Deserted: Book #3, Auctioned Series Read online

  Opening the envelope, he noticed there was something inside that was a little heavier than a piece of paper. It fell out, and Gray cocked his head at the bottle cap that’d landed on his thigh.

  Then he unfolded the letter and read.

  Maybe it takes a fighter to recognize a runner. Maybe I’ve just been in the game long enough. If you’re reading this, you’re on the road somewhere, and you’ve decided there’s something you have to go through alone.

  I know the feeling, knucklehead. I know because I’ve been there. You get claustrophobic; the walls close in on you, and you feel like a stranger. You want things to go back to the way they were, but they won’t. Your loved ones can sympathize but never relate. You’ve changed. How you look at the world, how you interpret things, how you observe—it’s all different. You can’t laugh at the same jokes your family finds funny, so you put up a front. You pretend, and it works—for a while. Sooner or later, you implode. Or explode in my case.

  For years, I coped by letting the rage dictate my next move. When it got to be too much, I punched a fist through a wall or threw a chair till it broke. When I’d calmed down some, I took another assignment.

  Don’t do what I did, Gray. Trauma can’t be fixed overnight, and you can’t escape it.

  You don’t have to deal with this on your own either. I’m here. I may not be your family, but I care about you, and I get it. I understand what you’re going through.

  It’s why I won’t try to get you to return. I know you’ve made your decision, and you’re sticking to it. But keep in mind that there’s someone you can call. Someone who’s made more mistakes and fucked up more than you ever could. I’m the last person who would judge you—or make assumptions.

  Be safe,

  Darius

  PS: At one point or another in our lives, my brothers and I have been on the receiving end of a pep talk from our pop that included a bottle cap. When we see each other again, I’ll tell you the whole story. But save the cap. It means a lot to me.

  Gray sniffled and wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand as he set aside the letter and picked up the bottle cap. He wasn’t sure what to think; he wasn’t sure of how he felt, but his body seemed to know. The tears rolled down for several moments while he checked out mentally and just studied the cap.

  How fitting. A cap from an Irish beer to remind him of a man with Irish heritage.

  Gray hated Guinness.

  He flipped the bottle cap between his fingers and focused on taking steady breaths.

  He did have to do this on his own—sorta. He had to be away from Darius because he would never be able to fend for himself if he always had someone to lean on. As for his family… No need to explain that one to anyone. Darius was right. Gray didn’t feel like he fit in. He wouldn’t run forever, but something had to give. He had to…do something. He had to change further. Or this sense of being disconnected would never cease. He’d always feel like an outcast.

  Gray glanced at the clock on the nightstand and swallowed. He had to get some sleep, despite the nightmares that were waiting to sink their claws into his flesh.

  He fucking hated the nightmares.

  He hated seeing their faces. Their empty gazes. The blood. He hated hearing their soft, raspy voices—their final pleas—their cries, and their screams of agony.

  Gray sniffled again and grabbed his meds. He’d been prescribed medication for anxiety and depression, as well as something that helped him sleep. But he didn’t like those. They worked as bondage. They trapped him in his nightmares and made it impossible for him to move.

  He had mild pain medication for his leg too. It seized up and cramped sometimes, mostly when he sat still for too long or didn’t stretch. Other than that, though, only a scar would indicate he’d been shot recently.

  After standing up and stretching his leg, he brought his toothbrush, toothpaste, and a change of underwear with him into the bathroom. A hot shower before bed would hopefully help settle his anxiousness.

  Two

  Gray stopped at an outlet mall a couple hours south of DC and got lunch. He bought clothes and changed into a new outfit before he left the store too. He actually looked like a put-together person now. He had to be presentable to the Philly mafia, he figured. Other than the jeans he’d stuffed inside his duffel, he’d bought a pair of slacks, a fitted button-down, a jacket, and new shoes. Oh, and earbuds, in hope that music would help him against the nightmares tonight.

