Beautiful Collision

by T. G. Ayer

  "You okay?"

  The pain seems to have sobered the both of us up. He clears his throat after a while. "You said your mother is an artist?"

  I glance over at Thane and nod as I head to the sofa and switch the TV on. "Was. But yes. I got the art bug from Mom."

  "What happened," he asks as we both sit at the same time, bumping elbows in the process. I know immediately he's asking how she died.

  I stare at the TV screen seeing only the wrecked remains of our car.

  "Car accident six years ago. My brother was driving. They were having a fight and he ran a red light. A semi hit us, passenger side first. They were both killed."

  "Both?" Thane asks softly.

  There is something about him that makes me want to talk about my past which is strange because I'd kept much of it bottled up inside all these years.

  "My dad was in the front seat, Mom behind him, because Anthony wanted to drive. The only reason Anthony and I survived was we were on the other side of the car."

  Thane stiffens and shifts away to stare at me. "Both your parents were killed in that accident?" he asks, as he swallows hard, his Adam's apple rising and falling. He seems tense for some reason but I nod in response to his question. "And this happened six years ago?" he asks but again it seems like he's a million miles away.

  "Yes. Thane? Is something wrong?" I'm worried that I may have said something wrong, but he just shakes his head.

  "No . . . nothing's wrong," he says softly. "But I do think I need a nap. All of a sudden I'm very tired."

  He looks like he's in shock and I watch him go and wonder what if the wound was taking more of a toll on him that I'd realized.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Thane

  Crap.

  What the hell did Gray mean about her parents?

  I'm sitting on the bed, my mind a confusion of thoughts. Gray is Sara, Roshkov's daughter. That is the whole point of the surveillance and even this whole charade of staying with her. Granted she needs protection from Boris but now everything that the investigation hinges on might be wrong.

  Either we were wrong about who she is or Gray is a better liar than I've given her credit for.

  I dig into the side pocket of my duffel and retrieve my comms. One click of the button and I can hear static.

  Keeping my voice low I say, "HQ come in, over."

  Wade's voice filters through. "HQ here, over."

  "We have a situation, HQ. We need a further background check on a Gray McAllister or a Gray Harper. Also try the name Roshkov uses - Sara, in both combinations. Over."

  "Copy that, Eagle. What going on? Please clarify. Over."

  "HQ, according to Gray her parents were both killed in a car accident six years ago. I need a confirmation on that incident as well. Hospital reports, police reports, just whatever we can get. Over."

  "Copy that, Eagle. What are you planning to do? Over."

  "Nothing right now. I just need that info. And I'll continue to try to extract data on Roshkov but it won't be easy. Over."

  "That's fine, Eagle. Just do what you can. You'll have an update in a few minutes. Over."

  "Thanks. Over and out."

  While I wait, I massage my temples. All this time I've been following, her thinking she's a mob boss's daughter but she's just a kid from a normal family. How the hell did she get mixed up with the Russian mob? Was she another one of Roshkov's girls, abducted and blackmailed, forced to prostitute themselves to earn their keep?

  I shake my head. Gray doesn't have the desperate, broken air about her that would lead me to believe she's been abused in any way. Sure, she's got her hurts but seeing as she's supposed to be Roshkov's daughter there wasn't a reason to believe she's damaged like that.

  My phone beeps and the images of the police and hospital reports for Gray's parents come through.

  From all the paperwork it's confirmed that Gray McAllister was born Sara Harper. Parent's David and Anne Harper were killed in the accident. The mother lingered in a coma for a few weeks but the decision was made by brother Anthony Harper to pull the plug.

  I frown and rub the bridge of my nose. This still does not explain how Gray ended up living in Roshkov's house.

  From surveillance of his property, I know Sara has been tutored at home, and had spent the majority of her time within the walls of Roshkov's estate since. When she did leave she was always accompanied by a host of bodyguards.

