by Mazzy King
“Put your weapons down,” one of them sneers.
I don’t know who does it first. But someone…someone makes a horrible move and fires a shot, and then there’s gunfire everywhere.
I’m suddenly released from my captor and drop to my knees, my head dizzy. Before my entire body can hit the ground, another pair of strong hands scoops me up. As bullets slice the air at insane speeds, I feel myself being half-dragged, half-carried somewhere.
My back hits something hard. I’m behind the bar, and there’s someone on top of me.
Dominic.
One of his arms cradles me close to him. He uses his other hand to cup my face, his dark brows drawn together.
“Serena,” he murmurs. “Are you all right?”
“What’s…happening?” I mumble, and it scares me how far away my voice sounds to my own ears.
He surprises me with a smirk. “Bad guys with guns, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Why…?”
I have this weird, lucid sense of self-awareness that informs me I am losing my shit and likely going into shock. I’m suddenly freezing cold and trembling violently.
Dominic tears off his leather jacket and enfolds me in it, maneuvering my body like I’m a life-sized ragdoll. In the back of my mind, I’m struck by how earlier I’d had a fantasy of wearing this jacket—albeit with far less clothing than I have on right now—and now, here it is, wrapped around me. It smells as good as I thought it would—old leather, smokiness that’s rich like cigars, his spicy cologne. And it’s warm—so warm. The residual body heat pushes through the icy shell of my shock and starts to bring me back to life.
The gunfire is still going strong.
“What’s out that way?” Dominic asks, pointing toward the kitchen.
The original stampede has thinned out and the sound of sirens pierces the air—the back door must be hanging open.
“A door,” I manage. “To an alley.”
“Let’s go.”
Before I can utter a sound, Dominic scoops me up into his arms while somehow staying low at the same time. I can’t help but think he must have incredibly strong legs and arms to be carrying me and running at this angle. My head jounces with every step.
Outside, the heat of the summer day has cooled to a manageable warm night. Before I can direct him, he turns right, hits the sidewalk, runs away from the bar, turns left, runs halfway down a block, turns another right, and then stops at a black Chevy sedan I assume is his.
He loads me into the passenger seat, then slips behind the wheel.
“Where do you live?” he asks, his tone clipped. He reaches out and grabs my seat belt, then yanks it across my lap before putting on his own.
“Off—off tenth and Leighton.”
“Those apartments right there on the corner? The—the Brick House Flats?”
“Yeah,” I breathe, feeling lightheaded again. “I usually just walk to work.” I only live a few blocks from the bar in the heart of downtown.
“Fine. I’m taking you home. You stay there.” He peels away from the curb and shoots off. We slink past the bar, and there are about four hundred and seventeen squad cars parked outside, red-and-blues flashing so erratically I hope no one at risk of seizures is in the area.
“What about you?” I ask, turning my head to study him.
He shakes his head, his jaw tight. I notice he has a profile that reminds me of one of those old Greek statues. The long nose, pouty lips from the side. A dusting of a beard along his jaws. He’s not classically handsome, but he is so fucking dark and sexy.
And he has a gun.
Drug dealer, I remind myself, and my insides shrivel. Sexy or no, this guy is trouble with a motherfucking capital T, and I want no part of it.
My eyes creep to his hands and my breath hitches. A man’s hands are a weird deal-breaker for me. I don’t like big meaty paws, but I hate tiny hands, too. Dominic’s hands are perfect—large and strong, with veins on the backs, but they’re strangely elegant for their size. I imagine them balling into fists and beating people’s faces in. I imagine them sliding down my bare skin, over my breasts, down between my thighs.
Fuck. Stop it, Serena. Trouble, remember?
3
Dominic
I follow Serena’s hazy directions and pull into the underground parking garage reserved for residents. Then I help her out of the car, all the while keeping my head on a swivel. What a fucking shitshow the night turned out to be, and at the moment, I have no idea if my brothers in blue made it out of that gunfight. But I can’t blow my cover, not even under these circumstances, and they knew that.
