The Hatter and The Hare (Hacking Wonderland, #2)

by Lindt, Allyson

  The rest of the details would come when they weren’t in the middle of a war zone.

  The guests cut a wide path when Blake and Queen moved toward the exit. A woman stepped in the blood seeping into the carpet, and squealed as Blake passed. His eardrums were going to be ringing for days.

  When they stepped outside, a large black sedan was waiting, as Queen said it would be.

  Jabberwock held the door for Reagan, then slid in next to her and wrapped an arm around her waist. Blake bit his tongue—he didn’t have a claim to her—but fuck if he didn’t want to deck the other man and pull her back to his side.

  He settled for gesturing to the row of seats that faced theirs, and telling Queen, “After you.”

  She gave him a curt nod, a smile playing on her lips. “Thank you.” She had her phone out.

  The car pulled onto a back road, and sirens faded in the background as the driver took them away from the scene of the bedlam.

  “Are you all right?” Blake asked Reagan.

  She sat with her back rigid and a matching expression. She looked like ice, the way her blue dress contrasted with her pale skin. “I’m fine.”

  He wanted to push, but this wasn’t the place or the company. Six months ago, it was easy to leave the posh part of this job behind. Tonight, it was just as simple to slide back into the role of one of Jabberwock’s executioners.

  He shoved aside questions of what that said about him, and looked at Jabberwock. “There was a time when rumors of our presence guaranteed an evening would go smoothly.”

  “Our?” Jabberwock pursed his lips.

  “It’s not as though every thug in town knows who or where he is.” Reagan scooted on her seat, putting a few inches between her and Jabberwock.

  Her action contradicted the way she jumped to his defense, and Blake ground his teeth.

  Queen looked up. “This wasn’t coincidence.” She looked at Reagan, eyes narrowed, then turned to her boss.

  “Cat?” Jabberwock asked.

  Queen nodded. “That’s the word...”

  “You were serious earlier.” Reagan sounded surprised. It was the first real emotion she’d shown since climbing in the car.

  “Deadly serious.” Jabberwock smirked, as if he’d made a brilliant joke.

  Blake swam through the vague comments, to put puzzle pieces together. “Cat, as in Cheshire? But—”

  “He’s not real,” Jabberwock said. “Sound like anyone else you know? Me, for instance?”

  Blake didn’t see the similarities. “He’s actually not real. There’s no evidence he even has an organization.”

  “Until recently.” Reagan twisted in her seat and looked between the three.

  “And you know that how?” Queen asked.

  Blake wondered the same thing.

  “If I’m going to dismantle what you’ve created, I have to know your competition.” Reagan sounded like the answer was obvious.

  Queen rolled her eyes. “Lovely. Where can we drop the two of you?”

  “Down, girl.” Jabberwock patted her knee.

  “You don’t already know?” Blake asked.

  Queen gave him a thin smile. “I do. But it’s polite to ask.”

  Blake was grateful to call it a night. Put as much distance between Hatter, Hare, and Dormouse as possible, before more of why he enjoyed his former job rushed back to mock him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Blake had to focus, to keep his hand from shaking with excess energy as he unlocked their hotel room door. He pushed it open and stepped aside for Reagan. She hadn’t said anything since they climbed from the car a few minutes ago, and now she brushed past him without a word.

  He needed to burn off the rush, building—

  The bathroom door slammed, and a second later, the sound of retching obliterated his thoughts. He couldn’t ignore his relief that she wasn’t shrugging off the evening, but he winced in sympathy with each new heave.

  When the sounds stopped, he tried the handle and found it unlocked. “Reagan?” he called through the door. “I’m coming in.”

  “’Kay.” Her voice was tired.

  He stepped into the bathroom, to find her sitting next to the toilet, legs tucked to the side and bound by her dress, and head in her hands over the porcelain. His gut lurched at the smell of bile mixed with disinfectant.

  “Don’t move.” He filled a glass with water from the tap, and handed it to her. “Slow sips.”

  “I know how puking works. Thanks.” She took the drink from him and rinsed her mouth out. Mascara smudged her face, and her cheeks were splotched with red.

  He got a washcloth damp, then knelt next to her and tucked a few flyaway strands of hair behind her ears before running the cool terrycloth over her skin.

  “You must think I’m completely inept, losing my shit as soon as we walked in the door.” She let out a bitter laugh. “The poor little girl who needs saving all the time.”