  That level of security had immediately flagged her as a person of interest in the Roshkov case. And all along it had been assumed she was his daughter.

  Now we know she isn't.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Gray

  After Thane heads to bed I do a little cleaning. I can't recall the last time I'd lifted a finger to do even the most minor chores. Now, as I sweep the apartment and then gather clothing for washing, I enjoy the tasks more than I expect to.

  I head to the main bathroom to neaten up a little, only to find that Thane is no slob. The floor towel is hung over the shower cubicle, no water splashes anywhere that I can see, even his brush and shaving machine are neatly placed on the shelf.

  My thoughts return to Anthony and his personal hygiene habits, so different from Thane. I've spent enough years cleaning up after a brother who is a slob to appreciate when a guy isn't one.

  I'm in the kitchen, staring at his room door, wondering whether to knock and ask if he has any clothing to wash when I realize we are getting a little too domestic. Just as I move away from the counter, Thane opens his door. He gives me an odd look then replaces it with a grin.

  I clear my throat. "I need to go out for a while. We're running out of groceries." He's shaking his head. "But what will we eat?" I ask, a little annoyed now.

  "Oh, I meant I have it covered. One of the guys I know from my apartment works at the grocery store. I can text him the list and he'll have it delivered in a couple hours."

  "Really?" I ask, and I don't care if disbelief is written all over my face.

  "Yup." He nods happily and I don't have the heart to fight him.

  "This I gotta see," I say dryly.

  "Right, make a list and we can send it to him." I grab pen and paper and make a minimal list, wondering how the hell I'm going to pay this without getting into my stash. When I'm done, I hand it over and he makes a face. "You were supposed to make a list, Gray." He's shaking his head and then he begins to add to it.

  Then he pulls his phone from his pocket and takes a photo of the list, then sends it to his friend. A few minutes later the phone vibrates and Thane grins. "Good. He's going to drop it off in an hour."

  "And how are we paying for this? The last time I checked grocery stores don't run tabs," I ask, one hand placed on my hip.

  He looks at the hand and grins even wider. I'm not amused that I'm amusing him. "He has my credit card so don't worry about it. I think I should be contributing a little to my recovery. Don't you?"

  "Er . . . Sure. But you don't need to." I shrug. I hadn't expected any kind of reimbursement. And I say so. Then I laugh. "With the exception of the towels, of course."

  "Of course. I have to pay for my food at least," he says and I force myself to nod. Just because I had money doesn't mean I need to throw it around all the time. Perhaps Thane does need to contribute. So I leave it at that.

  "Okay, I'm heading into the shower," I say before hurrying to my room and closing the door behind me. I sit on the bed for a while my mind going over everything that has happened over the last few days. Running into Thane, having him save me from some weirdo burglar.

  Within half an hour I'm showered and dressed, and adding to the pile of clothing for the washer. When I open my room door I'm shocked to see that the groceries have arrived and Thane is looking at the bags on the counter and on the floor.

  I throw my clothes into the washer and set the machine then face the overflowing counters. Soon my fridge is full and so is the freezer. Thane catches me staring at the stocked freezer and then at t
he bags of meat still to pack. "What?" he asks. "Don't you eat meat?"

  "I do but this is a lot of meat. I might run out of space soon," I say. Thane had gone a little crazy with his order, but I was glad we had food to eat now and without the need to even leave the apartment.

  "Look," he says picking up one last bag. "This is for you."

  I grab the bag and grin happily. I dunk the contents of the bag onto the counter then run my fingers over the soft pile of the towels. When I look up to thank Thane I see he's grinning widely. "Thank you."

  "There's more." He nods at the bag."

  Further investigation reveals a small stack of kitchen towels. "Thanks."

  "My pleasure. I figured I'd better replace those too. Best to stay out of trouble."

  I'm grinning as I say. "Now, we're even."

  ***

  I'm sitting in front of the TV trying to read my Art History textbook, a glass of fresh squeezed OJ in one hand. Thane is reading something on his phone while dipping his hand into a packet of cheese curls. Something on the TV drags my attention to the screen and I go still.

