“Mr. Oxford also said two guards should man the cameras at all times. And don’t forget. While you’re monitoring her, he is monitoring you. Get the fuck back there.”
The voices faded. He inhaled deeply. Then they were moving, around a corner, and…climbing? Stairs? What was up? The roof.
Metal rattled. Crisp outdoor air washed over her. In the distance, the whump, whump, whump of a helicopter approached. Fast.
“This might go to shit. Just hang on, okay?”
She tucked in, her body paralyzed with shock. Noah, the rescue, it was a dream. She was dreaming.
The wind picked up, and the whine of the helicopter’s rotor announced its descent.
He ran. She held her breath, tried not to pass out from the agony of her injuries battering against his sprinting body.
A gun fired. More followed. Behind them. In front of them. Footsteps and shouting rang out in every direction. She couldn’t see, couldn’t fight, and her consciousness ebbed and flowed with his ducking movements.
Clutching her to his chest, he lowered to a squat. The gun fight waged. Minutes felt like hours as she tensed against the pangs gripping her body. She soothed her nerves by picturing them concealed behind a wall, out of the path of the whistling bullets.
How much time had passed since Roy left? Was he turning his plane around that very moment? A barrage of questions piled up her damaged throat. Holding herself as invisible as possible, she waited.
Finally, he shot to his feet and dashed several paces, zigzagging left to right, setting her teeth on edge with pain. “Get this thing in the air.” He panted. Skidded to a stop. Twisted them, leaping forward, and landed on his back. “Go, go, go.”
The sheet unraveled enough to free her good arm. She tried to sit up, but he held her tight. The floor shifted below them, wobbling with the shift of the helicopter. The gunfire died down and fell quiet. A collective sigh released through the cabin.
“How?” She swallowed, flinched. “This rescue?” He’d accomplished the impossible, and if she had the strength, she’d pinch herself.
He lifted her and settled them into a seat, tugging straps around them, stabbing pain through her chest and arm. “Marines. I called in a favor.”
The helicopter vibrated, and she gasped against the agony. “Nathan okay?”
His body tensed and caused hers to do the same. His hands were on her, but she could no longer feel them. A terrifying anticipation of something ugly and awful curled her fingers into a fist. She unclenched her hand, forced it to reach up and brush over his face.
Her touch met wiry hair from cheek to cheek. She didn’t understand at first. Her hand raked back and forth through the full beard she knew Noah couldn’t grow. If she rubbed it long enough, maybe he would pull her hand away and tell her it was fake. He didn’t. Instead, his chest began to buck and a sob escaped his throat.
She jerked her arm away and choked, “Nathan?”
He grabbed her hand, pulled it to his chest. “I’m sorry.”
“No. Where’s Noah?” She covered her mouth, couldn’t smother the horrible sound coming out of it.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
She didn’t have to see the pain in his eyes to hear it. She felt it throughout her entire body. She wanted a different answer. He couldn’t give her one. “When? How long…” Her voice was ugly. Choked. Dead.
“He didn’t suffer long. He passed within minutes of the shot.”
She’d lived two months without knowing, hoping he’d survived, yet girding herself for this likelihood. But as it pressed down on her, she couldn’t bear it. It hurt too damn much. “No. He was still breathing.”
Four Marines chatted quietly around her, voices she didn’t recognize, men who’d risked their life for hers. Nathan kept her clenched against him, careful of her injuries, and stroked her face. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” He chanted it, over and over.
The whir of the passing wind, the vibration of the rotor, and the men’s chatter fell away. She was in such wrenching misery, she could only lay there in his arms and press her face against his cheek. Every sob pained the injuries. Tears burned her swollen eyes, mixed with his. She wept and didn’t stop until they reached their destination.
He gathered the sheet around her and carried her off the helicopter.
“Where?” It was all she could muster.
“The where is nowhere. We’re going to disappear, Charlee. And once we’ve regained our footing, we’ll get him. I promise.”
