’s phone. It recorded the whole time. He asked me to give it to you. Maybe it will help you find him.”

Jackson stares at it like it is holy.

“Lee recorded everything,” Jackson says coldly but proudly.

“He said I should keep it, that you will track it,” I say. “It was as if he knew they were going to take him.”

Jackson snorts, but doesn’t say anything.

“There’s something else,” I add. “Lee said … he believes in you and you should look in his right skate.”

For a heartbeat, none of us moves.

Then Jackson snatches the phone and pivots sharply, already halfway gone — then halts, glances back over his shoulder.

“Damion and Mel made it safely to Switzerland,” he states flat, no drama, just fact. And then he’s moving again, faster this time.

“Jackson —” Enrique calls. But he is already gone.

A door slams far away, and the crash of it echoes across the walls and into my bones.

I watch the space where he’s been. The chaos he dragged in with him has finally left the room, but not the air.

Then the silence settles.

Enrique exhales slowly behind me, like a man who’s been holding his breath for days. “That guy is going to explode if he doesn’t get his roommate back.”

I don’t say anything. My hands are shaking again. Not from cold. From memory.

The warehouse. The darkness.

The sounds.

“But he’ll find Lee,” Enrique says quietly. I can feel the tension vibrating through his body. “Even if he has to set the world on fire to do it.”

I believe him.

Because for the first time in days, I saw something that terrified me more than all the grunts and screams from that warehouse — Jackson isn’t afraid of anyone. He’s out for blood. And people close to him will get caught up in the blow when his anger and rage explode. People like Enrique.

Sport pulls me in tighter.

His voice is quieter now. “What exactly happened, Aria? Back there?” He asks, rubbing his fingers slowly and sensually up and down my arm.

I don’t want to talk. But it’s like my mouth doesn’t care.

“Lee acted suspiciously, so I followed him,” I start slowly.

“That was just dumb,” he scolds softly. More worried than angry. “One never follows the crazy ones.”

“I know that now,” I sob. My voice goes thinner. “They took us to this crummy warehouse. It was dark and cold. Lee was brave … tried to keep me calm. But I know he was scared, too.”

I rub my arms.

“Then we heard them.” My body goes cold just at the thought of them. It was disturbing. Disconcerting, carnal grunts ― vulgar like in an erotic porn flick. The low chatter of crude male voices shouting out cheers of encouragement. And between all this were the screams ― gruesome, horrific, hair-raising hollers of someone being tortured.

Enrique leans his chin on my shoulder. His lips hover near my neck but do not touch.

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Men. Laughing. Shouting. Cheering like — like it was a party.”

His body tightens.

“Then someone started screaming. A woman. She screamed so loud I thought she’d die just from the sound.”

It burns behind my ears. I’ll never be able to unhear it.

“I didn’t see anything. We just heard it. I think …” I swallow, my voice hoarse, dry. “I think they were torturing her. Taking turns …”

I can’t say the word. I don’t have to.

Enrique’s lips finally touch my skin. Gentle. Warm. Grounding.

“She was begging,” I whisper. “And they were laughing.”

“I know who it was,” he says, voice raw. “The woman —”

My head jerks back to look at him. “How? Who?”

“They sent me a video.” That leaves me speechless.

“Amanda,” he says. “We found her body. Stuffed in a box.”

The name feels like a stone. Why did they kill her? Wasn’t she working with them?

“They … she … eh … she was a message,” he adds quietly.

I gasp as the realization sets in. “Oh my God. She was … the baby …” I feel his body flex behind me.

I shake my head. “No. No. That can’t be … she was with them …” And then it hits me right between the eyes. Hard. “Your choice … your uncle or your girl … they thought she … the news …” I can’t think straight. They thought Amanda was his girl … because … the baby …

I can feel him taking a deep breath. I get up and sit on the edge of the bed. He stays on the ground.

“You let them believe it,” I lash out, voice rising. “You used her,” I continue. I remember Jackson telling him NOT to tell the press. Were they doing it on purpose? Was this the plan? I look down at him. “You and Jackson. You made Amanda the decoy. And now she’s dead.”

He exhales, slow and shaky. “We didn’t mean for it to go that far,” he sneers, but I can hear the guilt riding in his voice.

“But you let her take the fall.”

“She lied!” he snaps, then catches himself. “She wanted it to be true, Aria. We just … let it ride.”

“And now she’s in a box!” I shout.

“Better her than you!” Enrique’s jaw clenches. He gets up and walks towards the end of the bed.

“Was this your plan … why you didn’t tell the press … sacrificing Amanda for me?”

His face contorts into a look of regret. He stares past me at the wall as if he can’t look me in the eyes. He doesn’t answer. A sick feeling presses on my stomach.

I shake my head. “So Amanda was just … collateral.” His snort tells me I’ve touched a nerve.

“The answer is yes. We used Amanda.” Darn. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about this.

