Shattered Poetry (Broken Lives #2) Page 28

  Whipping my arm back, I scrambled to my feet and ran across the kit set roof, the panels creaking loudly beneath my weight. There was nowhere to go, other than back down another hole. Not remembering where Annabelle had disappeared through, I dropped to my knees by the closest hole, glancing back to check if anyone was following me. Luckily no one was, so I lifted the vent cover and peered through it, finding a small room, this one having a desk directly beneath the hole.

  Lowering myself, I dropped onto the desk, wincing as my right foot landed on a keyboard. Silently cursing, I climbed down and limped to the door, opening it only just enough to peek through it. Not seeing anyone, I entered the passageway, part-running, part-limping, part-tiptoeing down it. The pounding of boots and shouts started up, coming from just around the corner.

  I grabbed the nearest door handle and entered the room, not having enough time to check what it led to. I closed the door, finding myself in a dark room. The pounding grew closer, telling me my pursuers had entered the same passageway. I held my breath as they passed by, only breathing out as the sound receded. When they were gone, I ran my hand around the wall by the door, flicking on the light switch. It was a storage room, the walls covered with shelving. I looked up at the ceiling. Not finding a vent hole, I switched the light off and slipped out of the room. I headed in the opposite direction to where my pursuers had run, finding myself outside the room I’d escaped from. Wanting to rescue my mum, I tried the handle, but it was locked, a key needed. A gaggle of voices reached my ears, sounding like they were coming back.

  I took off, only stopping to peer around the corner. Relieved no one was there, I turned left instead of right, not willing to risk cutting through the lounge. I opened the end door, agitated to find it led to a film set. Cameras and lighting surrounded a massive king-sized bed, while dark red curtains draped the walls, no windows in sight.

  Someone down the passageway called out, “Check the porn room!”

  Knowing I had to hide, I ran towards the door on the other side of the room, coming to a jolting halt as the blond prospect stepped through it. He had a towel wrapped around his hips, while his hair was wet, looking like he’d just come out of the shower.

  The voices outside the room grew closer.

  The blond indicated to the door he’d appeared out of. “You can hide in the bathroom.”

  I remained where I was, not understanding why he was saying that, still in too much shock.

  “Girl,” he growled. “Get in the bathroom before they see you. I’ll cover for you.”

  Finally understanding, I ran for the room, still scared, but taking whatever help I could. I shot inside it, my eyes widening at the sight of Annabelle. I spun around as the door closed behind me, making me think he’d tricked me. I went for the door, but Annabelle grabbed my arm.

  “Stay still,” she hissed.

  A second later, someone entered the outer room. “The girls have escaped through a ceiling hole,” a man said. “Have you heard anything above you?”

  “Yeah, the ceiling was creaking,” the blond answered, “but I haven’t seen anyone.”

  “Yell out if you do.”

  “Sure.”

  Footsteps receded, followed by a door closing. Lighter footsteps approached the bathroom, the blond appearing through the door a second later. He closed it behind him, his bright blue eyes going between me and Annabelle, who was still holding me.

  “Kids. Fucking kids,” he muttered.

  “Dinnae insult us,” Annabelle snapped.

  “Shut up,” I hissed, not wanting her to make him angry.

  “You didn’t let me finish,” the blond said, his voice sounding different from earlier, more sophisticated. “I’m not angry with you two, I’m angry with Jonah for involving children. I knew he was scum, but kids? Fuck!” He moved forward.

  I backed up fast, the sudden movement freaking me out. But he wasn’t focused on me, his full attention was instead on Annabelle.

  “How old are you, girl?” he asked, taking hold of her chin.

  She hit his hand away, snapping, “Dinnae touch me, ye brute.”

  “Don’t smack the hand of help away,” he growled. “I’m risking my life for you, so be bloody grateful.” He took hold of her face again.

  This time Annabelle didn’t hit him, only squeaking in response.