  He hated the memory of his reflection in the dressing room. He’d lost so much weight and felt practically scrawny these days. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d weighed less than 190, and now he was at 172. He’d gained a few pounds since returning to civilization, but it sure as fuck wasn’t in muscle.

  Gray and Abel used to work out together at what he’d learned was Darius’s brother’s gym. The two would walk in and feel eyes on them. Gray had always invested a lot of time and energy to feel good. To be healthy. He was far from Abel’s level, but then, Gray had never wanted to play in the NHL either. He still wanted to be able to scarf down a cheeseburger and fries at the end of the week. Now, most of that hard work was ruined.

  Everything was ruined.

  Sick of his own thoughts, he turned on the radio in the truck and glanced at his phone. No new messages. He’d received the address and a repeat of the instructions from Dominic this morning; that was all. Not that Gray expected anything else. He wasn’t planning on unblocking any contacts anytime soon, and his family respected his wishes enough not to seek him out from new numbers.

  Okay, Abel might. Abel was the type of friend who had to help right now, right here, his way. A slight smile tugged at the corners of Gray’s mouth at the thought. Abel had been the sole reason Gray had wanted to study psychology in college. To understand better, to grasp the fact that different people required different languages and approaches. And due to Abel’s bipolar diagnosis and his anxiety, Gray had found his thing. He wanted to help people. Children, specifically.

  Was that dream still there?

  Was everything gone?

  Gray blew out a breath.

  The radio wasn’t fucking helping.

  He crossed a bridge and drove into Philadelphia around three in the afternoon, and the first thing he did when he arrived downtown was regret his choice of vehicle. The black truck had gleamed and appeared so badass in the South, like it belonged, but now it stuck out in a gray sea of sedans.

  Back home, there were trucks everywhere. He’d never had his own, but since his big brother Gage lived in Seattle and didn’t want his truck there, Gray borrowed it.

  This wasn’t their sleepy town in Washington, though.

  After navigating his way between skyscrapers and the city folk, he found the address he’d put into his GPS. It was right there on the corner of a busy intersection, and someone stepped out to set up a chalkboard easel with today’s specials and the announcement of a performer playing at nine.

  Gray squinted in every direction and quickly gave up hope of finding parking. But he’d spotted a sign for a parking garage a couple blocks back, so he turned left to go back from where he’d come.

  Twenty minutes later, he emerged from the garage on foot, and he zipped up his jacket and disappeared into the crowd on the sidewalk. The weather fucking sucked. Rain and sleet combined with wet, icy winds blew past him and turned his cheeks rosy from the cold.

  He hoped he wouldn’t have to wait several days for this Kellan Ford guy to show up.

  Opening the door to the Irish pub, Gray was instantly met by the smell of food and cigarette smoke. Wasn’t it illegal to smoke indoors?

  The place was pretty empty, aside from two men who sat and ate in one of the booths. On the other side of the bar, booths had been replaced by tables and a small stage.

  A British singer songwriter’s tune played on the stereo. Gray picked up the lyrics as he eyed the man behind the bar. Words of being gone in the morning flitted past. A masculine, melodic voice
sang of being chosen for a life on the road. Seemed fitting at the moment.

  Gray didn’t allow his nerves to flare up. He didn’t think. He approached the bar. Step by measured step—there was no going back. He was gonna find this kid, end of.

  The stocky man looked up from the register and jerked his chin.

  Gray cleared his throat. “Are you Mick?”

  The man inclined his head. “The very one. We’re not hiring.”

  Gray shook his head minutely. “I’m looking for Kellan Ford and was told to ask you.” In his periphery, he caught one of the guys in the booth looking over. Did he know the name? Did he know Kellan Ford, maybe?

  Mick straightened and raised a brow. “You got a message, lad?”

  “Right.” Gray refocused on him. “I’m a friend of Dominic Cleary, and I need to talk to Kellan.”

  “Oi.” The guy who’d looked over nodded at Mick, as if to say it was okay, and then he met Gray’s stare. “I’m Kellan.”

