Chapter Two
Naomi Dawson
Despite the fact that all four windows of my ancient Chevy Malibu are rolled down, it’s still too hot to sleep. Late June in Sea Breeze is the equivalent of a day in hell, except I doubt even hell is this muggy and humid, the salty air so thick you can almost grab it. I try rolling to my other side, facing the passenger side of the car in my reclined driver seat, but it’s no use. Sleep isn’t going to happen again tonight.
I miss my soft, cozy bed.
I miss my shower and clothes.
I miss…being home.
But at the moment, two linebacker-sized goons are sitting in an SUV right outside the driveway, waiting for me to return so that they can snatch me up.
Screw that and screw them.
Eventually, they’ll get tired of waiting and leave. Probably. Maybe.
If I were smart, I would haul my ass right out of town and never look back.
Too bad I only have ten dollars to my name and can’t even afford a full tank of gas at the moment. Sooner or later, I will also have to come out of hiding to go back to work or I’m going to get fired. Sorry, but I can’t come in again tonight because my father’s goons are after me won’t go over well with my boss, Nancy. She’s cranky and menopausal, working twelve-hour shifts on her feet managing slack-asses and serving guests in a greasy diner that’s open all night, so I can’t really blame her for having a piss poor attitude. God knows I would be snippy too if I end up working there for the next twenty years of my life.
I’m so busy thinking about how much shit I’m going to be in at work when I finally return that I don’t even realize I’m no longer alone until someone’s fingers are digging into the back of my short blonde hair. They give a harsh, sudden, sharp tug that causes something in my neck to pop.
Oh crap. Crap, crap, crap!
Screaming does no good since I’m parked in a closed used car lot, yet I still give it a shot, screaming for help as I’m yanked backward all the way out the open window none too gently. Squeezing through the tight space was actually nothing compared to hitting the pavement on my ass and being dragged across it as I dig my nails into the big hand to pry it from my hair.
“Stop it! Stop! Put me down, you fucking bastard!” I screech at my kidnapper.
His free hand slams across my face with a hard whap that leaves my cheek throbbing. “Keep clawing at me and I’ll bring you in without a pulse!” the giant warns me before I’m picked up under my arms and tossed into the cargo area of his SUV. He slams the door on me; and before I can find a latch to open it back up, the sound of the locks engage just as the SUV lunges forward, peeling out of the gravel parking lot.
“The scrawny bitch made me bleed!” my kidnapper has the audacity to complain to someone, most likely the guy driving him. It’s dark and I can’t see their faces from two rows back, so I climb over the back of the seat, moving closer to a door. Since it’s a suburban or some other big SUV, I still have another seat to hurdle over.
“Told you that you should’ve put on your leather gloves.”
“No shit. She’s lucky I didn’t rip her head off!”
I’ve got one leg over the middle row when the kidnaper yells, “Get your ass back or I’ll put a bullet in you, cunt!”
After I hear the clicking sound of his gun being cocked, I slowly ease down into the back seat.
“She’s a feisty one. I don’t mind when they fight back,” the driver says as we roll through the city. The numerous streetlights of our tourist beach town allow his eyes to find me in the rear-view. “Wonder how much boss wants for her.”
The kidnapper scoffs. “That’s his daughter. She won’t go cheap. Heard she owes him twenty grand.”
“Too bad I only have ten in savings. I’d gladly cough it all up for that ass.”
“Who knows?” the kidnapper tells his buddy. “Boss might loan her out to you.”
“Yeah, maybe so.”
If I had any food in my stomach, it would probably be on the seat next to me by now after listening to them talk about me in such a horrible, crude way. Some people might think they were just trying to scare me by talking about me like I’m an object and not a human being, but I know enough about my estranged father to be certain that it’s not just talk.
A few weeks ago, I stole something from him. Something I can’t ever get back. And since I won’t ever be able to pay back the twenty thousand dollars or return the historical memento he was so proud to own, there’s no clue what he’ll do to me.
There’s one thing I’m certain of – he won’t show me any mercy just because we share similar DNA.
“Naomi! My silly, stupid girl. What were you thinking, gumdrop?” Harold Cox asks once I’m standing before him. Most people probably think he changed his name to make it as disgusting as possible, but the truth is his parents must have known he would turn out to be a dick. I mean, his lard ass is actually sitting on a custom-made throne in the middle of his mansion. His minions, the elite, upper crust of the city along with various crooked politicians are milling about the three-story southern plantation house drinking, smoking, and laughing while I await my punishment.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him meekly as I fidget with my fingers in front of me. I really am sorry, though it’s only for getting caught, not for the actual act of stealing from him.
“Sorry?” he snaps. “Sorry isn’t going to bring back George Washington’s original signature block, is it?”
That’s right. My father, a man I’ve only seen a handful of times, is not only a mobster but a huge history buff.
“No,” I whisper.
“No, it’s not!” he yells, causing some of the guests to pause momentarily in the middle of their conversations about taking over the world before going back to their good time.
“I’ll get the money, and-and then I’ll buy it back,” I assure him, even though we both know I’m full of shit. That signature is long gone.
“There’s no amount of money that will replace what I’ve lost, what you stole from me when you came into my home as a guest,” he replies calmly as he smooths back what’s left of his thinning, pale blond hair. And I know he’s super pissed if he’s no longer yelling but primping. His swollen chest is puffing rapidly up and down, and his chubby face is the brightest of red, looking like he’s seconds away from a heart attack.
“Then how…how can I make it up to you, daddy?” I ask, tacking on the title I’ve never used before to try and invoke any tiny smidgeon of sympathy he may still possess in his soul for me, his illegitimate daughter.
“Oh, you’ll never be able to make this up to me, gumdrop,” he says without hesitation. “Now I’m just trying to decide how I should punish you.”
Great.
“One option is to simply sell you to the highest bidder…”
“What?” I exclaim.
“I always knew you were a gold-digger just like your mother. If you’re going to act like a conniving whore, using me for money, I have no choice but to treat you like one. How much do you think she’ll go for at auction, Dirk?” he asks one of the goons who brought me in – the driver who I now can see is completely bald and the size of two normal-sized men, if one was sitting on the other’s shoulders.