𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝐶𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝐾𝑛𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔

𝐸𝑥𝑐𝑒𝑐𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑛

𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒘𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒗 (𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒓 #2)

Growing up, I always had a fiery temper. My mother never hesitated to remind me, saying, "It's your anger that gets you into trouble." At first, I brushed her off, thinking I knew better.

But as I navigated the ups and downs of life, it became clear that my rage often guided my choices. It was either fight or argue my way out of tough situations, with little room for anything in between.

"Wait, you went to a club? I'm genuinely surprised!" I chuckled as Travis recounted his night. Since his release, he'd kept a low profile, almost blending into the shadows of his past. No one would recognize him now, especially after that dramatic transformation he underwent in prison. He rarely opened up about his experiences, and I didn't press him; I sensed he had changed, but I couldn't tell if it was for better or worse.

"Yeah, it was... fun. I haven't let loose like that in ages. Still got my charm, though," he said with a hint of pride. I couldn't help rolling my eyes; it was good to know he still had that swagger.

"You never lost it, brother! Did you meet anyone?"

An uncomfortable silence stretched, and then he cleared his throat.

"I did... We danced, but she disappeared like she was late for something."

"Women are always in a hurry! Or maybe your devastating good looks scared her off," I teased, enjoying the easy banter.

"I suppose so. I hope to bump into her again... someday."

"Someone's got a little crush!" I prodded, and I could almost hear his eye roll through the phone.

"Shut up, I'm not. Can we stick to the plan?" His tone shifted, and I could sense his hesitation. What was weighing on him?

"Right. So, she gets home around 3:15 each day. Some guy-her uncle, I think-picks her up in a black SUV. They drive straight home, leaving her free to us. We just take her in the car and-"

"Wait, you think she'd just hop in with us? We can't drive her around while she's wide awake."

Frustration surged through me. I clearly hadn't thought this through.

"Damn, you're right... What do you suggest?"

He pondered for a moment, and I felt a familiar darkness creeping back into my thoughts.

"What if we pretend to be teachers-"

"No."

Sometimes I doubted how he could be my brother when his ideas veered into the absurd.

"What if we lure her out to a party?" I suggested, uncertainty lacing my voice as I spoke. I could already feel my mind spiraling.

"We don't have anything on her, John-"

"I know! I'll think!" I snapped, overwhelmed, and hung up, frustration pulsating through my veins. Why was it so hard to plan a simple kidnapping?

Needing to clear my head, I found myself walking into a bar late at night, craving the solace to be found in a drink. The dim, quiet space wrapped around me like a comforting shroud, the air thick with the unmistakable scent of alcohol.

"What can I get you?" A short bartender asked, glancing over the bottles lining the shelves.

"Straight tequila, cold," I demanded, eager for the burn to wash away my thoughts.

Just then, the sound of heavy footsteps approached. I turned to see a tall man, built like a wall, dark eyes fixed on the tequila. He settled in beside me without a word, and I felt a strange impulse to shrink away from his presence.

"Here you go, Rory," the bartender said, pushing a drink towards him. Clearly, he was a regular here.

"Thanks," he replied, and when his gaze flicked toward me, I felt a shiver run down my spine.

"Cheers?" he said, lifting his glass. I noticed the shadows under his eyes; he looked worn, as if life had taken its toll.

"Cheers." I clinked my glass against his and swallowed the tequila, the sharp burn igniting my senses.

"Come here often?" I asked, trying to fill the silence.

"I'm a regular," he replied shortly.

"Cool."

He glanced at me and then stared ahead, the tension thick between us. I signaled for another drink, grateful for the distraction.

"What brings you here? I don't think I've seen you before," he ventured, to my surprise.

"Just needed a drink. You?"

"Taking a break from fatherhood. My friend's daughter, Cara, is off exploring her life. I worry she's getting into things she can't handle." His words sparked something in me, an unsettling realization beginning to form.

"Friend's daughter, Cara..."

"Yeah, kids will be kids. But she's not my daughter, if that's what you're asking."

My heart raced. Could this heavy man beside me be her guardian?

"No, she's my friend's kid... Charlie Henderson? You might know him..."

His casual mention sent a chill through me. This man was unwittingly revealing critical information, and I could feel an opportunity unfolding.

Oh, how beautifully things had turned for me.