Filthy Dirty Laundry Vol. 3 Read online

  Filthy

  Dirty

  Laundry

  Book 3

  kailin gow

  Filthy Dirty Laundry #3

  Published by Sparklesoup Inc.

  Sparklesoup.com

  Copyright © 2016 Kailin Gow

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  First Edition.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Chapter 1

  Sidney

  “Don't you dare hurt her,” Mitch cries across the room.

  The men start laughing among themselves. “Or what, you gonna deck us like you do on TV? You're just a dumb kid who should OD on coke like every other upstart before you cause too much trouble for the grownups.”

  Then Conway screams.

  It's like nothing I've ever heard before. A wild, enraged battle cry. A cry that's full of pain and woe and torment and sickness and sadness all at once. A cry that doesn't seem human at all.

  And then he raises his arms.

  My mouth drops open.

  Conway's managed to break apart the ropes they use to bind them.

  So, this is Conway's magic skill, the talent that brought him the adulations of millions. The strength that made him famous – and for all intents and purposes, destroyed his life. Took him away from the people that he loved. Surrounded him with untrustworthy strangers, with sex and drugs and booze and people who were only after him for what he could do for them.

  “You think you can manipulate me?” Conway cries furiously, his face as red as his bleeding knuckles. “Is that it? You think you have control over me or something – you think you got power? Well, you don't.” He takes a step towards the men.

  “Holy...” They look nervous. He's got them spooked at last. He's stronger than they are. They may be older, wiser, more ruthless, more willing to kill. But Mitch Conway has the kind of superhuman strength you only read about or see in films. And he's filled with righteous rage. If I were the thugs, I'd be really scared right now.

  But they're not. Instead, they titter, step forward. “Hey now,” they say. “Sit down, boy. You don't know what's good for you. You didn't listen when we messed with your fake girlfriend, so maybe you'll learn some respect when we mar that beautiful face of your real one, huh...” They hit me again and I cry out. “She's beautiful, ain't she?” They grab me tighter and hold me down. “We'd hate to hurt her. All you have to do to keep her safe is guarantee to us that you'll throw the fight. We'll play that game with you, boy. What do you say?”

  I can see Conway getting madder and madder. It's like steam is coming out of his ears. “No,” he says in a low, deep voice. “I won't throw the fight.”

  “Then we'll just have to...” They hit me a third time: the hardest time yet. The pain is so bad that my jaw rattles and my head starts spinning. I start seeing stars.

  I scream, but Conway's cry of rage is louder than mine. He grabs the thug's wrist. Then, without so much as a groan or wince of effort, he breaks it in two.

  “Yooowww!” cries the thug, doubling over in pain. Conway punches the other guy in the stomach, causing him to double over. Then in a single motion Conway bounds over to me and pulls apart the bonds of my arm, freeing me.

  “Go!” he cries, as he turns back to face the thugs again. “Sidney, run!”

  Chapter 2

  I run.

  It's an automatic reflex; I don't even know what I'm doing. If I did maybe I would stop, help Conway, help fight off those men. Maybe if I were braver, knew some kung-fu, had a weapon, weren't as terrified as I am right now, I'd stay. But Conway has shouted “run” and right now that's all I can think of doing.

  This is crazy, I think, with the little part of my brain that is still available to undergo conscious thought. I'm not a spy or a police officer or an FBI agent or anyone, anyone at all, who should be mixed up in this sort of violence. I'm not even a real journalist like Phillip Trellbanks, né LaFleur. I don't go to war zones. I've never been to Afghanistan or Iraq. I'm a fucking Hollywood celebrity journalist. I go through people's trash – I don't get my body dumped in it!

  Suddenly, everything starts to go incredibly slowly. It's like I'm running through molasses. Time slows down. Every second as I run takes an eternity. I'm disassociating from the situation: I see myself like I'm existing outside my body: me as a single running figure against the background of this disgusting warehouse.

  Nobody is chasing me, at least. Conway has got all of them busy, running, freaking out over fighting him off. He is masterful as he fights, I think. He has something: a talent for violence, a gift for brutality. When he fights, he isn't just the sweet, awkward young man with the Southern manners and the gentlemanly charm who just wants to go home to his mother. He's more than the kid I was feeling sorry for earlier in the evening. He is...something spectacular, something out of this world. A true hero among men. If I were younger and more naïve, I think, I'd have fallen for him then and there: just at the sight of his rippling, taught muscles, the primal animality of his motions. If I were only a little less obsessed with Philip LaFleur (not to mention a little bit preoccupied with that whole trying-not-to-die thing, my jaw would be hitting the floor, my whole body would be shaking with desire for this guy.) He certainly has...IT. That quality that can never quite be articulated, but which means a combination of sex appeal and charisma and something else, something that makes you feel when you're with or watching them like you're in the presence of something special, unique, so much greater than your normal everyday life and your normal everyday self. Yes, I think, Conway has what it takes to be a star.