  Oh. Oh shit. For some reason, he had expected someone older. This guy didn’t look to be much older than Gray. His arms were tatted up, his hair was dark and cropped short, and he reminded Gray of a soccer hooligan from England. Complete with the gingham button-down and suspenders.

  The fact that Kellan already happened to be here fucked with Gray’s head. He’d thought he would have some time to prepare. At the same time, the dude didn’t strike him as very dangerous.

  No time to waste.

  He walked over, and Kellan exchanged some quiet words with his companion, who grabbed his plate and walked off.

  Kellan leaned back in his seat and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Dominic Cleary, huh? Been a while since I heard his name.” He gestured for Gray to take a seat. “What’s he up to these days?”

  “He works with kids,” was a vague enough answer, Gray figured.

  Kellan hummed and returned to tucking into his food. It was some sort of stew. “Did he make it to Seattle?”

  “Yeah.” Gray didn’t know how close they’d been, and he didn’t want to divulge anything that wasn’t his to share. “He’s doing well.”

  “But you’re not.” He smirked faintly and dragged a piece of bread through the sauce. “I don’t know how many times I tried to get him to work for me, but he kept his distance.” He paused and chewed on the bread. “He wouldn’t tell you to come to me if there were any other options.”

  Gray didn’t reply, because he didn’t know what to say to that.

  “So, what can I do for you…?”

  “Gray.”

  “Gray. What can I do for you, Gray?” Then Kellan held up a finger and turned to the bar. “Mick! Two pints over here, when you got a sec.”

  His easygoing and casual demeanor rattled Gray. Was Kellan really that bad? Dominic had made it sound like organized crime was involved. It didn’t help that Kellan had piercing green eyes that seemed to hold a touch of mirth in them all the time.

  “I have to find someone.” Gray tried to relax and shrugged out of his jacket. “Dominic said I could cash in the favor you owed him.”

  “Oh, he did?” Kellan finished his meal and threw the napkin on the plate. “That’s not how this works, but I’ll hear you out. If I feel motivated to help…” He trailed off with a shrug.

  Gray suppressed a pinch of frustration and waited while Mick arrived with two glasses of beer.

  One was for him.

  “Put it on my tab, mate,” Kellan said.

  “No, that’s fine,” Gray said as politely as he could, and he dug out his wallet and offered Mick a ten. “Thank you.”

  Kellan and Mick exchanged an amused glance before the bartender returned to the bar.

  “Dominic told you a bit about me,” Kellan stated with that smirk. “You don’t wanna owe me anything—which you wouldn’t. It’s beer, not a kidney.”

  Gray lifted a shoulder and didn’t touch his glass. “No disrespect. I’m just being careful.”

  Kellan nodded and took a swig of his beer. Then he sat back and retrieved a pack of cigarettes. “You mind?”

  Gray shook his head.

  “Who’re you looking for?” Kellan asked, lighting up a smoke.

  The absent-minded action reminded Gray of Darius and the way he lit his cigarettes when he was tired. He’d let the smoke dangle from the side of his mouth while he searched for his lighter.

  Don’t think about him.

  Gray cleared his throat. “It’s a kid. Jayden Chapman. He’s eight years old and presumably hiding from CPS.”

  Kellan furrowed his brow in thought and exhaled some smoke through his nose. “Chapman—I might recognize the name.”

  It hadn’t occurred to Gray that maybe he’d known Jonas—who had spent years on and off the streets. How big was the Philadelphia underworld? “His older brother’s name was Jonas.”

  “Was?”

  Gray dipped his chin. “He died. Long story, but I promised him I’d find his brother.”

  “Hm.” Kellan brought out his phone and set it next to his beer, and he pulled up an app that showed a blank page. Maybe it was one for taking notes…? “What can you tell me about the brothers that might help narrow shite down? They’re white, I assume. Religious? Part of a community? Did Jonas talk of mates he had here—family they stayed with sometimes?”

  Pasts and futures hadn’t existed in the world where Gray had met Jonas. He shook his head, at a loss. He knew virtually nothing trivial about Jonas. Gray knew the guy had done everything to protect the innocent around him, and he knew he’d been in agony about having left his little brother behind.