  It was startling but reassuring to see the contrast between the woman who fake-freaked-out at the masquerade, and this genuine girl who had seen too much, and couldn’t always mask her reactions.

  “There’s a part of me that likes the notion of being your white knight.” He meant the words to be playful and teasing, but their truth sank like a stone in his chest. “I don’t have any illusions that you’d be lost without me, though.” He wanted to. There was a bit of him—and not a small bit, either—infatuated with the idea only he could save this girl. But each time he was arrogant enough to think along those lines, she proved him wrong.

  She leaned against the washcloth, resting her weight on his hand. “At the party, the three of you didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. There wasn’t any of that drawn-out talking I’ve seen in movies, or with Jabberwock when he’s gloating. Tonight...” She shuddered and pulled away, wrapping her arms around herself. “Never mind. I should get cleaned up.”

  He traced a thumb along her face, pulling her gaze to his. “I’ll be in the other room. We’ll talk when you’re done.”

  “I don’t need to talk.”

  He disagreed, but the bathroom floor wasn’t the place to convince her otherwise. “I’ll be in the other room,” he repeated.

  He settled on the couch, in front of the TV. They were staying in a hotel room nicer than any apartment he’d lived in during his pre-Hatter days. It was part of the airs they’d put on for the party. Rich, affluent couple from out of town, here to mingle with the local money. Everything was glass and brushed steel and sleek.

  He grabbed the remote but didn’t hit On. Sitting still ached—it cramped in his muscles and made him grind his teeth—but the fewer excuses Reagan had to ignore him, the better. He stripped off his jacket and draped it over the arm of the couch. His bowtie followed.

  Several minutes passed before she emerged, face red but no longer splotchy, and hair tied back from her face in a simple ponytail. She sat next to him, close enough her heat teased him without her making contact.

  “What are you watching?” Her voice was flat. A glance told him wrinkles marred her dress now, and a rip ran up the right leg, almost to the thigh.

  “A documentary on ink. They’re doing black right now.”

  She gave a dry chuckle. “Looks fascinating.”

  They sat in silence, staring at the powered-off screen. He was afraid, if he pushed too hard, she’d vanish into the bedroom, or worse, dive into a distraction.

  The excess adrenaline pumping inside screamed yes at that idea. Sex wouldn’t fix much, but it sure would burn away the tension for a few hours. He forced the thought aside.

  “When I was in that cell, and they ran those videos non-stop, I thought I’d become desensitized to some things.” Reagan’s voice was quiet, mingling with the white noise in the room. “You know what they showed me, don’t you?”

  “I do.” Mostly gruesome photos of deaths tied back to Jabberwock.

  “You’re a killer. You try and hide it under excuses and being the good guy, but it’s pa
rt of you. Tonight, you shot without hesitation—and thank God, because someone has to act, right? I’ve accepted that you have a past that would chew me up from the inside out if I’d lived it. All three of you...” She hugged herself. “But knowing it and seeing it are two different things, and there was so much blood and glass and flower petals mixed with dark-red splatter, and I can’t get those images out of my head, and—”

  “Stop.” When he shifted to face her, leather creaked under him. “You can’t fall into this. It’s not the kind of thing you can block out, and yes, you’ll have to deal with it, but if you let yourself drown in it, you’ll never climb back out.”

  She scrubbed her face. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Focus on something else for a little while.”

  “I can still feel his hands on my waist. My hand. My back.” Reagan stared ahead, expression pinched and voice strained.

  This wasn’t working, and she was worrying him. Blake stood and tugged her to her feet. “Come on.” He led her toward the bedroom.

  She stopped several feet short of the door and jerked her hand from his. “I’m not up for this.”

  “What?” He spun to face her, and her meaning sank in. “I’m not... This isn’t about sex.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “You need to remove yourself from the world. We’re going to hide in there and talk about whatever you want, as long as it’s not tonight. I do recommend you change, for comfort’s sake, but if you’d rather keep the dress on, you can.”

  “I’d really rather not. I don’t think I ever want to see it again.”

  He gestured toward the room, and she stepped inside ahead of him. As he joined her, he removed his shoulder holster and set it on the nightstand.

  “Unzip me?” Her quiet request was a gunshot against his humming nerves.

