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“On the floor? Really, Duke? You can mop it up yourself.” Dolly marches off toward the cleaning closet.
He’s glaring at me, demanding an answer. Sterling lowers his hands, but doesn’t step out from between us. My chest is rising and falling slowly. They’re all waiting for my answer, clearly curious about what my intentions are with Rosie.
“It’s none of your damn business who I take to bed.” I spit out the last word before walking back over to my cold plate of pasta, pulling over another barstool since Duke crushed the first two. “But if I was going to, I would’ve already done it.”
“That’s not an answer!” he roars.
Sterling holds him back by his shoulders.
I slam my fist against the counter. “She’s a Dixon. Her father’s the one who had Cash arrested, who sent me to jail and ultimately locked me up in solitary confinement by sending men to attack me. Warner would’ve gotten me off on probation if Clay Dixon hadn’t funded the prosecution and convinced them I was a danger to society, self-defense or not. You think I’d really take her to bed after everything her old man put us through? The fact that you’re so bent out of shape about it really is pathetic.”
The room falls silent. I grab a piece of garlic bread, shoving a bite into my mouth and chewing.
“You were in solitary confinement?” Dolly asks quietly.
I close my eyes, exhaling. My voice is more even now. “My point is, their family has been trying to ruin ours for years, since before I killed Cain for what he did to Dolly. I know you’re all in love with her, but Rosie Dixon will never be one of us. She can work here, but she’s not going to be a Redford. Ever.” I look over at Duke’s bloodied face and clenched jawline. “And we’re done spilling Redford blood over the enemy.”
25
ROSIE
“Where are we?” I beg for an answer as the vehicle finally slows.
I’ve been blindfolded, my hands tied behind my back with some kind of rope. I came to as they shoved me into the van. Rain is pouring down outside, railing on the windows.
The water immediately streams in with the heavy, whirring drag of a van door sliding open and wets my shoulders, arms, and upper thighs. He ushers me out and forces me into a run with his hand on my back. He yanks me up three steps before banging loudly on a wooden door.
The sound of dead bolts opening and locks clicking is followed by the handle finally twisting and the door swinging open. He hauls me inside. It smells musty and old. Cold fear floods my system as my senses seem to fully return after whatever sedative they gave me. He pulls my blindfold off, and my eyes adjust to the dim light of what appears to be an old hunting cabin. The man is still wearing a mask, but it’s only him and me. Before he has time to speak or tie me to a chair, I raise my foot up and stomp down on his as hard as I can.
“Ouch!” he howls.
I turn and sprint out the door. The rain pelts my face as I run off the porch, smacking into a hard chest.
This man is bigger than the other one. He latches on to me, paralyzing me with his unmoving grip.
“Going somewhere, little girl?” His voice is thick with a Southern accent.
I kick against him, fighting for my life. He’s immovable as he drags me through the mud and the onslaught of raindrops. I let out a piercing scream, hoping someone can hear me through the downpour and the sound of thunder.
All my nerve endings are highly sensitive as the man shoves me through the door, his grip so tight that my shoulders feel like they’re bruising. The first man steps toward me, a syringe in his hand. His eyes are dark with rage.
“I told him we needed a stronger sedative,” he mumbles, louder than he’s spoken before.
That voice … why does it sound familiar?
I kick him again, this time right in the balls. He yelps in pain. The man holding my shoulders doesn’t budge, patiently waiting on the other one. He finally stands back upright, eyes crazy with an unhinged anger.
“You know, you’ve always been a little cunt,” he groans, still keeping his voice low.
Where have I heard this man speak before?
He shifts the syringe to his left hand before swinging his right elbow from the side and gouging me in the eye with it.
I scream in agony, but there’s no way for me to fight back, to shield myself from the next blow. Instead of another shot at my face, my arm stings as he sticks me with the syringe, emptying the cold liquid into my blood. Immediately, my body feels weak, and I slack against him. I try to look around the cabin for any clues about where I am, but my vision goes dark before I can take note of anything.
My aching head is the first thing I’m aware of as I come to. My shoulders are tender, like maybe I fell off of a horse or did a terrible Pilates class with Dolly. My eyelids are heavy, but I force them open. My mouth feels like it’s full of dry cotton balls.
I need water.
