by Denise Wells
It’s not that he’s a bad guy or even a bad partner. It’s that he’s not Reed. And even though I had a hard time with Reed’s fastidiousness in the beginning, working with the same person for six years makes an impact. You get used to them, their mannerisms and habits, and you start to sync in time. And when that person is gone, you’re left wanting. Regardless, I need to try not to take it out on Andrews. It’s not his fault Reed jumped ship and moved to UC without a word. I rub a hand over my chest to soothe it. Even thinking about Reed leaving still stings my heart.
Andrews just shakes his head in response to my question and looks back down at the file he’s reading. We are still on the Tremblay case, even though he’s dead, because his being gone changes nothing about the missing women. And now we’ve got solving his murder thrown into the mix.
“What’re you working on?” I ask him.
“Just reviewing what you had collected, making my own notes, getting a feel for what’s gone down.”
“Well, short of scouring the dating apps and following every single guy looking for love, I’m not sure what all we’ve got to go on with our only two leads dead,” I say, even knowing it’s not true. I mean, it’s true as far as the FBI is concerned, but it’s not true as far as ID’ing potential suspects with Daria’s help. She’s got leads she’s still following up on that turned up in all the stuff she pulled on Tremblay.
Addresses to hunt down, IP addresses to track, payments to trace. While the FBI is still combing through the wedding guest list to see if anything flags. Not to make the FBI sound incompetent, just that it can take longer to get things done when doing them legally. I shoot a text off to Daria to let her know to keep me posted on where Quinn is, and return my attention to the aforementioned guest list.
I could send this off to research and records, but there can be a keen satisfaction in completing the legwork yourself sometimes. Plus, I think I can draw parallels just as well, if not better, than they can. I make some notes to that effect and look down when my phone buzzes again with a text.
DARIA: Call me as soon as you can.
I grab my phone and am walking into the hallway as I dial.
“Mack?” Her voice sounds shaky and not at all like how she usually sounds.
“Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“Can you meet me at Quinn’s? I’m on my way there now from the bar.”
“Do you want me to pick you up? What’s going on?”
“Just meet me there, please. I need you.”
“I’m on my way.”
I run down the steps instead of waiting for the elevator and am in my truck in a matter of minutes. Not once since I’ve known her has Daria ever said that she needed me. Wanted me? Sure. Tolerated me? Absolutely. But needed? That’s just not in her make-up of personal verbs.
I drive fast enough and break several traffic laws to shave four minutes off the fifteen-minute drive and am pulling up in front of Quinn’s place at the same time as Daria. Before she can even park, I’m out of my car and racing toward her. I have this pressing need to make sure she’s okay. That she was just calling to ask me for help and not because something happened to her or she’s hurt. Yanking her driver’s side door open, I unfasten her seatbelt and pull her from her car in almost the same move.
“Baby? Talk to me. What’s going on?” I pat down her hair and face, then run my hands along her body checking for anything that may be amiss. Satisfied that nothing is wrong, I pull her in for a quick, hard hug before releasing her to answer me.
“I don’t know,” she says. “But Alyssa tracked Quinn’s phone here. Or the last time it pinged the towers, it was right around here. There’s no signal coming from it now.”
“Here at her house, here?”
“Yes. And she’s not here. I checked the entire apartment when I was here earlier. Her car is here, but that hasn’t changed from before.” She looks off to the side, as though weighing what she’s about to say next. “And I’m going to break into her car and take a better look around the property. But I didn’t want . . . I can’t be . . .”
She pauses again. She’s feeling vulnerable and needy. Neither of which are easy for her to handle. I don’t blame her. This is her best friend we’re talking about. Not that I would blame her anyway if it wasn’t. I could never judge Daria for being human. For having the same basic emotions the rest of us experience every day without something catastrophic happening.
“I’m here, Daria. Okay? Whatever you need. I’m here for you. This is what we do now—you and I—we show up for each other. No matter what. No matter why.”
She nods and smiles, but it’s weak. “I don’t know what we’ll find. I hate to be alone if . . .” She doesn’t finish her sentence. Again. It doesn’t matter. We both know what she was going to say anyway, and sometimes voicing the thought aloud is almost as bad as having it happen.
“I don’t know why I didn’t think to do this when I was here the first time. Stupid.”
“Hey.” I pull her by the shoulders to face me. “None of that talk, okay? It’s a stressful time, it’s impossible to think of everything. And besides, who would have thought she’d go somewhere and not have her phone turned on. That’s very un-Quinn-like behavior.
“True.” She pulls a little device from her pocket and has the car beeping its cooperation in a matter of seconds.
“That’s handy.” I reach my hand out for it, wanting to see what it is she used.
“It is.” She smiles devilishly and pockets the device without letting me see it.
I’ll let her get away with hiding it from me for now. But I make a mental note to find out what it was and how it worked so fast to open the car. Daria and her girls have all the cool toys when it comes to surveillance and crime.