His voice cracks. He steps toward me but stops short, hands hanging by his sides. “I didn’t know they were going to kill her. I just didn’t want them to kill you.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Hell, I never thought things were this serious. I didn’t even bother to choose,” he mutters, “I didn’t want to play their games. So they chose for me …”

“And she was supposed to be with her parents … safe … getting an abortion.”

“An abortion?” He nods. That was probably the first sensible thought she had.

“After which she would tell the press there never was any baby. It was going to be okay.”

He looks at me. And I see it.

Guilt. Yes. Deep and ugly.

But also relief. He hasn’t lost me.

“Listen, Batnip. You were in danger. Still are. They think the baby is …” He blinks and for a moment it seems as if he might throw up. “Eh … was mine … and they need to keep thinking it. Otherwise, they will come after you and Leyla. Understand.”

Tears start to flow from my eyes. Not because I’m okay with this. But because some small, horrible part of me is.

For a long time, we say nothing. He sits on the bed, eyes on the floor.

Then I whisper, “So Cindy was there. With her Pradas.”

He looks up, eyes narrow. “We figured … from the hospital surveillance. But we couldn’t see her face … what does she look like?”

“Tall, brown eyes, boyish build, bleached bob hair, a young Lady Gaga on a caffeine bender and a moral mission,” I try to describe her as best as possible. “Nothing special. Except that she’s crazy as fuck.”

“Oh, and she has a long scar on the side of her neck … not older than a year, I would say.”

“She talked a lot.” I snarl. “Like a villain monologue, except she was dead serious. She’s in love with the man in charge. Like, insane stalker love.”

Enrique lets out a sharp breath, somewhere between a scoff and disgust. “That’s … gross.”

“She said she’s been loyal. That she’s done everything for him. But he doesn’t even see her. Only his princess.”

Enrique blink. “A real one?”

My eyebrows lift. “Nah, a daddy’s girl.”

“Maybe a Zulu king’s daughter,” he says grimly. “Or Afrikaner farm girl. The asshole is learning the language after all.”

“Afrikaans? But isn’t there only about 50 people still speaking it?” He shrugs.

“Would not know … but each time we were there, the whole country seemed to speak the language. Maybe that Theron girl just can’t count that high.”

We look at each other.

This web is so much more complicated than either of us ever imagined.

“Cindy said something else,” I say carefully.

Enrique tilts his head. “She said you tortured. Broke. Raped. Killed.”

“Me?”

“Not you specifically … you in general.”

His face cracks slightly at that. But only just. He moves slightly, dipping the bed.

My throat tightens.

Enrique’s expression folds, slow and quiet. He’s grinding his teeth.

“I can’t speak for all of us,” he drawls, voice rough around the edges, “but I’m damn sure I’ve never tortured, broken, raped, or killed anyone.” His jaw ticks, like it costs him to even say the words aloud. “But after what they did to you … to Mel … Amanda …” His throat works once. “I could murder someone and sleep fine after.”

My mouth is dry. I weigh the words before I let them out.

“Do you think this could all be on Jackson?” I ask, slow and careful, like touching a wound I don’t know the depth of.

“Oh, Jackson is always guilty of something at any time of the day.” His voice breaks slightly, and he takes a moment before he speaks again. “The thing about Jackson is that if he has to choose between the people he loves and someone else — anyone else — he won’t blink. He’ll fight like a rabid dog.”

My brows lift. “That’s exactly what Cindy said.” Sort of.

Enrique’s voice is rough now. “Jackson will do anything to protect his own. He always has. Even when it destroys him.” There’s something more behind his words. Something deeper.

“So you think he could have broken, raped, tortured, and killed someone?” He lifts his eyes to mine. Then he sniggers with a snort.

“Well,” he sneers. “I’m dead sure Jackson has broken a lot of someones, almost sure he killed … maybe not on purpose. He would never rape … and torturing … that was more Grandpa’s thing.” I gasp. How can he be so calm about that?

“Do you think … eh … this could be like the Harry thing … because of something your grandfather did again?”

The room suddenly feels heavy. The air stilled. Then he shrugs. “It’s possible.”

A long silence passes.

Then, Enrique asks out of the blue. “Do you know where we are?”

I blink. “What?”

“You never asked.”

“I mean …” I glance around. “A beach house. Somewhere remote. Expensive. Probably one of yours.”

“This isn’t mine,” he says. “It was my grandfather’s.”

I still. We’re in the old bastard’s home?

“You mean …”

“It belongs to Jackson now,” he jests. “Who knew?” A beat of silence.

“You didn’t know?”

“The day they read my father’s will, they called each of us in privately. Just assumed Jackson got the same as us.” He doesn’t seem upset about it. “But Dad left him the house years back already.”

“It seems nice …” I say slowly, not sure how he feels about the place.

“It’s much nicer now. Jackson renovated it. Cleaned it up. Calls it Black Pit.”

The name feels like a nail in my spine.

“But no amount of renovation can clean away the memories,” he spits.

“So this is where …”

He nods and finishes my sentence. “Where everything started. Where everything went to hell.”