  It's an image of a woman. Or rather a girl.

  It's a black and white photo but it's easy to see the girl is emaciated, her hair shoulder length and stringy, deep black shadows beneath eyes that are glazed over and I wonder if the drowning had caused it. I'd heard that somewhere.

  I lean closer and pay attention. It's a police report. They'd just pulled a young girl from a river in Los Angeles. The media is everywhere, like vultures, sticking microphones into the investigating officer's irritated and strained faces. But in the background I'm watching the gurney as they push it to a waiting ambulance, its red lights flash and cast a bloody glow on everything.

  And then I hear the words 'bar code tattoo on her right wrist' and my world falls apart.

  The glass slips from my hand and shatters on the wood floor but I barely register it.

  My body is frozen and the only part that moves is my hand which checks to ensure my right wrist is still safely covered by the leather cuff.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Gray

  Four Weeks Ago

  After Alexei had taken me to the shooting range, I'd become obsessed with practicing my skills. Each time I went, I came back stronger and a better shot, even though I made progress far too slowly for my own liking.

  My guard always accompanied me and it seemed he'd been given some sort of silent permission to allow me to come to the range whenever I wanted to. I smiled as I thought about Alexei and his devotion to me. The first time I'd met him I'd been a little afraid of him. But I soon learned that if there was anything to be afraid of it would be Nikolai.

  Not that Nikolai had ever abused me in any way. He'd been the perfect gentleman from the moment I'd been brought to his home and placed under his care. But there was just something about him. A darkness that spoke of danger and a lethality that I'd so far not been privy to.

  Tonight was like any other night, coming down here to the range, firing the gun until I'd gotten a little better, hitting the bull-eyes three times in a row. I was pretty amped after that and wanted to keep practicing but at last the guard came to my shoulder.

  I looked over at his emotionless expression. "What?" I asked, keeping the irritating from my tone.

  "We have to go upstairs."

  I stared at him wondering if I could push my luck at all but the steely determination in his eyes told me I'd be wasting my time. I merely nodded in response and fired ten more shots before gathering the gun and the bullets and taking them to the closet.

  I put everything away and as I glanced over my shoulder the guard looking at his watch. I hurriedly closed the cabinet and strode back to him. I wasn't in the least bit sorry but I followed him out. His face was dark and he scowled, so I knew someone upstairs was yelling at him through those ear communication things that all the guards seem to wear.

  As we walked down the corridor I heard a scream.

  The sound was terrified and desperate and filled with fear, and it was enough to bring goose-bumps to my skin and turn my stomach to solid stone.

  I slowed my steps and the guard didn't seem to notice. He was a few feet ahead and I watched him while I listened. She didn't scream again but I heard desperate cries that hurt deep inside my heart. What the hell was going on here?

  My heart thumped and I wasn't sure if it was anger or empathy that I felt but I came to a standstill in front of the room from which I was positive the sound had come. I could still hear sobs and at intervals a man's voice, angry and frustrated.

  When I heard the sound of a hand connecting to skin I shoved open the door.

  I was not prepared at all for what I saw.

  A girl on the bed, naked, red marks crisscrossing her pale skin.

  A man, naked too, holding a wide belt in his hand, about to land another blow.

  I blinked as more details registered in my brain.

  The girl couldn't be more than fifteen.

  The man was old, with the fire of alcohol in his eyes.

  Torn clothing on the floor, blood on the sheets, half a bottle of Jack on the nightstand.

  I blinked again.

  A hand grabbed my arm and pulled me away. The girl cried out desperately, her hand held out toward me.

  The man shook his hand at me angrily, his well coiffed hair gleaming like ebony in the pink light of the tiny room. The room is only large enough for a bed and tiny dresser and a small metal closet. And it stank of sweat, blood and something else that I assumed was sex.

