Blood Sky

by S. Massery

  “Dalton was feeling left out,” he says.

  I turn and walk back toward the diner. The waitress talks to Delia, visible through the large windows, and it calms some of my adrenaline.

  “Tell him he can come, too, I guess.”

  “It’ll be a reunion,” he says.

  “I’ll check in when we’re in Salt Lake,” I tell him.

  We hang up, and I go back to Delia. In the light of day, her hair really is an awful color. She took the hat off—it sits on the now-empty table in front of her—and shook out her hair while I was outside. There are still blonde streaks she missed with the dye.

  I slide into the booth and nudge the hat toward her. “We don’t know who those guys talked to. Put that back on.”

  She rolls her eyes at me, draining the last of her coffee. “Yeah, I know.”

  “We need to get you better hair dye. You missed some spots.”

  “I thought I did pretty good for a gas station bathroom.” She picks at her fingernails. “Can we go? I’m getting antsy.”

  I toss down some cash on the table, and we get up. My biceps stings, my muscles stretching, but Delia doesn’t catch my slight wince. She shouldn’t have to worry that I’m hurt. I can still feel the pulse of it from her smacking me earlier.

  We walk to a car rental store in silence. Delia waits outside as I fill out the paperwork with an agent. We climb into our new car, and I contemplate the enigma of Delia Moretti.

  I think she’s a chameleon. Before, she was shut off. She wouldn’t answer any of my questions; she barely gave me her name. A new girl now sits in the passenger seat of this little sky-blue SUV—Mason’s choice, regrettably—with her bare feet on the dash, popping a piece of gum from a pack that had been left in the car. She keeps smiling. Asking me questions.

  It’s kind of nice, but it’s also setting me on edge.

  Her smile makes me hard. Surprising, since I’ve been with girls whose mouths on my skin barely did the job. She doesn’t even have to touch me.

  I have to shake my head to clear these ridiculous thoughts. Now that there aren’t people chasing us, no bullets flying, the dust settles around us. We aren’t quite familiar enough for me to reach over and put my hand on her thigh, but my fingers twitch on the steering wheel thinking about it.

  “Tell me about your childhood,” she says.

  I grimace. “It wasn’t the best.”

  She shrugs and examines her nails. “Probably better than mine.”

  “I have a brother. He’s one year younger than me.”

  She looks over at me. “And?”

  I glance at her. I didn’t notice that she must’ve been cut by the glass. There are scratches on the back of her neck. Guilt rattles me. I should’ve done a better job protecting her.

  “Focus,” she commands, giggling.

  I jerk my attention back to the road.

  “I don’t have any siblings, you know. It was just the three of us.”

  “Your parents and you?”

  She purses her lips. “Well, Mom died when I was six. Dad remarried a few years later. My uncles were always around, too, with my cousins. So I guess it was never just the three of us. I liked to pretend it was Dad and me versus the world.”

  I nod. “I felt that way about Spike for a while. Until my job took me overseas. Then…” I shake my head. “Siblings are complicated.” Maybe after Salt Lake City, I’ll pay Spike and Mason a visit. “Mom’s in Maine. Dad’s in Florida, living on a boat. Spike’s in Vegas.”

  She pops that gum again. “And you?”

  “What about me?”

  Her stare borders on sympathetic. “Where do you live?”

  “Oh.” The answer is—all over. Nowhere. I rent apartments monthly. I have the duffle bag of clothes and another suitcase at my current apartment in Sacramento. I travel light—always have. Part of me is ready to pack up and move at a moment’s notice. Maybe that’s why it’s so easy driving around the country with Delia. I don’t have enough stuff anchoring me down.

  When I don’t answer, Delia fills the silence. “Well, Casper was where I started my childhood, but the outskirts of Vegas is where I finished it. Dad put me through college, even though Margaret had a big freaking problem with it, and then I came back. I worked at one of the banks he owned. He started teaching me about what he does—did,” she corrects. “I don’t know what would’ve happened if everything had continued on. We had big family dinners on Sundays after church. Our dining room table sat twenty, and it was always filled. The kids had their own separate table in the kitchen with the nanny.” She sighs. “Who knows where they all are now? Fighting over the scraps, probably.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. Instead, I ask, “If you could go anywhere, where would you go?”