  “The swelling will go down in a day or two,” he said, staring at her swollen eye. “You’ll have bruising for a while, but there shouldn’t be any lasting damage.” His face turned angry, making Annabelle squeak again. “Don’t be scared of me.” He let go of her. “I couldn’t help the Papuas, but I sure as hell won’t stand by, allowing fucking Jonah to terrorise two girls.”

  “So, you’re gonna help us and my mum escape?” I asked.

  He glanced at me as though I was a fly spot on the wall he wanted to scrub off. “Yes.”

  “Thank you,” Annabelle said, drawing his attention back to her.

  His eyes lit up at her voice. “You’re welcome, Red.”

  “I dinnae like being called Red, ma name’s Annabelle.”

  “It’s nice to meet you then, Annabelle,” he said, holding his hand out. “My name’s Jack.”

  She shook his hand. “Aye, nice to meet ye too.”

  He let go of her hand. “And sorry for swearing at you earlier, you took me by surprise.”

  “No, no, I’m the one who should be apologising,” she said, her face going bright red, making me wonder why she was so embarrassed. “I didnae mean to drop in on ye like that.”

  “Yeah, everyone’s sorry,” I snapped, getting impatient with their back and forth. “Now, can you get us out of ’ere?”

  “Sure, I’ll go get dressed and arrange it,” he said, heading for the door.

  “Can ye please get us a phone first?” Annabelle asked. “I need to warn Dante and Jasper aboot yer gang. They’re kids too, ye have to help them.”

  He grabbed the door handle, his smile gone. “I’ve done the best I can for them, you just have to hope my colleagues can get to those boys in time.”

  I cut in, “Aren’t your colleagues the ones attacking them?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then who are they?”

  “The police.”

  26

  Clara

  “What do you want to know about me?” I asked, sitting down next to Dante on the back veranda. The spot looked straight out onto the Manukau Harbour. Its water was lapping at the sand several metres in front of us, reminding me of blue silk, glistening with sequins.

  Dante’s eyes zeroed in on my black skirt. It had ridden up, baring a good deal of leg. He hooked a finger under it and yanked upwards, cocking his head to look between my legs.

  I batted his hand away. “Dante!” I said, righting my skirt.

  He grinned wide, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “I wuz just wondering whether you put your knickers back on.”

  “No! You used them to wipe your cum off, you cheeky sod.”

  “Cos they were so big I mistook them for a towel,” he sniggered.

  I smacked his arm. “Liar!”

  “Nah, nah, they were gi-normous.” He laughed as I gave him a shove. “Don’t blame me for your granny knickers.”

  “They weren’t granny knickers, they were briefs, and you’re exaggerating to rile me.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Still, I’d rather see you in a G-string.”

  “You’re being a hypocrite.”

  He screwed up his face. “Eh? How?”

  “You told me to stop talking about sex, yet you’re doing it.”

  “I’m not talkin’ ’bout sex, I’m talkin’ ’bout knickers.” His grin returned. “Holey knickers.”

  I flushed, embarrassed I’d worn a pair with a hole in. “If I’d known we were going to have sex, I would’ve worn something nice. And I had on lacey knickers the first time we had sex.”

  “G-strings are sexier. Have you worn any?”

  “No, and I thought you
wanted to know more about me, rather than what I wear on my butt.”

  He sniggered as if the word butt was funny. “I do wanna know more ’bout you, which is why I asked if you wear G-strings.”

  “That won’t tell you anything about me.”

  “You’re defo wrong there.”

  “How?”

  “If a person acts uptight or shy, but still wears a G-string, then it shows they’re wilder than they let on. I met this really shy chick who I thought wuz too scared to come near me. But fuck, she wuz wild in bed. She wuz wearing a G-string. So, have you ever worn one?”

  I shook my head. “They look uncomfortable,” I said, wondering whether he thought I was wild in bed. A second later, it dawned on me he’d called me uptight, because I was definitely not shy. I went to tell him he was wrong, that I wasn’t uptight at all, but he got in first.

  “G-strings aren’t ’bout comfort,” he said, “they’re ’bout lookin’ sexy for your partner.”

  “Or slutty.”

