Velvet Fire - Ashby Crime Family Romance

The dance track faded to silence and in those few seconds before the next track started, I heard it. All hell breaking loose.

My heart sped up as I thought about what this could mean for me and as soon as I could open my eyes, I looked around the room for a plan. An escape. The sound of a phone ringing just outside the door startled me and I froze.

“Yeah?” That was Brendan Rhymer’s voice, I recognized it well even though I still knew jack shit about the guy.

“What? Where the fuck is she?”

He didn’t sound happy, and I wasn’t ashamed to admit that it brought a smile to my face.

“What’s going on?” That deep voice belonged to the bald-headed fucker. Pope.

“Savannah’s been kidnapped,” he said, sounding truly worried. No one responded so I guessed this one-sided conversation took place on his phone. Whoever she was, she mattered to this scumbag. I couldn’t help but feel a small sense of satisfaction even though I also kind of hoped she hadn’t been stripped and shot up with drugs like I had.

“It has to be those fucking Ashbys, Dad.”

Dad? Shit. This was a family business? Like the Ashby family. Like the Reckless Bastards. Which meant this shit was way worse and way more serious than I realized. My eyes scanned the bare room once again. There was one small window, but from the height of the house I saw out the window, it looked like I was on the second floor. Maybe the third.

“Calm down, Dad. I know it’s Ashby,” he said, pride dripping from every syllable he spoke. “I might have taken something that belongs to that fuckface Virgil. His bitch,” he said, pride and glee in his tone. Whatever his father was saying, the old dude wasn’t pleased. Rumblings of his deep voice, loud but unintelligible, even made it through the closed door of my room.

“We’ll get her back,” he said. “I promise.”

Shit, if Virgil did have his men pick up whoever Savannah was, this wouldn’t be over anytime soon. I couldn’t take another shot of those fucking drugs.

“Stop,” I whispered to myself. Now was not the time to let my thoughts distract me. Now was the time to get the fuck outta here.

I stood quietly and crept to the window to have a look. The house was one of those big old homes with large overhangs separating the porch from the second floor and judging by the size of this one, this place was gigantic. That meant escape was possible. That fueled the hope and fear that warred within my gut as Brendan continued to plead with his father over the phone.

“But Dad—” he said and was immediately cut off by another tinny tirade from dear old dad.

The small worn latch twisted easily and allowed me to open the window, though it did require me to put some muscle in it, which was hard with my drug-heavy limbs. I sucked in several deep breaths to get rid of the stench of body odor, sex and drugs, letting the air get into my lungs and brain to clear out the bullshit.

“Okay Maze, you got this,” I told myself but I wasn’t sure I did have it.

The door opened with a kick and Pope appeared first, a dark glare on his face at finding me straddling the windowsill, half in and half out. As soon as he started to move, I kicked my other leg out of the window until I stood on the worn and slippery tiles on the overhang.

“Get that bitch!” Brendan’s voice sounded closer. Louder.

I stepped to the edge and looked down.

“Fuck,” I said, maybe out loud. “That’s a far jump.”

But another look through the window showed both men advancing on me.

“What the fuck,” I whispered and jumped. Falling felt like it took forever but the angry shouts behind me told a different story.

I landed ungracefully, thinking about how I should’ve paid closer attention to those stupid boy tricks my little brother Stone always tried to teach me. If I had, I wouldn’t have twisted my ankle when I landed.

I tried to stand up three times on my weak ankle, falling down every fucking time.

“Shit!” This time I know I swore out loud.

The fourth time I pushed myself off the ground and put just enough weight on the left ankle to make it useful. I stood tall and took in the yellow house with the cracked paint and faded tilted shutters, classic crack house, revival style.

Inside one window I caught sight of a familiar face. “Wyatt?”

The sound of his name drew his attention. First a smile appeared, and then shock that he’d been found in a compromising position. One girl, naked except for a thong had her face buried between his bare legs while the other, stuck a needle in his arm. He flashed a charming smile and put his free hand up to his lips in a shushing motion.