  "You want to watch?" he yelled but I barely heard him. "I take what I paid for and I certainly didn't pay to be disturbed. But you're welcome to join the party." He's definitely drunk, but aware enough to know he's hurt her, aware enough to enjoy her suffering.

  Fury rose in my belly and my fingers clenched. I wished I had my gun.

  The hand tugged at me as I stared at the girl, lying on the bed, her hand still stretched out toward me, her eyes already going blank, losing hope. My gaze fell on the girl's forearm where a bar-code marked the pale skin, the lines dark and almost angry.

  And then my guard slammed the door in my face and I gasped. "What the hell is going on here?" I asked, my voice shaking.

  The guard's face was stony as he marched me to the stairs and propelled me up the two flights. When I reached the top and walked into the main hall of the house the guard overtook me and headed to Nikolai's study.

  He stammered in Russian to Nikolai, whose face looked like it is about to explode. I stood just inside the door, more than afraid having seen Nikolai's expression.

  When Nikolai saw me he said, "Just what the hell is it you think you are doing?" His voice was enraged and I could tell nothing I said really mattered right then. I'd broken some sort of cardinal rule and there was no going back now.

  I shook my head. "I was shooting."

  "I told Alexei that was a bad idea." He growled and got to his feet, slamming his palm on the glossy surface of his desk. "What did she see?" he asked the guard who quaked as he answered in a foreign language I assumed was Russian.

  Nikolai looked at me, his dark eyes blazing, his face skeletal in his fury. "And what did you see then, Sara?" he asked as he walked to the front of the desk.

  I repeated what I saw, my chest constricting tighter and tighter as I spoke. The more I went through the experience the more I realized what it was that I'd seen. It hadn't really sunk in until I'd gone over it in my head.

  The young girl. Abused by the man. And he'd said he'd paid for her. What was Nikolai into? I didn't dare to ask him but he could see it in my eyes that my opinion of him had changed.

  He grunted when I finally fell silent. "And I suppose you understand exactly what it is that you saw?

  I didn't react.

  "Just so you know you have just lost me a girl tonight."

  "Lost her? She was alive when we left her."

  "She isn't alive anymore. She tried to escape from the
room after you left and she was shot."

  I gasped, my hand moving in front on my mouth as if it helped in some way to either stop the sound or make me feel better. It did neither.

  His hand flashed out like lightning and he grabbed hold on my right hand. "You will have to make up for my lost girl, Sara Harper." Nikolai nodded to the guard who opened a small drawer and got out a silver box. He flipped the lid to reveal what looked like a tattoo kit, with three or four tattoo guns embedded in soft black Styrofoam.

  The guard seemed to know what he was doing and soon he stared at me with the gun and the black ink in his hands.

  I almost fainted with fear but I couldn't even draw a scream to my throat. Nikolai tugged me closer, the movement violent and brutal, slamming my hand on the surface of the table beside the kit.

  Everything that happened after then occurred in a blur of agony. Nikolai held my wrist down with one hand on my arm and the other in my palm, pressing so hard that I saw bruises later. The gun burned my skin, sending spikes of pain into my wrist. I was dizzy too, thinking about what the tattoo meant. About what Nikolai mean to do with me.

  I didn't even want to contemplate that he really meant for me to take the girls place.

  In the end, when the guard was done and the tattoo was inked into my skin Nikolai threw my hand away. "Take her to her room. Give her something for the pain." Then he turned to me as tears slid down my cheeks and dripped off my chin. "Have a rest tonight, my dear. You will need it because tomorrow will be a very long day.

  I sobbed and struggled for breath as the guard took my arm and led me out of the study and back to my room. I wanted to tug my hand out of his fingers and race up the stairs, to get away from him, from them all. But I kept walking slowly until I got to my bedroom. I slammed the door in his face as hard as I could and then slid onto the floor.

  Through my fear I recognized the expression on the guard's face.

  Fear and sympathy.