Chapter Seventeen
‡
Three years later…
The clinking of silverware and the drone of whispered conversations sifted through Charlee. She bounced her leg against her seat in the vinyl booth and let the atmosphere feed her incessant need to crawl out of hiding.
The stiff presence across the table did not share her sentiment. Nathan perched on the edge of his chair, the seatback shoved against the farthest corner of the room where he kept an invariable yet subtle eye on their surroundings.
A server bustled by, trailing fumes of garlic from his raised tray. Her mouth watered. “I’m starving.”
He glanced at her. “You need to eat more.” His focus returned to the crowded dining room. “And you should cut your hair.”
She rolled her lips between her teeth and bit down. He could bitch all he wanted. She told him daily to go live his life. Not that she wasn’t grateful for his protection and his company. He was the brother she never had. With his parents long passed and Noah…all they had was each other. And he was going to blow his fucking top when he found out her agenda for choosing that specific restaurant.
“Dammit, I know why you won’t cut it.” He scrubbed a hand across his eyes as if wiping away images. “God, I know. It’s just…” He looked at the mop stringing around her shoulders and whispered, “With all that red hair, you’re too noteworthy.”
She twisted a finger around a lock. She hadn’t dyed it, hadn’t cut it in three years, and had no plans to. A small rebellion against the fuckhead who liked it short.
Their server approached the table and slid vibrant colored plates of elote and carne asada tacos between them. She flared her nostrils, inhaling the aroma of chili and lime. “I love New York City. Where else can you get authentic Cuban food?”
“Miami,” he said with a smile in his voice. “Or Cuba. Why don’t we go there?”
She’d chosen New York for a reason. What he didn’t know was she’d spent three years stalking The Burn on the Internet. She analyzed every song. Maybe she was nuts—was probably certifiable—but the lyrics seemed to be written about her, for her.
By the time she left the isolation of the penthouse, the band had reached stardom. They weren’t just popular. They were untouchable. Jay, Laz, Wil, and Rio were each iconic in their own right. They monopolized the cover of every magazine and Tonight show with miniscule activities about where they ate, vacationed, and who they slept with. Given their short careers, they should’ve been ranked among the rising stars, but The Burn had become legendary.
Jay was the least public of the four. No gossip or pictures of girlfriends. In fact, photos of him were difficult to dig up.
The band lived in L.A. but visited New York monthly. A couple days earlier, she tattooed a guy who had a friend who knew a roadie for the band. This roadie claimed that The Burn frequented the El Sabor Outpost restaurant on Friday nights.
It was Friday night, and her hope was as bright as the neon El Sabor Outpost sign above the bar. Oh God, Nathan was going to kill her.
She bit into a corn cob and the kernels squirted with sweetness. “So good.” She raised her eyes, watched him watch her eat. His lean frame, defiant posture, and bright blue eyes consumed her with painful nostalgia. She shook it off with a roll of her shoulder. “Why do you hate New York so much? We’ve only been here a couple months. Give it a chance.”
Another glance around the room. “He owns too many businesses in this town. Hell, he might eve
n own this restaurant.”
“Bullshit. You’d know if he did, and we wouldn’t be dining here.”
He ran his private investigation business remotely, though most of his time was focused on gathering evidence against Roy. He’d made little progress in three years, and his frustration radiated from his pores. It seemed Roy Oxford’s payroll extended to members of the FBI and law enforcement in most major cities.
“Fine. He doesn’t own this one.” He squeezed a lime over a taco and dug in. “Yet,” he amended around a mouthful of shredded beef and dragged his sleeve over his clean-shaven chin. “We need to stay hidden until I can gather enough evidence to nail him.”
Screw hiding. She longed to confront Roy on the street and oust him where the oblivious world could bear witness. “I used to be a girl with ambitions and fanciful dreams, you know?” Her dream of teaching children to paint might not have been fanciful, but the notion still caught in her throat. “He took that from me. Now my only aspiration is running as far and fast as I can. I’m tired of it.” Damned tremors crept into her voice.