  And it's cost him so much. It's cost him everything he held dear, everything he really cares about. Random thugs in a Las Vegas warehouse are abducting him and beating up the only girl he's so much as let himself smile around in the past couple years just so that he can throw the game and for what – money? A chance at power? What are they going to spend this money on, anyway, this money they're willing to kill for? A nicer car? A nicer house? More champagne in nightclubs? Bottle service from pretty girls? I feel sick to my stomach. This is the machine I'm feeding, I think. I'm responsible. Me and FDL and celebrity journalism – getting everyone obsessed with stories, narratives, celebrities, pushing people like Mitch Conway into the spotlight whether they're equipped to handle it or not. And now I'm here in this disgusting warehouse, fighting for my life, and for all I know even if I escape these guys will never leave Mitch alone. They'll beat him to a pulp; they'll kill him. Or even if he does manage to escape from their clutches once someone else will come along to do the exact same thing. Try to find ways to bribe or blackmail him. Try to find ways to make his life a living hell. He'll never have a normal life. He'll never have a normal girlfriend. He's already probably got brain damage from all the time he's spent in the ring – doubtless that will shorten his life, too.

  And, I think, as I reach the door – time still going in Matrix-slow-motion – it's my fault.

  At least, partially.

  After all, isn't that what I do for a living? Sell stories. Sell stories about things like stars beating up their girlfriends – making it possible for men like these thugs to get to Mitch to begin with? Sell the cheapest, tawdriest, dirtiest stories I can find in order to humiliate others and satisfy the public hunger for fame: the snake that eats its own tail and is never sated, n
ever full, because it's never enough.

  I'm not Phillip Trellbanks, war reporter. I have never risked my life to do the right thing, to tell the true story.

  That's your job, I tell myself. You got Mitch Conway into this mess.

  It's time for me to get him out.

  It's time for me to do the right thing.

  I turn back from the door.

  My heart is pounding. I look to see Mitch still fighting the three guys. He's taken one of them out – the guy's basically down for the count – but the other two are giving as good as they're getting, tiring them out.

  I run back into the fray. I grab a chair and with all my might bring it down on the head of one of the two remaining fighters.

  “What the...” he murmurs before falling on the ground, unconscious.

  “You little...” the ringleader turns towards me.

  But I block his attack with the chair, buying Mitch just enough time to haul him up in a chokehold from behind.

  “Help!” the guy cries. But it's too late. Mitch has him by the throat, and the guy is suspended above the ground, his legs kicking wildly.

  Then Mitch delivers the knock-out punch.

  Three unconscious bodies on the floor. Two of us: bruised, bloodied, broken. We look at each other in silence, overwhelmed by what has happened.

  “Wow...” Mitch says softly.

  “Wow is right,” I say. “That was crazy.”

  “Welcome to my world...” Mitch staggers and I catch him.

  “Wow,” he says again. “You came back for me.”

  “Of course I did,” I say. “I couldn't leave you here...to fight alone. You were protecting me.”

  Mitch smiles sweetly. “Nobody ever did that for me before,” he says. “I mean, nobody I know. Would ever risk themselves for me. Not in this town. Not in any town I know.”

  “Mitch...”

  He grabs me and kisses me. It's so sudden and abrupt – I almost cry out in surprise. It feels weird. But good, too. After what's just happened my adrenaline is through the roof, and to my astonishment I find myself kissing him back, enjoying the kiss.

  I feel something for him, I admit. Not the wild and passionate obsession I feel for Philip, but a protective warmth. I want to shield him from how bad the world can be. Ironic, I think. He's the strongest man in the whole world and all I want to do is take care of him.

  Then we hear footsteps.

  We pull away hurriedly just as the door breaks down.

  “Shit...”

  “Stop!” A voice comes over a loudspeaker. “Police! Put your hands in the air!”

  “What the...”

  The police rush in, point their guns.

  “Everyone, hands up or we'll shoot!”

  “We're cool!” I shout. “We were being attacked – we fought them off.”

  “Hey...” One of the police officers comes up to Conway. “I recognize you. I know who you are. Up to your old tricks again, are you?”

  They slap a pair of handcuffs on him.

  “You're all under arrest,” cries the police officer, dragging the thugs to their feet as they moan and hold their heads. “For the kidnapping of Sidney Stone.”

  “Hey! Hey! Hey!” Conway cries. “I'm innocent! These guys – they kidnapped my girlfriend and me...”

  At girlfriend my ears prick up. “It's true!” I say. “He didn't kidnap me, officer – he was trying to save me...”

  “Did a pretty good job of that...” The police officers take a look at the thugs, lining them against the wall and frisking them for weapons. “So, you're Sidney Stone?”

  “Yes, that's her!” says a familiar voice.

  I turn my head to see Philip and Johnson entering the room.

  “Sidney!” Johnson shouts. He runs towards me with outstretched arms, then stops short. Mitch has already slipped an arm around my waist, pulling me to his side.

  “You okay, Sidney?” Mitch asks me.

  I nod silently, unsure of how to act without blowing my cover.

  “I'm so sorry, Sidney,” Mitch continues. “It's my fault. Putting you through all this. It's all my fault. I never should have asked you to be my...I never should have gotten you into any of this.”

