Season Vining - Beautiful Addictions

They had stopped for breaks only four times in two days. They’d eaten only once. Josie was starving and thirsty and irritated by the whole hostage situation. She was sure that she was causing irreversible damage to her bladder while her captor feigned ignorance about how women’s bodies work.

Josie crossed her arms and sulked at all the waiting. She’d rather he just get it over with. She was positive that her mind was imagining a much worse fate than what would transpire. The not-knowing part was the worst. She thought about New York and how maybe it would have been better if she had just died back then. There would have been no amnesia, no horrible foster parents, and no feeling like she didn’t deserve to live. Then again, there would have been no reuniting with Tristan.

“How much longer?” Josie asked.

No answer.

“What are you going to do with me?”

His eyes stayed forward, his face expressionless.

“Well, since you don’t want to answer my questions, I’ll just keep talking. So, I know you’re the bad guy, but when did bad guys get so hot? I mean, in that older guy, daddy complex sort of way. I’m fucking hungry. Are you starving me to death? Is that what’s happening here?”

He sighed and twisted his grip around the steering wheel. Josie almost smiled and wondered if she could annoy him into releasing her.

“You could let me go, you know. Just drop me off at the Mexican border and never look back. You could let me out here. Tell Moloney you killed me. I’ll disappear and everybody wins.”

He shook his head slightly.

“What are the odds of me surviving a jump from the car while going”—she leaned over, looking at the speedometer—“eighty miles an hour? Probably not good.”

Josie took a deep breath and slammed her head back against the headrest.

“You are the worst fucking bad guy ever. You’re supposed to be crazy smart and witty. Also, you’re supposed spill the master plan, giving me some satisfaction before I die. Have you never seen a horror movie?”

She rolled her head toward the window and watched the trees slide by in a blur. For a second, she glimpsed her reflection in the glass and thought about the message she’d left in her bathroom. She hoped someone found it.

“It’s Mort,” his deep voice made Josie’s head whip around, thinking that he was finally talking to her. Instead, she saw his phone pressed to his ear. “I’m three hours out with the girl. Yes. Yes. Got it.”

He ended the call and cast a glance in her direction. Josie’s eyes darted away quickly, not wanting to upset him. Three hours. She had three hours to live. What should she be doing with her time? More than she wanted to escape, she wanted to hear Tristan’s voice just one more time.

Josie closed her eyes and prayed. She was a hypocrite just like those people who become religious only on airplanes. She didn’t pray for a savior or an escape, only for Tristan to know undoubtedly that for the second time in her life, she loved him. It wasn’t until all her time thinking in the confines of this car that she realized she had never said it to him. How could she have never said it to him?

Rob didn’t speak to the girl unless necessary and kept his eyes on the road. At this point, he was functioning on pure adrenaline and no sleep. If he didn’t have to look into her questioning eyes, he could find the strength to keep driving. For a while, he thought he might kill her just to shut her up. She asked questions, many questions. Rightfully so, she wanted to know where they were going, what he was going to do with her. Rob knew she didn’t really want to know the answer, so he fought to remain silent.

He glanced over, finding her eyes closed and hands clasped tightly together. He sighed and refocused his attention on the highway, brooding over the enormous mess. He was still angry that he’d had to take the girl instead of just killing her. It would have been an easy kill. She hadn’t fought back or tried to escape, it was textbook. It had been her terrified, begging voice that had done him in. That and the vision of Monica’s sad face.

Rob was in too deep, far too connected to Josie Banks and her past. The woman he loved, the woman he craved above anything else, would be crushed by Josie’s death. As he drove through the night, he found himself hoping that Moloney wouldn’t make him be the triggerman on this job. Now that he didn’t have to kill her, he’d be able to sleep next to Monica with a clearer conscience. He’d be able to hold her and soothe her aching guilt. He’d be able to live the rest of his days, however numbered they might be, without remorse.

Dean Moloney sat behind his large oak desk, peering out the perfectly clean plate-glass window. On this cloudless day he could see clear across his property. The blue sky filled the top of this window canvas and spilled down until it was interrupted by green trees. His eyes skimmed over the pond, the water rippling with soft patterns. His stables rose against the backdrop of the security fence marking the perimeter of his land. He loved sitting here, celebrating that all that was his.

His parents had been poor people. They had been happy with a small house and secondhand furniture. Dean always wanted more. He envied his uncle’s lavish lifestyle. Uncle John Moloney, his father’s brother, had been a part of the organization as long as Dean could remember. Even at a young age, Dean knew that he wanted to follow in the man’s footsteps. His parents fought him on it. They prided themselves on working hard and walking the straight and narrow. When he was a teenager, he started working for his uncle. Before Dean took the job, John warned of the importance of discretion. Dean fell into the lifestyle easily, becoming a sort of apprentice to his uncle. Only nine years later, John was killed by a random mugger. Dean clawed his way over more experienced and seasoned members directly to the top. He learned how to cover his tracks with legit businesses and how to recruit the best men and keep them.

Eventually, he’d met his wife and started a family, an ideal step along his path. Nothing was more important to him than continuing his proud Irish bloodline. He’d never been happier than when his twins arrived. He remembered running through the halls, shouting to anyone who would listen, of his healthy baby boy and girl. From that instant, he had their destinies mapped out. His daughter would be a princess, never wanting for anything, and his son would be groomed to ultimately take his place.

Dean looked at the framed photograph sitting at the corner of his desk, an unsuspecting and blissful family stared back. He wanted to grab it and yell at them, warn them of the impending danger. It was too late. With the death of his son, Dean Jr., came a darkness that he had never experienced before. Hate and fury filled his heart, turning him into the dark and sinister monster he was now. All he could think about was vengeance, wanting to punish anyone who dared to live a life free from hurt, especially Dr. Daniel Fallbrook.

This man and his faltering surgical skills had taken Dean Jr. from him, and retribution would be paid. Dean had worked out a plan, a devious, life-altering scheme. It took patience and manipulation, but it had worked out so well.

Fallbrook had taken his son, so Dean would take Tristan.

It was a joyful day when he had learned of Tristan Fallbrook’s interest in his daughter, Fiona. It took convincing, but in time she agreed to see the boy. Dean didn’t want him dead; that would be too easy. Instead, he wanted to take him from his charmed life. He wanted to rip him from his family and destroy every piece of his future. At the time, Dean had no idea that it would work so well.

Before he knew it, Tristan had fallen in love with Fiona. After that, it was easy to lure him into Dean’s world. It was the best result he could have hoped for. Everything had worked out perfectly—except for Fiona.