The plan is to secure Serena in her home, then creep back out and head to the safehouse. It isn’t safe to assume my home hasn’t been compromised, but only a handful of people know where the safehouse is, and that’s the place to go when the shit hits the fan.
But I’ve got a dazed girl with one foot in shock and one foot out, and I have to make sure she’s all right. She must be terrified. She didn’t sign up for this shit. She was just trying to collect a check and maybe some decent tip money, and everything fucked right on up.
I feel guilty.
I propel her inside. “Which floor?”
“S-seventh.”
Shit. I do not want to ride in the elevator, but taking the stairs that far up is out of the question.
Just as we step inside the elevator and the doors slide shut, I catch a glimpse of three buzz-headed blond guys walking through the main entrance. They don’t see us, but fucking shit. How did they know to follow us here?
Someone’s been watching me, and somehow, I didn’t pick up on the tail.
I pat my pockets and discover my burner cell phone is missing. It’s my only contact with the outside world—my only contact with the people who could help me out of this predicament.
I decide not to mention this to Serena. There’s no point in freaking her the fuck out any more than she already is.
She leads me to her door when we reach the seventh floor, and I have one hand on her lower back and one hand on the gun at my waist. No one seems to be on the floor yet, but I’ve got to get her inside and locked up.
She fumbles her keys out of her pocket and shoves them into the lock. “I always keep my keys with me,” she says to the door. “You never know who might swipe your purse.”
“Smart thinking,” I say, scanning down the hallway. The other bank of elevators dings just as Serena opens her door. I push her inside none-too-gently and shut the door just as the elevator doors open.
“Fuck,” I breathe, flipping all the locks she has, which isn’t nearly enough. I unholster my gun and peer out her peephole—it’s not the blond buzzheads but a trio of well-dressed young ladies who definitely look like they were at an elegant dinner rather than a divey bar. I breathe a quick sigh of relief, quadruple-check her locks, and slide my gun back into its holster.
When I turn around, Serena is leaning against the back of the couch in the middle of her small living room, clutching my jacket she’s still wearing.
“Hey,” I say softly, crossing the floor toward her. “Hey. It’s going to be all right. You’re safe now.”
Is she? I can’t help but think.
“Am I?” she says, almost making me sputter in surprise. “Who followed us here? When we got into the elevator, you looked like you saw a ghost.”
Damn. She saw that? I shrug as nonchalantly as possible. “Can’t be too careful.”
She studies me closely. The only lights on are a couple of squat table lamps made out of hammered steel—super artsy and cool, and a nice contrast to her fluffy gray couch and pale pink throw blanket and pillows. The light highlights her eyes, and I lose myself in their odd beauty. She’s even more gorgeous in this dim light than the near-dark of the bar, and my stomach does an impressive gymnastics floor routine.
“I guess you can’t be,” she says finally, carefully, as if she’d been debating with herself as to say it or not. “When you’
re a drug dealer.”
I cock an eyebrow so hard it almost shoots off my forehead. “Excuse me?”
She lifts a shoulder. “One of those things. I’ve bartended a long time. I know people. I can read them. I know drug dealers. Not personally, but—you know. Anyway, that’s the vibe you were putting out with that guy. So how much are you into him for?”
Honestly, I’m kind of speechless. She’s astute as fuck. But I can’t even begin to tell her the truth or any semblance of it, so I guess I might as well play along.
Besides, it’s easier to believe the bad stuff about a person. If I told her I’m a vice detective, she’d laugh me out of her apartment, and I need its relative safety for a long moment.
“It’s hard to explain,” I say. “I bought some bad shit off him, and he doesn’t appreciate being called out. He’s got a bad temper, as you can see.” I study the side of her head. There’s a bruise forming on her temple where my pal had his gun pressed to her head. I gently take her chin between my fingers and tilt her head to the side. “Damn.”