She tells me about the conversation with her father as we work together, going through every inch of Quinn’s car. I have a hard time believing that she’s so complacent with him when he orders her to do things. Though if she’s not amenable and her actions are just a ruse to appease him—which I’m more inclined to believe—then I can’t fathom how her father thinks she’d be okay with his dictates.
We collect a small bag of assorted trash from Quinn’s car. It’s a mess on the inside: magazines, receipts, clothing returns, shoes, empty water bottles, and empty fast-food containers. The only thing it seems we don’t find is the one thing we’re looking for. I check the trunk, which is surprisingly clean and empty, especially given the state of the interior of the car.
I’ll never understand women.
“I don’t get it,” Daria says, running her hand through her long hair. “She never has her phone turned off. Not ever. And I’ve been calling and texting her all morning, with no response. And wherever she is, she doesn’t have her car.”
“That’s not good,” I say unnecessarily.
“No, it’s not,” Daria agrees. “Do you think. . .”
She doesn’t finish this sentence either, but I still know what she’s going to say.
“Yeah, I do. I’m sorry, babe. But I think Quinn is missing.”
6
Quinn
I have to admit, it’s a lot harder to plot out being rescued by the love of your life when he doesn’t know you’re missing. If he knew, I’m certain he would try to find me. If the way he treated me the other night is any indication. Even if he was a little drunk—okay, a lot drunk—he still touched me and looked at me with reverence. Like he was worshipping my body, memorizing every piece of me so he could relive our night again and again.
The same way that I keep it on a loop in my mind, as an escape from this cold, dank windowless room I need him to come take me away from. In my mind’s eye, I see his face smiling above me as he tells me what a good girl I am; how I’m so pretty.
“Have I told you how pretty you are?”
I shake my head, my hair swishing back and forth across my shoulders, the butterflies in my stomach going all aflutter at his words.
His hand rea
ches out to smooth my hair back from my face, I lean my cheek into his palm. Watching him as his eyes travel from mine, up to my forehead, down to my lips, my chest, and back up to my face. He leans in and takes my bottom lip between his with a gentle pull. Then lets it go to ghost his lips across mine. Spreading kisses up one side of my face and back down again with the softest of touches until finally returning to my mouth, his tongue snakes out to glide across mine, seeking entrance.
I can’t breathe. My head spins. As a first “real” kiss, Reed Roberts is absolutely killing it.
He groans as his fingers slide up into my hair, grip it tightly, and hold my head in place. His other hand creeps around to my waist and pulls me forward to straddle his lap. Then, with one little sentence, he rocks my entire world.
“Oh god, Quinn. You feel amazing. Exactly how I dreamed it would be,” he murmurs against my lips, making my heart burst and my insides melt.
“You dreamed about me?”
“All the time, pretty girl. All the time.”
That was all the motivation I needed to scoot myself closer, pressing our chests together and tilting my pelvis down against him so I could feel how hard he was beneath me.
“I dreamed about you too,” I admit, feeling emboldened.
His lips move from mine, down my jaw, and over to my neck, where he trails kisses along the sensitive skin, stopping to nibble on my collarbone, which makes me moan.
“What did you dream about?” he asks.
“This. Kissing. Being together.”
“Did you dream about us fucking, Quinn?”
I nod as he kisses his way to the other side of my neck. He has to be the best neck kisser around. By far.
“I did too. I dreamed about burying my cock deep inside your pussy as you beg me for more.” His words are a little crass. In my daydreams and fantasies, he has always been a bit more poetic with his choices. But something about hearing his deep voice whispering “cock” and “pussy,” his hot breath tickling my ear, it makes me want him to do exactly that. Right then. Without waiting a second longer.
He moves a hand inside my shirt and cups my breast through my bra.
“God, Quinn, your tits are amazing. I have to see them.” He pulls my shirt up and off me, leaving me straddling him in my shorts and a bra. His eyes fill with hunger, my panties flood.
“So beautiful.” He grabs a breast in each hand and squeezes, then buries his face between them, alternately licking and kissing the valley in between.
The memories heat my entire body from the inside out, my hand clutching at my throat. Making me suddenly wonder if I’ll ever see him again. Ever feel his touch. My pleasure morphs rapidly to despair as I curl into a fetal position and attempt to cry myself to sleep.
7
Quinn
As near as I can tell, it’s been at least a day since I arrived in this room. Someone came in a few hours ago and left me bottled water and some bread with butter. I had to laugh at the stereotypical-ness of the meal. Isn’t that exactly what prisoners always get? Bread and water?
It’s dank in this room and reminds of how the inside of the washing machine smells if you leave wet clothes in it too long. If I had to bet, I’d say it’s subterranean, which is the worse place to be in most natural disasters.
Earthquake? If the house falls, it’s all coming down on top of you.
Flood? Water finds low points to settle in.
Fire? There are no windows to escape from, and I can’t make it through the door.
Hurricane? Well, shit, maybe it would be okay during a hurricane. Or a tornado. Too bad there aren’t many of either of those in California. If at all.