  “Not on you. I reckon they’d look hot as fuck.”

  I bit my lip to stop from smiling, his compliment both embarrassing and making me happy.

  “Plus, I s’pose you’re not completely uptight since you shave your pussy.” He shoved his hand between my legs, tickling it.

  “Dante!” I yanked his hand away.

  He laughed.

  Wanting to get him back, I grabbed his crotch, squeezing it. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to give him a shock.

  He yelped and knocked my hand away. “The fuck?!” he said, massaging his crotch. “Why’d ja do that for?”

  “Payback, and don’t be such a big baby, I didn’t squeeze it that hard.”

  “How would you know? You’re not the one with a dick.” He stopped massaging it and unzipped his pants, pulling his cock out. “Kiss it better.”

  I smiled at him. “No, you kiss it better.”

  “Don’t be gross!”

  I snorted out a laugh.

  His eyes widened. “That’s why they call you Miss Piggy!”

  I instantly stopped laughing. “Don’t call me that! I hate that name.”

  He shrugged and zipped himself back up. “Can’t be worse than bein’ called Whore.” He kicked the back of his heels against the veranda, his eyes going to the sea. I remained quiet, leaving him to his thoughts, knowing no matter how many times I told him he wasn’t a whore, he wouldn’t listen.

  His gaze returned to me. “Have you ever tried drugs?” he asked, the sudden change in topic taking me by surprise.

  “Ah...” I screwed up my nose, not wanting to admit to it.

  His eyebrows rose. “You have. What type?”

  “None of your business,” I said, feeling uncomfortable with the topic. I didn’t know why, since he was obviously into drugs... No, I did know why. It would open up a can of worms, or one worm in particular. Charles Dunham. He’d been my boyfriend before Markus, and one of the biggest mistakes of my life, a drug dealing bastard, who cared more about money than me. I frowned, knowing Dante was a mistake too, just one I didn’t want to correct.

  “Why can’t you ask normal questions?” I retorted.

  “You mean boring questions, and why are you so uptight ’bout tellin’ me what drugs you did? I’ve tried heaps.”

  “Like you painted in your Unhappily-Ever-After poem, drugs and drug dealers are bad.”

  He scowled at me. “I wuzn’t talkin’ ’bout dealers, and just cos someone deals doesn’t make them automatically bad. You don’t know their situation. Maybe they needa sell drugs to pay the bills. Not everyone can be a teacher.”

  My mind went to his poem, alerting me to the possibility it was personal. Plus, he’d made quips in class about dealing. I’d just thought he’d been joking.

  “Are you a dealer?” I asked.

  “None of your business,” he said, throwing my previous answer back in my face.

  “Guess the topic of drugs are off the table for the both of us, then,” I replied, his answer confirming it, as well as upsetting me.

  He’s nothing like Charles, I ran through my mind. Nothing at all.

  “I’m fine with answering you,” he said, “just as long as you tell me what drugs you took.”

  “No, so ask me a proper question.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Like what’s your favourite colour?” he said, putting on a ditzy girl’s voice.

  “Don’t make fun of me,” I grunted. “And what’s wrong with telling me what colour you like?”

  “Who the fuck cares?”

  “I do. It tells me about your personality just as much as me not wearing a G-string tells you about mine.”

  “Fine. It’s red.”

  “Fiery, like your personality.”

  He rolled his eyes again. “Real deep.”

  “Shut up, you, and my favourite colour is—”

  “Lilac,” he cut me off. “You also like pink.”

  I blinked. “How did you know that?”

  He ran a finger over my bottom lip, making me shiver. “The lipstick you wear.” He flicked my blouse. “The clothes you wear. And you liking pink and lilac means you’re a girly twat.”

  “Hey!” I snapped, giving him a shove.

  He sniggered, looking happy he’d annoyed me.

  “You’re a ratbag.”

  “No, I’m fiery,” he said, grinning. “So, what else do ya wanna know? My cock size? Oh, right, you already know that. Big!”

  I shook my head at him. “You are so cheeky.”

  “No, you’re cheeky.” He pinched my arse, making me yelp.

