UNTOUCHED (Midwest Alphas) (Book 1) Page 3
I grip the railing and slowly move my foot along the first wooden stair, putting soft pressure on them until I find that perfect angle. It takes me nearly twenty minutes to patiently memorize a decent pattern to make it down to the first floor undetected.
The barn door squeaks as I open it, but I’m hoping the distance between it and the house is far enough that the noise doesn’t travel to Charlie’s sleeping ears. I move about in the darkness until I find the ladder I noticed earlier. Splinters of old wood scratch at my hands as I climb, but I easily make it to the top without drawing blood.
I’m obviously not the first person to escape up here. A few small hay bales lie next to an open window in the wall, creating the perfect hideout to lounge in and hopefully relax my active mind. I look to the stars, take a deep breath of fresh air, and smile. You can’t get this view anywhere in Chicago, that’s for sure.
I lie back and open the book. It’s one of those cheesy teenage romances that’s already been adapted into a cheesy summer movie that no one watched. Not my preferred genre of entertainment, but the idea is to bore myself to sleep. My eyes scan the title page and I see the initials M.E. scratched into the corner with a blue pen.
Three chapters in and I’m still no more tired than when I came out here.
Movement catches my eye and I watch as Tobias steps quietly down the front porch from the window above. A few moments later, he slides the barn door open and I slink farther back against the hay bales. I bite my lip, thinking that I’ve been caught, but he doesn’t see me as he walks inside and flicks on the fluorescent lights hastily chained to the ceiling. He moves slowly and cracks his thick knuckles as he walks over to his motorbike.
I watch him quietly and my tongue taps the roof of my mouth. Charlie told me to leave him alone, but a question lingers on my lips.
“Where’d you get all the bruises?”
Tobias jolts and exhales a heavy breath before looking up at me. “My dad told me not to talk to you.” He looks away and focuses on his bike again.
“Do you always do what your dad tells you to do?” I ask, smiling.
His eyes flick up in my direction. It’s hard for me to get a read on him from this distance. I can’t tell if he’s angry or amused. He pauses before reaching out to grab the large, black helmet off the bike seat. “I got them at work,” he answers, avoiding my face.
“At work?” I ask.
“Yeah, at work.”
“Do guys beat you up at work on a regular basis?”
He finally turns and peaks up at me with narrow eyes. “I got them from operating factory equipment,” he claims.
I smirk. “If you say so…”
“Who busted your lip open?” he retorts. I stare down at him silently until he shifts around to grab the handles of his bike. “You should get back inside,” he says. “If he catches you out here—”
“He’ll make me milk another cow?” I quip.
“That… or he’ll make you write out Bible verses by hand — using your non-dominant hand,” he begins. “Or he’ll take you down to the sheriff’s office and they’ll have you pick up trash by the highway. Or he’ll take you to the nursing home in Rolla where you’ll spend the afternoon helping the staff switch out bedpans.”
A smile teases my lips. “Sounds like you speak from experience.”
“I do.”
“And here I was told you were a good boy.”
“I have my moments.” His eyes linger on me a little longer. “I need to get to work.”
“Be careful,” I tell him. “I hear factory equipment can be awfully dangerous.”
He takes a quick breath. “You should really get back inside,” he smirks, ignoring my comment.
“Bedpans?” I ask.
“Bedpans.”
“I guess I will then,” I chuckle. I push off the hay bales and carefully lower myself down the ladder to the ground below. As I turn around, I catch sight of the large punching bag again, hanging off the ceiling in the corner next to the silent cow pins. “Goodnight, Tobias,” I say as I pass by him.
“Goodnight, Claire,” he mutters back.
He pushes the bike out and slides the door closed behind us. I watch him as he mounts it and slides the helmet onto his head. Even now, he reminds me of Rick, with his thick black hair and prying eyes. Their voices are similar as well, each with a deep growl hovering below every syllable. I stand back as he revs the engine and takes off fast into the night.
***
Charlie steps into my room and tosses his car keys towards the bed. They land with a jingle next to my feet. I lower my book and stare at them before darting my eyes back to him. “What’s up, Charlie?” I ask, trying to remain cool and casual.
“I have to make a trip into town,” he says. “You have a license, right?”
I lean forward and pick them up. “Yes…” I say.
“Well, let’s go then.”
“You’re letting me drive?” I ask.
He slips an arm into his jacket. “Unless you have a rather compelling reason for me not to.”
I drop the book to the bed. It’s yet another boring romance I found on the shelf. Whoever M.E. is, they certainly left behind a large library of crap I never intended on reading, but I can’t seem to put down. “No no,” I say, shaking my head. “No reason.”
Charlie holds up a hand. “Work,” he says. Then he raises his other hand, “Reward.”
I smile and hop off the bed. It’s been a week since I arrived here and Charlie has barely let me do anything other than shovel food into my own mouth. Chores being the obvious, and only, exception. The thick, hateful tension between us seems to be breaking somewhat, but I wouldn’t call us friends just yet.