  “I’d go home,” she says, then she reaches forward and turns on the radio.

  We make it to Salt Lake City in no time. It passes in the blink of an eye. I’m grateful it’s been a boring trip, though, because my eyes feel like sandpaper. Delia’s eyes closed an hour or two back, her forehead against the glass, her mouth parted.

  We arrive at a warehouse in the industrial downtown area. I turn into the driveway that leads sharply down under the warehouse. There’s an intercom with a glowing green button waiting for me in front of an iron gate.

  I press it and wait.

  “Yo, whaddup, Jackie boy?”

  I grimace and glance at Delia. The change in scenery has woken her up, and she giggles at the voice on the intercom.

  Dalton can probably hear her, because he says, “You there, fucker?”

  “Jesus,” I say. “Can you at least pretend to watch your language?”

  Delia sits up straighter. “Who is that?”

  I glare at the intercom. “You going to let us in or what?”

  “I’d take the ‘or what’ option, but I think Mace would shoot me.” The speaker cuts out, and the gates swing open.

  Delia grabs my arm as I put the car back in drive.

  “What are you bringing me into?” she asks in a low voice.

  I smother my laugh because she looks ready to jump out of the car. Her trust wavers between full throttle and nonexistent.

  I answer, “Some buddies of mine. That was Dalton. He’s a shithead.”

  She groans. “How many more are there?”

  “You don’t want to know. But they’re brothers. I trust them with my life.”

  Once we’re through the gate, it’s a one-level parking garage. A matte-black Camaro sits in the corner by a door—a typical Dalton choice. Subtly flashy, fast. A change from the motorcycle he used to ride all the time. I park beside it and hop out, grabbing both of our bags from the trunk.

  Delia stays in the car.

  I open her door and lean down until we’re face to face. “That’s not the face of the brave girl I know.”

  She blinks at me. “I think all of this is catching up to me.”

  “Listen to me,” I say, dropping the bags and crouching in front of her. “It’s okay to be afraid of what’s happening. Here, right now? You’re safe. I just need you to get out of the car.”

  Her chest rises and falls. I silently curse myself—I saw what was in her bag. We should’ve stopped at a store and gotten her some fresh clothes. A toothbrush. Anything, really, because in this moment, she has next to nothing. Maybe that’s adding to her hesitancy. That, and the fact that we’re still practically strangers.

  “Okay.” She slips her hand into mine and lets me tug her out of the car. She breathes deeper once she’s standing, and she picks up her own bag. “Let’s go meet this shithead friend of yours.”

  She winks.

  All I can do is stare at her ass as she walks toward the door.

  I’m so screwed.

  9

  DELIA

  The parking garage leads us up to the main floor of the warehouse. It has high ceilings, large windows that have been painted over black, and a polished concrete floor that is completely em
pty. The second floor, high above the first, is a giant apartment.

  If I thought Jackson was handsome—and I do—it’s nothing compared to the golden-haired god that is Dalton Kavanaugh, who waits for us at the top of the stairs. It’s unfair that I’m out of breath, and Jackson seems ready to run up twenty more flights of stairs. My worry to impress is in vain, though, because Dalton ignores me to greet his old friend. They have an uneventful reunion—slapping each other’s backs, grinning at each other—and then Dalton steps back and lets us into the apartment.

  We walk in the door, and I drop my bag, a bit flabbergasted. Dalton grabs Jackson and pulls him toward the kitchen, and I watch their serious faces for a moment. When it becomes clear they’re going to take longer than a minute, I start to explore.

  The apartment has been decorated in desert-chic. Muted reddish browns and sand colors. A rust-and-cream patterned rug. A canvas fabric couch. Wood accents—the coffee table, the dining table, the side tables on either side of the couch, the bookshelves framing the windows. There’s a flat-screen television mounted on a wall. The kitchen is small but modern: matte-black appliances and light-colored wood cabinets. The apartment has to be at least half the size of the warehouse beneath us, maybe bigger.