She reaches up, touches the spot, and winces. “Ow.”
“You’re not bleeding, at least,” I say, then recall the way he held her, his forearm across her throat. I tilt her head back by gently pressing on the underside of her chin, then I run my thumb down the center of her throat. She’s got a bruise there, too. “Fucking asshole,” I mutter.
She gazes at me, blinking, and I realize I’m being awfully forward in my touching her. Laughable, considering not that long ago she invited me to touch her in way more places than just her chin and neck.
My dick rouses itself inside my jeans as if I’d called it by name. Fuck. Of all the times to get turned on. I step around her, go to the windows, and draw all the shades and pull the curtains closed.
“So, what?” Serena demands, walking up behind me. “We just wait it out?”
“Obviously, they got someone tailing me—us,” I tell her, parting the blinds a fraction of an inch to peek out onto the street below. Without my binocs or fucking anything of importance, really, I can’t see shit.
“Look,” I say, dropping the blinds. I sigh and put my hands on my hips. “Is there any place you can go to get away from here? I don’t want you mixed up in all this shit. It’s not your problem. You’ve already gotten hurt.”
She silences me by reaching out to place her hands on my chest. Instantly my heart leaps into overdrive. “You saved my life,” she says, looking up at me earnestly. “You didn’t have to do that. I’d feel terrible about ditching you.”
It’s like she’s burning me through my shirt. I step away.
“Couldn’t you call someone?” she says. “I’m sure you’ve got some…industry pals or whatever who owe you one.”
I keep forgetting she thinks I’m a drug dealer, and it’s because she’s so incredibly distracting. “I—I don’t have my phone. I must have lost it back at the bar.”
She shrugs out of my jacket and hands it over. “Check this.”
I don’t need to, but I do anyway. “Nothing.”
“You could use my phone.”
I don’t really want to put her number out into this mess of a life I have, but I might not have a choice. I need to think about who to call—probably Rhys, but I don’t want him walking into an ambush. I need to make sure I’ve lost my tail before I call him.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Let me think about that.”
“Think about it on the couch.” Serena pushes me toward the wide, comfy-looking couch in the middle of the room. “Want a drink?”
I sigh. I’m still working, technically, but this night has gone to absolute shit. For the moment—however fleeting it might be—I’m safe. I’m worn out.
And I’m thirsty as fuck.
“Yeah,” I say. “Drink would be great.”
4
Serena
I open a bottle of red wine—the only alcohol I have in the house. I know, I’m a bartender. You’d think I’d have the most amazing home bar, but…the good stuff is expensive, and I don’t make enough to pay rent, keep the lights on, buy groceries, and buy good booze. Priorities.
Still, the bottle of red I have on hand is a good one. A Cabernet Sauvignon I got for my birthday last month from my mom. I don’t consider turning twenty-eight a particularly big deal, but she always goes all out for my birthday. It’s probably because my father’s not in the picture, so she feels like she has to go to double the lengths to make me feel special.
I planned to open it with her next year on my twenty-ninth, but shit. After almost dying tonight…I definitely feel like celebrating my new age.
I pour two glasses and carry it over to where Dominic is sitting on my sofa, his fists balled together and chin propped on top. He looks like he’s deep in thought and I almost hate to disturb him when I tap him on the shoulder and offer him a glass.
He gives me a half smile. “Thanks.”
In the soft, low light from the lamp on the side table, I can really see his face. I saw enough at the bar to know he was hot, but here in my apartment, sitting on my couch, the light highlights the dips and curves of his face, and there’s a light scar that runs from his right temple along the ridge of his cheekbone. I’m overcome with the desire to trace it with my fingers first, and then my lips.
Instead, I take a big gulp of wine.
“You gonna sit down?” Dominic asks, gesturing to the cushion beside him. “I mean, this is your place and everything.”
“Yeah.” I lower myself onto the couch. “Just still kind of…freaked.”