I still hate it here. I wish there was someone to talk to other than Charlie. I don’t enjoy our daily “chats,” the ones where he sits me down at the dinner table and asks me how I’m feeling, what I’m thinking about, and if I still want to take drugs. I’m stuck out in the middle of ass-Jesus nowhere. Of course I want to get high and forget about my troubles, but Charlie has made damn sure that doing so is impossible.
Tobias seems hellbent on not breaking his father’s rules for not engaging with me. Granted, we rarely see each other. He’s gone all night and I’m up all day. There are a few occasions where he’s in the house with us during the day, but they are few and far between — and never last long before he’s on his motorbike again, heading off to who knows where.
“Watch the speed limit,” Charlie warns, shifting in his seat.
I’ve never driven a pick-up truck before, but I’m not about to let him know that. You don’t see large trucks like this in the city. City folk like sports cars and SUVs. We don’t have a lot of use for big, gas-guzzling trucks. It’s strange being up in the air so high, but after a few miles, I’ve gotten used to it. I push the brake slightly, decreasing the speed by a few digits. “So, where are we going?” I ask him.
“You are staying in the truck,” he says. “I have to see a friend.”
“You have friends?” I chuckle.
“Yes, I have friends.” We pull into town and Charlie directs me down Main Street. “Park at the corner here,” he points.
I do as I’m told and take the parking spot, which thankfully isn’t parallel. There’s no way I’d be able to pull off parallel parking in this big beast of a truck. I point the air conditioning at my face to fight the sweat breaking on my brow. “So, I just stay here then?” I ask.
He pushes his door open and steps outside. “Yes.”
“Okay…” I look around outside.
Charlie wanders a few feet down the sidewalk before pausing and turning back to the truck. He gestures for me to roll down the window. “Or…” he mutters up at me, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. “If you can handle it…” He grabs five dollars and holds it up to my window. “You can go grab us a loaf of bread from the market.”
“Seriously?” I ask, snatching the money from his fingers.
“I understand,” I say, nodding quickly.
“Bread only.”
I turn off the truck and hop out of it. “In and out. No problem, Charlie.” I watch him walk off in the opposite direction and wait until I see where he’s going. He crosses the street and enters an office with the sign ‘Bradley Jones, Attorney at Law’ hovering above it. I pick up my pace and rush into the grocery store across the street.
I’ve been in here before, so I know they keep the bread in the back, next to the eggs and milk. Charlie’s serious about doubling my chores and honestly, it’s the last thing I want. He’s just started giving me a little wiggle room and I don’t want to blow what little trust he’s formed in me. I keep my head down, find the bread, and grab a loaf before a minute has passed by.
Thankfully, there’s no line at the checkout. I toss the bread down and fish into my pocket for the money Charlie gave me.
“Hey, Claire!”
I look up to see Amy standing behind the counter. “Hey,” I answer.
“This all you need?” she asks, snatching the bread off the belt to scan it in.
“Yeah.”
“Cool,” she says. “Running errands with Charlie again?”
“Yeah…” I check her face again and notice that her bottom lip is split on one side, bruised and scabbed over just like mine was. She also sports the remains of what looks to be a pretty decent, and recent, black eye. It wasn’t there a week ago when I first met her.
Amy catches me staring at her and she quickly looks away. “That’ll be two seventy-five,” she mutters with smiling lips.
I hand her the money. “So…” I say, keeping my voice low. “Where’d you get the…” I point to her face.
She looks at me with shifting eyes. “Nowhere,” she says. “Where’d you get yours?”
“Nowhere…” I mutter.
She hits me with another grin. “They aren’t what they look like,” she claims. “I work out at the local boxing gym once a week. Do you like boxing?”
“Never done it,” I answer.
Her voice gets low. “Do you like watching fights?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.
I stare at her with confusion. “What?”
She shifts on her feet, her lips curling slightly until she finally gestures me closer across the belt. “There’s a place…” she begins, “outside of town. Below the abandoned school on Third.”
“What kind of place?” I ask.
She lowers her voice, hesitating for a moment before finally giving in. “Go around back, take the rear entrance by the stairs. Down the first hall, you’ll see a door marked basement. Then, just follow the noise and you’ll find it.”
“Find what?”
Her smile spreads wider. “There’s a fee, but it’s affordable.” She passes me my change.
I open my mouth to ask for more information, but I catch sight of Charlie out the window behind her. He’s left the law office and is now walking slowly towards the truck. “Thank you,” I say as I grab the bread.
“See you tonight,” Amy mutters with a full smirk crossing her face.
I turn back to look at her one more time before pushing the door open. I look around for Charlie again and see him just across the street. I sprint fast, bolting through the nearly abandoned street and make it back to the truck a few seconds before he does.
Charlie pauses and stares at me with amused eyes.
“There was a line,” I say as I climb into the driver’s seat and close the door. I hold up the bread and smile.
He chuckles and moves to the passenger’s side.
Chapter 4
Follow The Noise
I sit quietly in my room and wait.
Charlie’s been in bed for a few hours now, just long enough to get into a really deep sleep. And for what I’m about to do, I need him to be really, really deep in sleep.