If I wasn’t so tired and cold, I’d be more worried about my lack of escape route from this room. I usually like to know how I’m getting out of a place before I go into it. The only exception to that was the night I spent as a Dirty Darling for Daria. There’s something about channeling badass vigilante justice that makes anxiety a thing of the past.
I try to summon a bit of that same courage now, but it’s just too hard. The only good thing that’s happened since I’ve been here is that they removed the tape from my wrists and ankles when they brought the bread and water. So I’m able to move around a bit and pee in the bucket.
They only left fifteen squares of toilet paper. I counted to make sure I’d have enough. For what I don’t know since I have no idea how long I’ll be here. But I know for sure I plan to use it sparingly. And, luckily, it’s only pee this time around.
I dab gently with one square, trying not to feel disgusted by the liquid that seeps through the thin single ply and coats my fingers. Making the square I used a total waste. I wipe my fingers on my dress and look around for a way to wash my hands.
“Ha ha!” I say aloud. As if there’s going to be a sink with soap and running water in this weird little room. I’m not about to use my drinking water to wash my hands, so I sit back on the thin mattress, uncomfortable knowing that I have pee fingers and that I wiped said fingers on the skirt of one of my favorite dresses.
“Yeah, because that’s what you should be worried about right now, Quinn.”
I flop back with a sigh. Forgetting for just a second just how insufficient the buoyancy is in my little makeshift bed, as I bang my head on the floor.
Well, when all else fails, maybe it’s time for a good cry again.
I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep when I’m woken by the sound of the lock in my door jiggling and the creak of the hinges as it’s pushed open. I hold my breath, waiting to see who is coming inside this time. I’m pretty sure it’s the big guy that brought me in here. But he’s not the same one who brought the bread and water and tore off my tape bindings.
I soon see that this man is neither of the first two as he makes his way into the room.
He looks at his palm first, as though the doorknob may have transferred something to it, then takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes it repeatedly. He looks around, his face filled with disgust, “This room is quite revolting. I’m almost sorry about it.” Like the other men, his accent is heavy. But unlike the other men, it’s kind of sexy. Guttural.
“Almost?” I scoff.
“Well.” He smiles slightly. “You are my prisoner. It’s only fitting you be held in a prison cell, no?”
“Not if you ask me.” I surprise myself with my limited defiance.
“Is there somewhere you’d rather be?”
“Pretty much anywhere but here. How about you let me out and I’ll tell my best friend to kill you swiftly instead of slowly?” I feign confidence well.
He smiles again. This time it takes up more of his face, making him almost handsome in a way.
“Ah, yes. Quinn Foster. The best friend of Daria Limonov, if I’m not mistaken.”
It shouldn’t surprise me he knows this, but it does anyway. But, if he knows who Daria is, and he must know her from Russia based on his accent, then he knows how dangerous she can be. It would do him well to be scared. So, I tell him as much.
“How rude of me to not introduce myself properly.” He walks toward me, and I push myself up from the bed to standing, he towers over me by at least a foot. He holds out his hand as though to shake mine. I grasp his with my pee hand and try to will all of my pee germs from me to him as he says, “Ronan Sinclair, at your service.”
8
Ronan
The girl, Quinn, looks scared. But she still stands and shakes my hand when I introduce myself. I have to give her credit for that. I know I’m an imposing figure and it takes guts to not cower in a corner when someone like me has a small woman like her locked away in a concrete room with no possibility of escape.
Her dress is badly wrinkled and stained in spots, her hair in disarray, and her makeup smudged and streaked. But, to be honest, she looks better than I thought she might for someone who’s spent the last forty-two hours in a filthy, dank hovel.
“Have you heard of me?” I ask her.
She shakes her head.
“No?” I’m surprised, but I also think she might be lying to try to get my goat, as the Americans say. “I find it hard to believe Daria hasn’t mentioned me.”
“Maybe you aren’t important to her.” She shrugs, acting indifferent.
Her tough facade endears me to her. Perhaps under different circumstances I might be attracted to her. “Shame.” I circle the room slowly, taking care not to touch anything in it. I’d asked Andrei to put her in one of the basement rooms, but I didn’t expect he would put her in the worst one. “Daria has something I need. When she gives it to me, I’ll give you back to her. Until then, I’m afraid you must stay here.”
“You could just let me go, and I’ll get it from her and bring it back to you.” Her face is filled with hope as she says this. She reminds me of a small, grubby street urchin begging for coins.
“If only it were that easy,” I tell her. “Now, I do need a picture of you for proof of life.”
She moves into a pose before stopping herself. “I can’t believe I was about to pose,” she mutters, shaking her head.
I raise my phone and snap a picture of her dirty, yet still beautiful face. I plan to use it to get Daria on my side. What I told Quinn was correct, I do need something from Daria, and my plan is to use Quinn as my bargaining chip. If I know Daria like I think I do, she’ll do anything to save her friend. Daria has gone soft since coming to the United States. There used to be a time where she would not bargain at all, regardless of the consequences. But since they killed Katya, she’s become more possessive of those important to her. And her quest to find Katya’s killer has become an obsession.