  I head back over to Jackson and Dalton, and they abruptly stop whispering.

  Jackson waves his hand between us. “Delia, Dalton. Dalton, Delia. Play nice.”

  I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or Dalton, so I stick my hand out. Dalton shakes it, his thumb caressing the inside of my wrist, and I yank my hand away from him. He shouldn’t fluster me. I’ve been around pretty boys before. Dalton seems too pretty—and maybe a touch sinister.

  He knows it, judging from his sly smile.

  I’m just waiting for him to pull up his shirt and reveal his chiseled abs. He seems like the type to walk around without a shirt. And, unfortunately, it reminds me that even though Jackson and I had sex, his shirt stayed on. I’m about an inch away from slipping my hand under Jackson’s shirt just to find out—seriously, who am I?—when my stomach growls.

  I clamp my hand over my abdomen and turn away from them, continuing my exploration of this weird, huge apartment. This space must be used for something—or someone—important.

  “So, Delia,” Dalton says from directly behind me.

  I whirl around and glare at him. I hide my irritation that he was able to sneak up on me.

  “What brings you here?”

  “Jackson didn’t tell you?”

  He rolls his eyes. I didn’t hear Jackson leave, but Dalton and I are alone.

  I want to put some more distance between us.

  “Jackson has tight lips when it matters,” he says.

  I exhale. “That’s good.”

  “Good?” He leans in. “You’re going to destroy him. The sooner you let him walk away, the better.”

  But that’s not what I want.

  I imagine my father putting me in this same position—towering over me, impossibly strong. What had he always said? Never let the man know you’re in control. He showed me how to break out of any grasp. To go for the eyes, the weakest joints, the groin. In my mind, I twist out of Dalton’s grip and knee him in the balls for good measure. I’d grab his head and smash it into my knee, breaking his nose.

  That isn’t the image I’m trying to portray, though. So I let Dalton hold my wrist hard enough to bruise, fold into the pain, and try not to mask the flash of fear.

  He loosens his grip. “You’re an interesting character. Strong one minute, cowering the next. Which is the act?”

  I’m terrified that he’s going to see through my guard, so I shove at his chest with my free hand. “Get away from me.”

  He hums and steps away. He has hawk eyes, analyzing my every move. I’m afraid to twitch in case it sends the wrong message.

  “Your room is down the hall. Go get some sleep.”

  Sleep. When’s the last time I’ve been able to really close my eyes and sleep?

  I snatch my bag and back away from him. When I’m out of reach, I turn around and dart down the hall. There are six doors, all closed except for the one at the very end.

  I try the first one. Locked. Same with the second, the third, until—

  “Delia,” Jackson says from the last doorway. “You can stay in here.”

  He steps aside and lets me pass, then closes the door behind us.

  “Dalton is an interesting character,” I say carefully. There’s one king-sized bed in the middle of the room, backed by a huge metal headboard. It has the same style of windows as in the warehouse, except they’re not blacked out. Dark-purple drapes have been pushed open. It’s a darker room, with a black silk comforter and a gray rug under my feet. The walls are exposed brick.

  “I did warn you that he’s a shithead,” Jackson says from behind me. When he leans against the door now, it feels less like he’s blocking my escape and more like he’s protecting me from whatever’s on the other side. “What did he say?”

  I shrug. “He tried to tell me I was bad for you,” I admit. “But I already know that.”

  He sighs. “He’s always tried to protect all of us.”

  “Who are they? You’ve barely spoken about these people.” I drop my bag and flop backward onto the bed.

  The hotels weren’t safe—not like this place. Jackson is relaxing more and more by the second.

  “Dalton, Mason, Griff, Zach, me.” He throws himself onto the bed.

  Our sides press against each other, and any idea of sleep slips away from me. I don’t think he knows how much my body responds to his touch—if he did, he could use it against me.

  “Wyatt was our sixth, but he died.”