I leave my room and close the door behind me. It took a long while for me to talk myself into doing this. Charlie’s just starting to trust me and if I get caught sneaking out, all of that will be over. But the more I thought about it, the more my curiosity overwhelmed me.
I step lightly down the stairs. Charlie keeps his truck’s keys hanging on a hook in the kitchen. Luckily, he hasn’t had the mind to hide them from me at night. I pull them off the hook and silently walk out the front door.
The headlights stay off until I reach the turn for the highway. My heart races, scared of getting caught. I keep with the speed limit, hoping not to attract any attention to the truck I literally just stole.
Earlier, I watched the street signs in town, hoping to find Third Street. Unfortunately, I didn’t, but I did see a First Street. Where there’s a First, there’s a Second, and, hopefully, a Third.
The town is deserted, just as I expected at an hour like this. I turn onto First Street and travel south through town. I take the next street over and smile when I find Second Street. I pause at the stop sign and spot a car speeding up the street crossing mine. I wait for them to pass and I don’t have to wait long. The vehicle charges through the intersection with the windows down, ignoring the stop sign in the process. Music blares out of it, along with the whoops and hollers of those inside.
I quickly hit the gas and turn the truck to follow them. My gut tells me they’re here for the same reason I am. I come within distance of their license plate and spot the words St. Louis County. I’m guessing people from St. Louis don’t make it a habit of traveling out to towns in the middle of nowhere unless they have a good — and fun — reason for it.
I follow them through town and just as I suspected, they lead me to Third Street. A few miles later, we reach an abandoned school just outside the city limits, just like Amy described earlier. It’s old, unkempt, and surrounded by other cars. I park in the back and watch as three people tumble out of the car I followed here. They’re laughing, obviously inebriated, but they head towards the back entrance like they’ve been here a hundred times before. I climb out of the truck and follow them up the stairs.
Their voices echo through the halls. I keep my distance and follow them, trying to act as inconspicuous as possible. They don’t seem to notice me, but if they have, they don’t care. They pull open a door marked basement and it falls closed behind them.
I pick up my pace and pull it open.
Follow the noise.
By the time I’ve reached the bottom of the stairs, I’ve lost the travelers from St. Louis, but I can hear the screams and shouts of voices echoing through the dark hallways. I make my way through the black, relying on my ears to guide me until I finally come to a set of double doors with a bright light shining out from beneath them.
I push the door open and my jaw drops.
It’s an old basketball court, disheveled from years of abandonment and disuse. A circular stage, shaped like an octagon, sits in the center of the arena, surrounded by a chain-link fence — obviously tossed together with whatever pieces they could find at the local junkyard. The lights flicker above it, just barely hanging on with what little electricity it still pumping into this place.
Two fighters stand in the center with their fists engaged in fighting stances. As my eyes land on them, one takes a firm punch to the jaw and falls flat to the floor. I flinch and my own hands fly to my mouth as I watch the blood spill off his teeth.
“Hey, Claire!”
I look up to find Amy stepping into my view. She appears entirely different than before, sporting a tight tank top and denim shorts. I blink, noticing her tight and toned body, which was well-hidden before behind long sleeves and pants. “Amy…?” I greet, shouting about the roaring crowd. “Hi.” I look around. There has to be at least fifty people cramped together in this makeshift arena.
“I was starting to think you wouldn’t show,” she says.
“I almost wish I hadn’t…” I say.
“Entrance fee is
ten dollars,” she says, holding out her hand. “But for you, I’ll take five. It’s your first time, after all. I like to be gentle.”
A body slams into the fence and the crowd goes wild. I reach into my pocket and pull out the wad of cash I brought with me. I give her the money and look back to the ring as the same fighter takes another fist to the jaw. “What is this?” I ask her.
“It’s an illegal MMA fighting ring, obviously,” she jokes as she stuffs my money into a large, glass jar. She twists the lid back on and holds onto it tightly against her breast. A metal whistle hangs down from a chain around her neck. I say nothing in response and stare back at her with confusion. “Mixed martial arts,” she explains.
“I see…” I look at the ring, unable to take my eyes off it. “Are there any rules?”
She shakes her head. “No — well, no weapons. Fists and skin only. The fight goes until someone is knocked unconscious or taps out.”
The crowd lets out another scream as one fighter lands a serious jab against the other’s throat.
“Are these locals?” I ask, scanning their wild faces.
“Oh, hell no,” she answers with a giggle. “Well, a few, like myself. The others come from all over the state just to bare witness to the best fighters in the whole Midwest.”
I blink, feeling queasy, as the same fighter takes another bloody punch. “What do they get out of this?” I ask.
“Underground fame and glory, baby!” she smirks. “And this.” She holds up the glass jar.
“The winner gets the entrance fees?”
“I take a bit off the top for organizing the event,” she says. “Then the local on-duty cop takes a bit for his silence. The rest gets stashed away for the final tournament fight and the winner of that takes home everything.”
“You pay off the cops?”
“We used to host these fights in Rolla, but the cops there were total pricks. The ones here in our tiny town are a bit more… persuasive.”
I scan her face again, staring directly at her big, bruised eye. “Do you fight, too?” I ask in surprise.