He reaches over and clasps my hand briefly with his. “I know. I’m sorry.” He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else and thinks better of it, snapping it closed.
“Tell me…tell me something about you,” I say, watching as he lifts the glass to his mouth. He surprises me when he sniffs, swirls the wine vigorously, sniffs again, and then sips. He’s a wine guy?
“Like what?”
“Anything that has nothing to do with what happened tonight.” I bite my lip. “Except maybe why you decided to become a drug dealer.”
He’s quiet a long time, staring into his wineglass. Then he looks up at me. “Maybe I’m not who you think I am.”
“What’s that mean?”
He sets the wineglass on the coffee table and turns toward me. “I kind of need you to…trust me.”
I arch an eyebrow.
He reaches for my hand again. His hands are large and tanned, and both forearms are covered in really beautifully done tattoos, a sort of geometric, tribal pattern with dimensional shading. His calloused palms slide over mine, and a shiver trembles down my spine.
“Can you do that?” he says softly.
“Dominic, I don’t even know you,” I reply, but my voice shakes a little. He is either being totally genuine right now, or he’s a master manipulator, but either way, he is totally intoxicating. “I—I don’t even know your last name.”
He shifts his hand over mine until we’re palm to palm, and he shakes my hand. “Dominic Black. Nice to meet you.”
“That’s not your real name.”
He lifts a hand in the air. “Swear to God.”
My gut, strangely, tells me he’s being honest. “I’m Serena Jackson.”
“Serena,” he says, like he’s caressing my name. I wonder how it would sound spoken right into my ear, as he moves inside me.
Oh Lord. My palms are sweating now. I tip back my glass. “I don’t know about you, but I feel…gross. Sweaty, and…I can still feel that guy touching me. I need a shower.”
Dominic nods. “Do what you need to do.”
I turn and stride into my bedroom before I can invite him to join me. In the bathroom, I shut the door and strip in a matter of seconds, then run the water as hot as I can stand. I scrub my entire body, being careful around my face and throat which, now that my adrenaline is fading, both ache a lot. I wash my hair with rosemary-mint shampoo and conditioner, then use lavender body wa
sh. For good measure, I run a razor over legs.
It feels weird knowing there’s a stranger in my living room, so I keep my shower time to a minimum. I slather on body cream and blow-dry my long, dark hair. The smell of the rosemary and mint is still strong, and combined with the lavender of my body wash and moisturizer, I’m relaxing with each passing second. I wrap myself in a thick towel, then hesitate.
Maybe Dominic wants a shower.
I throw on some leggings and a loose top, then set out a stack of fresh, fluffy towels on the bathroom counter. I stride back into the living room. Dominic is leaning back against the couch, head pillowed on his hands, staring up at the ceiling. The bottle of wine is resting on the coffee table now, his empty glass beside it. My glass is refilled.
“Um, if you’re feeling grimy too, you can hop in,” I say hesitantly, poking a thumb over my shoulder. “There’s clean towels on the counter.”
He lifts his head, and it’s as if he’s seeing me for the first time. It’s then I realize I’ve forgotten to put a bra on, and my loose-fitting, mint-green top is quite thin.
And just looking at him excites me.
I should probably feel totally embarrassed. Maybe it’s the one glass of wine I’ve had that has gone straight to my head. Maybe it’s almost dying tonight. Maybe it’s because I just need to admit to myself that I want this man and I can’t find it in me to give a fuck about all of the nine hundred ninety-nine thousand reasons why I shouldn’t want him.
I walk slowly over to the couch and pick up my glass and take another sip. “Thanks.”
Dominic stands up slowly. He towers over my five-five frame by half a foot. His biceps strain against the sleeves of his T-shirt, snug around them. We’re close enough that I can feel his body heat.
“You smell delicious,” he says quietly.
“Thanks,” I say again, because I have no idea what else I can say that won’t make me sound like a stammering dolt.
“I’ll take a shower,” he adds. “Thank you for offering.”