  I hold him close. “It's not your fault,” I whisper. “Believe me. It's this crazy celebrity culture – and these shady guys – they would have picked anyone you chose as a girlfriend to harass. And a guy like you – you'll have a lot of girlfriends trying to get close.” Some might even be not gossip columnists.

  “I had no idea...I thought they were done with me, that they'd leave me alone,” Conway said. “I just wanted someone to keep my publicist happy. And keep me company. I’m so lonely, Sidney, and you're pretty and cool --- and I just wanted to hang out...”

  “You want me to play along as your girlfriend?” I ask under my breath.

  He looks at me apologetically. “Please,” he says. “It'll help get these guys behind bars – once and for all.”

  “You can explain that later,” I whisper. “But for now, I'll play along.” I hope Johnson and Philip are able to figure out that it's an act. I turn to them, hoping to be able to sneak in a wink or some telltale sign that this is all part of the plan, but before I can do anything Mitch grabs me and pulls me in for a big kiss.

  I pull away in shock.

  Johnson looks appalled. Philip's teeth have clenched in incredible anger.

  “That's my girl!” announces Mitch. “Could have been scared out of her wits, quaking with fear – but instead she pulled herself together and helped me fight off those no good no-account low-lives. Officers, what these men did to scare my girlfriend and me – I hope they get a long time behind bars...”

  I look helplessly at Philip, trying with my eyes to explain that this is just part of the job, that this doesn't affect us or how I feel about him.

  But the only look on his expression is rage. White-hot, stone-cold rage.

  I'm going to have a lot of explaining to do.

  Chapter 3

  My face has gone chalk-white. Beneath the numerous layers of bronzer and tanner I've slapped on in an attempt to look like the kind of girl a celebrity wrestler like Mitch Conway would go for, I'm absolutely the color of stale milk. Thank God for makeup, I think grimly. A whole concoction of paints and powders and potions that hide the real me from view. Right now, I'm playing a role. The beautiful rich vacationer looking for a good time, a bit of mystery, intrigue, romance. And who has found it in the arms of a kind-eyed but beleaguered wrestler who has suffered from his friends and his enemies alike. It's a complete fake of a role, but I'm convincing. At least, I'm convincing to the police. I wonder what they see when they look at me. My hair is artificially straightened and stick-straight; I'm wearing clothes I could never afford in a million years even if I sold off everything I own; I'm covered in false lashes, false lips, false everything. I look like a fake. I feel like a fake.

  This was the job, wasn't it? At least, that's what Philip says. Go in, get the story, risk your life, risk everything. Wasn't that what I wanted that night when Philip cooked me Vietnamese food and we talked all night about adventure, about possibility? Wasn't that what I longed for, ached for – a real adventure, doing real journalism, real investigation, going undercover, taking risks? And surely a job like that involves lying, doesn't it? Lying to Mitch – lying to Johnson – lying to Philip, who was the one who ordered me to get as close as possible to the subject to begin with?

  Real adventure – it's not for the weak or the feeble. It's the few, the strong, the brave, who are able to withstand the demands that real adventure makes on them. For people like me? I stifle a laugh. Luckily nobody can see what I'm really thinking. Not Philip, not Johnson, not Mitch, not the police commanders who are looking us all up and down. I'm so made up and artificial that nobody can tell what's going through my head right now. The feeling is intoxicating, dizzying. It's a little scary, too. How can it be that I'm here – doing this? It still seems so strange and
so surreal to me. Who is this girl who is staring into the police chief's eyes with her heavily lined, heavily mascaraed lashes, making doe-eyes and talking about how her brave boyfriend Mitch Connor saved her from a group of attackers intent on making him look bad, destroying his reputation.

  The police chief is peering at me suspiciously. Something about my story doesn't ring true – that much is certain – but he isn't himself sure what it is. He doesn't realize it's the fact that Mitch and I have known each other for about five hours maximum and I'm certainly not in love with him. But he knows something's up, and so I blush harder beneath my makeup. Luckily, the color doesn't show up.

  The police chief sighs. A jaded, weary look comes over his face. Like he's seen a lot of this before. Lying girls. Mysterious men beat up in warehouses. Maybe he thinks I'm a prostitute or something, and these guys were my pimps. I guess when you're involved in the glitz and glimmer of Vegas, you see quite a bit of the other side: the seamy side, the underside.

  “You're lucky,” says the officer to me, slowly. Warily. Like he's still trying to figure me out, figure out what I'm thinking and who I am. “If it wasn't for your friend and your boss here notifying us about you being missing – well, lucky we got here when we did. Although you don't seem to be doing too bad a job of taking care of yourself. I've seen some of these bozos before. Real figures in the criminal underworld. Suspected of assassinations, among other things. These men would have been willing to rape or kill or maim you without a second thought. You have no idea how much danger you were in, missy. Good think you had a fighter like Conway here in your corner.” His smile is grim. “You don't know how close you came to death.” His eyes glaze over as a look of melancholy settles over him. “You and you,” he points to me and Mitch. “You guys are free to go for now. You've been through a lot. But I warn you: we're going to need statements from you later on. As for the others...” he points to the kidnappers. “Round them up and bring them in. Maybe we'll actually get the charges to stick to these few this time – or figure out who actually hired them.”