  “Sorry. I don’t have much to go on.” Gray rubbed the back of his neck, absently feeling the barcode and the digits below it. “He told me Jayden had been safe at the time—when Jonas left Philadelphia. But he wasn’t supposed to be gone longer than a summer.”

  Kellan was writing something down.

  Gray flicked a glance at the guy’s colorful tattoos. From the letters across his knuckles and the darkly shadowed shamrock with a broken leaf that covered his hand, to the quotes swirling around instruments and other motifs along his arm. There was a sawed-off shotgun with the words “May the rebellion in your blood save you from their shackles” underneath the barrel. The topside of the shotgun morphed into a violin on its back. The name Luna was written in cursive along the strings of the violin. A set of green eyes, a cliff with waves crashing up against it, an old-looking family crest… A Celtic cross inside a circle. Inside the circle, Gray read “The Sons of Munster.”

  His other arm was much the same. Violence, Ireland, music, quotes, two bullet holes.

  Kellan got comfortable once more and took a drag from his smoke. “You’re very invested in the brother of someone you barely knew.”

  Gray nodded slightly, understanding why it came off that way, and he couldn’t say he had any desire to explain why this promise was important for him to keep. “We went through something together,” he said carefully. “His only goal had been to make enough money to be able to start fresh with his brother, but he didn’t get that chance.”

  Kellan’s striking eyes clouded with pensiveness. “You don’t share his background. You’re not from the streets.” Gray had nothing to say to that. Kellan smiled a bit. “I admit, you have my interest.”

  That one bugged Gray. He wasn’t here to be toyed with, and he was in no mood to stall if it wouldn’t lead to anything. “Are you capable of helping?” he asked with a hint of impatience lacing his voice. “This is a shot in the dark for me. The way Dominic phrased himself, I was under the impression I was meeting someone…I don’t know, more experienced.”

  Kellan raised his brows, mildly amused. The amusement never really left. “It sounds like you’re saying I look young.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  Kellan let out a laugh and took a final puff from his cigarette. “Years make up a life about as much as the page numbers make up a book.” Then he put out his smoke and leaned f
orward, absently cracking his knuckles. “I’ll help you, Gray. Only because it won’t cost me anything, and Dominic and I will be square.”

  Gray kept his face composed and watched Kellan pull out a pen and scribble something on a new napkin.

  “Nothing happens in Philly without at least one of my mates knowing about it,” he said, sliding the napkin over to Gray. “When it comes to children and family matters, this is the guy.”

  Gray eyed the address—to a fucking church—and the name of a priest. Father O’Malley?

  “If he doesn’t know where Jayden is himself, he’ll know someone who does,” Kellan finished.

  Nothing happens in Philly without at least one of my mates knowing about it…

  That sparked a change of direction for Gray, and his mind went straight to Jackie. The boy who was still lost. Seventeen years old, stuck in hell somewhere with a perverted slave owner.

  If Kellan Ford wasn’t full of shit, if he was capable of what he implied, he had to be deeply connected.

  Did he know anything outside of Philadelphia?

  That was the question.

  He hesitated, fidgeting with the edge of the napkin. But in the end, if he could find out anything about Jackie, Gray owed it to him and himself to try.

  “Does your, uh, network extend to outside of the city too?” he asked.

  Kellan cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

  Gray shifted in his seat and straightened a little. “Say I wanted information about a criminal network in another state…how much would that cost me?”

  Oh, Darius would kill him for this. And Dominic had warned him.

  “Well.” Kellan coughed into his fist, and his eyes flashed with intrigue, challenge, and more mirth. “I’m a law-abiding citizen, so I’m not sure how I would be able to help. I guess it would depend on the specifics of the request.”

  Gray narrowed his eyes and realized he wouldn’t get any further if he didn’t fess up some actual truth. With details. Because Kellan didn’t know Gray. He was bound to be careful, and the last thing he’d do would be to say anything that put himself in trouble with the law.