“Shh. I know.” He reached over the table and patted her hand. “I need more time. We have to be smart about this, and I’m regretting this move to New York. Three thousand miles doesn’t make us safer, sweetheart. He’s buying up corporations from coast to coast. He’s everywhere. And his”—he dropped his voice—“arms-trafficking activities are headquartered on this coast. Please be mindful of that.”
She slunk down into the seat. He was her voice of practicality and her only comfort. He was also an ever present reminder of the man she lost.
Despite her pleading, Nathan refused to return to his life in St. Louis. Roy was looking for an overweight, bearded man named Matthew Linden, not a thin, clean-shaven private investigator and Marine. And Nathan excelled at his job, covering his aliases and securing his connections. He was certain Roy hadn’t connected Matthew Linden to Winslow Investigations, which meant he didn’t need to be on the run with her. Yet here he was, taking care of her in some kind of noble dedication to Noah.
He picked up his fork. “How much money did you make today?”
Two tattoos. Not much, but inking out of his temporary PI office in the Village didn’t exactly tantalize would-be customers. “A hundred and fifty dollars.”
Laughter barreled from across the room and stole his attention. His eyes cut back to her, and they were stone-like in resolve. His you-don’t-need-to-work lecture was imminent.
She held up a hand. “Don’t say it. I earned this money to see Duke again. I made an appointment for tomorrow. Will you take me?” She straightened her backbone and waited for his disappointment. Just saying Duke’s name brought out his overprotective tension.
His face paled, and he pushed his plate away. “There are other kinds of therapy.”
The deadness in his tone raised her hackles. “The normal kind, you mean. And what exactly would I talk about with a psychiatrist?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “That I was held as a slave and I’m on the run because my captor is too powerful to bring down? How many red flags would that raise? How much bribe money would it take for the therapist to turn my confession over to the man hunting for it?”
A swallow bobbed in his throat, and his eyes darted between her and the rowdiness across the room. “Then talk to me.”
She leaned over their plates and closed the distance between them. “I do talk to you. I tell you everything. And goddammit, you’ve seen it all firsthand.”
He closed his eyes, no doubt remembering the night in Roy’s dining room. Or his two months of monitoring the cameras in the stockroom. Or maybe he was reliving her first appointment with the Dom in Shreveport. He’d been adamant about remaining in the room during the scene. She was certain he regretted it, because he never attended another one, and her bondage therapy continued to be a driving wedge between them.
His eyes were closed for so long, she kicked his shin under the table. “Look at me.”
He did, with torment-glazed eyes, and their hands joined at the center of the table. Her relationship with him was a complex tangle of revenge and preservation. She suspected he loathed her and cared about her in equal measures. Noah saved his life in Afghanistan, and now Nathan had found a way to repay him by protecting her. Nothing she could say would deter him.
She rubbed a thumb over his. “I have so little control over my life. I need this.” She needed to control when to be shackled, to name the limits, and to speak the safe word to stop it. So she paid the Nathan-vetted Doms to give her that. “I need those few hours of power. I know you understand this.”
He let out a breath. “You’re resilient, you know that?”
“I’m a survivor.” If she kept telling herself that, maybe she would be at the end of this.
“I look at you every day and wonder how you do it, how you don’t break down under—” He squeezed her hands, swallowed “—under it. So if these appointments help you hold it together…”
She nodded. He understood the reasons she gave. What he didn’t need to know was she used the physical pain to push her past her emotional barriers. When arousal tormented her, relief could only come from a choking restraint, the cut of a cane, the dry penetration of a cock. The notion was shameful, but each visit with a Dom guided her closer toward acceptance of her fucked-up desires.
“I need to run a full investigation on this Duke guy again.”
“Of course.” She straightened his fingers in her hand, tried to smooth out the tension there.
“And I’ll be there. Right outside the room.” His mouth twitched, and it could’ve been mistaken for a smile. She knew it was nerves.