  I appreciate that he doesn’t mask his friend’s death with a euphemism.

  “We were each recruited by Scorpion Industries for our individual strengths, but it was together that they realized we were the strongest.”

  I sit up straight. “Wait a second.”

  He raises his eyebrow.

  “I’ve heard of them.” I look down at Jackson, whose eyes are focused on my face. It makes me want to shiver again. I try to suppress the flash of fear. Scorpion Industries was in the news just last year. They’re a military contractor, sure, but they also ran some illegal black ops—they were a mercenary group. The men were all kept confidential, and at the trial, there was no paperwork. Everything had been destroyed. “You—”

  He doesn’t move. “It’s probably not what you think, Delia.”

  I’m envisioning the worst, but it doesn’t bother me as much as it should. In fact, it makes sense with everything that’s happened in the past two days. I scoot away from him even though I want to lie back down and curl into him.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he whispers.

  I glance back. His face is uncharacteristically open. I can see every rough edge inside him, and he’s scraping me raw. How did I ever think he was normal? Ordinary?

  “You’ve known death.”

  “Yes,” I answer, even though that wasn’t the question.

  “Are you afraid of me?”

  I give in and twist onto my knees and hands, crawling across the bed until my face is over his. He grabs my hips, steadying me as I move to straddle him. I run my fingers through the scruff on his face, down his throat. The cut I gave him has scabbed over. He inhales when I touch it.

  “No, Jackson,” I whisper, leaning down and pressing my lips to his cheek. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  His hands slide under my shirt, up my back. He makes a noise in the back of his throat as his cock thickens against my thigh. My tongue touches his earlobe, and then I straighten.

  He sits up and slams his lips to mine, not letting me escape so easily. His hand grips the back of my head, threading through my hair. I groan when his teeth rake my lower lip. Our tongues tangle together, and heat spikes through me. My fingers go to the button of his jeans before I remember my earlier thought. I shove his shirt up, our lips parting
long enough for me to get it off him. My fingers ghost over the stitched wound on his biceps, which is an angry red. He shakes his head and throws his shirt on the floor.

  The look he gives me—ignore it, he’s saying. So I turn my attention to his chest, and then lower.

  Yep, he has abs of steel. I run my fingers over them, eliciting a soft chuckle from him. He sweeps my hair off my neck and shoulder and latches his lips on to my skin. I tilt my head back and close my eyes. He tugs the hem of my shirt up, slowly revealing my flat stomach, my small breasts, my collarbones. Sometimes it pays to go braless.

  His eyes feast on me, and he swipes one finger over my hardened nipple. I stifle a moan.

  “Delia,” he whispers.

  “Jackson,” I answer.

  He twists us until my back hits the mattress, and he stands and drops his pants. His erection strains through his boxers. My mouth waters as I watch him. I press up onto my elbows, but he stills me with one look. I drop back flat, trying to control the tremble. When it comes to him, I have no control.

  Jackson tugs off my jeans and panties and tosses them to the floor. He grabs my hips and pulls me to the edge of the bed. “

  Are you ready for this?” His gaze is searing. “I can’t be gentle right now.”

  “I don’t want you to be gentle,” I tell him.

  He thrusts his finger into me, letting out a slow breath. I moan and arch my back.

  “Jesus, you’re soaked.”

  One finger becomes two, and I glare at him, at the sensation of his fingers inside me. I need more. “I—”

  “Hush,” he says softly. He turns his attention to my clit, his thumb rubbing circles that have my hips rocking into him. He smirks. “You’re ready.”

  “I’ve been ready.” I’m practically panting.

  When he pushes three fingers into me, I nearly jolt. They build a familiar, wicked sensation. “Ah, fuck,” I moan. “More—oh my god.”

  All at once, he stops.

  My eyes flutter open, and I’m ready to give him hell for leaving me at the edge of a cliff when he grips my thighs and slams into me.

  I squeak in surprise. My fingers scramble for purchase on the comforter at the feel of him. At this angle—him looming over me, standing while I’m flat on the bed, my butt nearly falling off it—I feel every inch of him.