  “Stop it!”

  He laughed.

  I scowled at him. “Stop mucking around and ask me questions. Nice questions.”

  “You first.”

  “What do you like to do for fun?”

  “Smoke weed—”

  “Legal things.”

  Another grin pulled at his lips. “Fucking.”

  I grunted. “Come on, Dante, can you at least try to answer without being a smartass?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Okay, Ms. Holier-Than-Thou knickers. I like playin’ basketball and soccer. Is that to your satisfaction?” he asked, dryly.

  “It’s called football.”

  “Only for you Poms.”

  I grunted. “I’m only part English and it’s called football in New Zealand now.”

  “Only cos you Poms have taken over the game here, muttering unlucky every time some dumbass player misses a goal or gets the ball taken off ’em. It’s unlucky,” he mimicked an English accent.

  “Stop calling me a Pom. I told you, I’m only part English.”

  “What else are you, then?”

  “A quarter Swedish, as well French and Welsh.”

  His face lit up. “I’ve always wanted to fuck a Swede.”

  “Well, I’ve always had the hots for Italians,” I retorted, wanting to rile him like he was doing to me.

  “I’m not Italian!” he snapped, taking the bait. “I’m Croatian, Māori, and Romanian. I already told you that.”

  I laughed. “I know, I was pulling your leg. Though, your name’s Italian.”

  “My dad named me after a childhood mate who died. He wanted his mate to live on through me, cos he wuz supposedly the coolest person my dad had ever met. He said that as soon as I came out screaming my head off, he knew I wuz like him.”

  “That’s lovely.”

  “Not according to my baba,” he said, saying the Croatian word for grandmother. “She said my dad’s mate wuz a hoodlum like my dad. My baba hates my dad with a passion.”

  “I bet she loves you though.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, she does. She may not like where I got my first name from, but she had a say with my middle name. It’s—”

  “Ivan.”

  He looked surprised. “How’d ja know that?”

  “From your school file.”

  “Oh, yeah, that makes sense. Anyway, it’s my pra dida’s name.”

>   “Pra dida?”

  “It’s what I call my great grandfather. He’s still alive. The men on my Dali side live to a really old age.”

  “What about your dad’s side?”

  “I dunno who my dad’s father is. Though, my dad thinks he wuz pro’bly a John.”

  “So, he only knows his first name?”

  “No, a John, as in a client of my nanna’s. She wuz a whore.”

  My eyebrows shot up.

  Dante dropped his gaze, mumbling something under his breath I couldn’t hear.

  “My middle name’s Freja,” I said, wanting to distract him, what he’d told me obviously upsetting him.

  He looked back up. “I fucked a blonde Swede,” he said, his grin reappearing, though it looked forced, the pain in his eyes impossible to hide.

  “I’m not a real blonde,” I added, again wanting to distract him.

  His eyes widened. “Really?”

  I nodded. “I started dying my hair at fifteen, because I liked my dad’s hair colour better.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed.” He reached out, touching it. “It looks natural and you have no dark roots.”

  “My mousy brown hair looks light, plus I dye it regularly.”

  “You should dye it pink or lilac next time,” he said, letting go of my hair.

  I snorted. “I’m not so sure that would go down well at work.”

  “Yeah, it would, the students would love it, and I think it’d look cool, plus you like the colours. I think pink would suit you the best, cos your cheeks are always goin’ that colour when I lick your nipples.”

  I felt my cheeks heat.

  He laughed. “See!”

  “You didn’t lick my nipples.”

  He leaned over and flicked his tongue over my blouse, then bit my breast.

  I yelped.

  He moved his head back. “See,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re Pommy pink.”

  I rubbed my nipple. “Because you bit me!”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t do it harder, I have a thing for biting nipples.”

  “You didn’t do it in bed.”

  “I only do it when I feel like it.” He indicated to my breast. “I goobed you.”

  I looked down at the moist patch on my blouse. I gave it a wipe, also massaging the sting away.

  “I make you moist everywhere,” he said, winking at me.