The front door swung open and the whoosh of motoring traffic filtered in, followed by the footsteps of multiple people. The restaurant broke out in excited screams.
“We need to go.” Nathan dug out his wallet.
Her pulse spiked as she twisted in the booth. A crowd had gathered around the new-comers, blocking the view. Was it them? Had to be. A chill spread through her, and perspiration surfaced on her breastbone. How would she approach them without showing her face? Her plan hadn’t gone further than steering Nathan to the restaurant.
A man climbed atop the table at the center of the commotion, his head rising above the throngs of women. Chunks of hair spiked over his large sunglasses. He shoved two fingers in his mouth and whistled. “Good evening, wonderful patrons of El Sabor Outpost. My buddies and I have a wager going, if you’ll be so kind as to oblige us. You see, they are questioning my mojo.”
Women hooted around him, hiding his lower half, but the jerk of his shoulders implied he was thrusting his hips.
She bent around the high back booth, craning her neck. “Let’s just wait it out.”
“No fucking way.” He ground his teeth, flicking his eyes in every direction, and waved at the server. “Check, please.”
Laz Bromwell, lead fucking guitarist, bounced on the table to peek over the crowd. “My friends don’t think I can get a date with the most beautiful woman in this restaurant. My manhood demands I take that bet. What do you say?”
The women screamed and jumped up and down. Charlee’s heart mimicked in kind.
Camera phones waved in the air. Dammit. Fuck. She flattened a hand beside her face to hide her features and met Nathan’s wild eyes. “This isn’t so bad.” Holy shit. Oh fuck, he was never going to forgive her for this.
“We’re going to slip down that aisle on the far side and out through the kitchen.” He threw a wad of cash on the table, grabbed her hand and hauled her from the booth. “Do not look at him.”
Shit. She couldn’t leave. Not without making contact with Jay. Where was he? She arched her neck, couldn’t see through the horde of people.
Nathan tugged her toward the door. “Look. The. Other. Way.”
Laz surveyed the room, making a show of eyeing each woman with his charming smile. Two others joined him on the table. The bald drummer, Rio Ketch and surfer boy ba
ssist, Wil Sima. Where the hell was Jay?
She dragged her feet, her heart sinking.
Three pairs of well-known eyes locked on hers. Her heart sprinted into a marathon, urging her to run, but her legs were paralyzed. She didn’t know what had led Jay Mayard into her shop three years earlier, but this possibility of seeing him again might be the only one she’d ever get. She couldn’t walk away.
Chapter Eighteen
‡
An arm wrapped around Charlee’s midsection, lifted her, and carried her toward the kitchen.
“Wait.” She bucked against the unbreakable hold. At twenty-five years old, she could behave like a swooning fan just like the squealing girls across the room. He didn’t need to know her true intentions. “I want to meet them.”
He growled in her ear. “I know you know the singer.”
“What?” How the hell would he know that? She elbowed him in the ribs. “Put me down.”
“Hey, Red. Wait. Don’t leave.” Laz pointed at her, jumped from the table, and pushed past the grabbing arms of the crowd. If she continued moving toward the back exit, would he follow? She hoped, because escaping the camera phones that would soon be turning her direction was the priority.
A team of stiff, plain-dressed men held back the fans as Laz closed the distance.
Nathan reached around her waist and pulled her through the kitchen doors. “This is the worst scenario imaginable. What if the paparazzi show up?” He spun them in a circle, likely scanning for an exit. “Great, just great.”
“Hey there. Don’t hide.” A few feet away, Laz’s smile filled his adorable face, the doors swinging behind him and muffling the screams. She dropped her hands.
“Sweet God in heaven, you are undeniably—”
“My wife, Maylynn.” Nathan held out his hand, his jaw clenching in her periphery. “I’m Hank, the guy who cost you a bet. And we were just leaving.”
Hank and Maylynn McGraw. Nathan’s ridiculous aliases made her fist twitch.
“Is Jay here?” She couldn’t keep her anticipation from pitching her voice.
Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire Page 119