  He turned to see her standing with her back to him. “Of course.” He dragged the zipper down, and the satin fell aside, exposing her skin. His libido roared for him to kiss down her spine, but he beat back the impulse. If she didn’t want that kind of intimacy, he could push his base instincts aside.

  She shrugged the dress off, and it slid to the ground where it pooled in a swathe of fabric at her feet. She pulled on the T-shirt she held, before she turned to face him.

  “This is about comfort, huh?” She focused her gaze on her fingers as she undid the buttons on his shirt one at a time. Her expression, lips pursed and brows furrowed, made it look like the act took all her concentration.

  She pushed his top off, then reached to untuck his undershirt. Her nails scraped his skin, and he sucked in a sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.

  Reagan traced the scars on his left shoulder. A fist clenched around his chest, though he couldn’t feel her touch. It was the cluster where he was shot, when he was in the Marines. The wound that got him discharged.

  With a feather-light touch, she followed an invisible line down his arm, to the tattoo on his bicep.

  “You’ve seen those before,” he said.

  “That was different. Now they feel more... real. Story of my life. I swear each new day is another thing I thought I understood until I lived it. It’s all too real...” She looked up, past him rather than at him.

  If he looked over his shoulder, he wouldn’t see what she was looking at. He’d worn that same haunted expression too many times.

  Her light kiss—a whisper of lips on lips—caught him off-guard.

  “We’re getting comfortable. I’m pretty sure you said that,” she said.

  He pointed her at the bed. “I did.” A flash from the party blinked through his thoughts. The flirting with Jabberwock. The whimper when the gunmen showed up. How much of that was show? Was he being played here?

  No one was this good an actor. He settled on the mattress next to Reagan, his back against the headboard.

  She curled up next to him, head against his shoulder. “You don’t have to sleep in the other room. Tonight or any night.”

  He did. “This is the exception. We both know it’s better we don’t make a habit of this.”

  “I guess.” She slid down his torso until her head lay on his leg. Her blonde locks spread out over the dark of his slacks, and he could couldn’t help trailing his fingers through the tresses. She let out a tiny sigh and nestled closer.

  He wasn’t sure how much time passed, neither of them speaking. He didn’t want to twist, to look at the clock, and risk disturbing her. Her breathing evened and slowed.

  He sat there until his leg fell asleep. Move and risk waking her up, or stay a little longer? It wasn’t all about her. There was something soothing about being closed off from the rest of the world this way.

  She mewled, and his calm evaporated. When the sound grew louder, and she squirmed, he shook her shoulder. “Reagan.” He kept his voice soft, not wanting to add to whatever dreams chased her. “Wake up.”

  She bolted straight up, eyes wide. As she focused on him, the terror on her face faded behind a mask of ice. Without a word, she rolled from the bed, grabbed a couple pills from a bottle in her bag, and swallowed them dry. “I’m up for the day.” She plopped back next to him. The sweet confusion that lingered around her earlier was gone. “If you want to get some more sleep, the bed is yours.”

  What did she take? “Come on.” He stood and shook the tingles from his leg, then stripped off his slacks. “Give it one more try.”

  “I’m good. Really.”

  “Are you going to not sleep the rest of the night? It’s only eleven.”

  She sighed and rolled her eyes. “I guess I could try again, if you’re staying.”

  “I am.” He pulled back the covers and waited for her to climb under before joining her.

  She lay with her back to him but grabbed his arm and draped it over her hip, snuggling against his chest.

  As she relaxed under his touch, resting more of her weight against him, and her frame rising and falling in a slow, steady pattern, the tension ratcheting his neck eased. She’d drifted off again.

  SUNLIGHT HIT BLAKE’S face, jarring him awake. He frowned when he saw he was in an otherwise empty hotel bed, instead of on the couch. Then the night before rushed back. He was on his feet in an instant.

  “Reagan?”

  The bathroom door was wide open and the light off. Her bag was still here, and so was his sidearm, but her shoes were missing. She wasn’t in the main room either. Where was she?

  “Fuck.”

  Did she bolt in the middle of the night? Wait until he was out, then take the chance to leave? Why last night, rather than before?

  He walked back to the bedroom and grabbed the bottle she’d fished out last night. It was white and opaque, no label. The pills inside were capsules, with no brand or other indicator of type on them.

  “Fuck.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  A faint whir reached Blake, the latch on the door clicked and Reagan stepped into the room. A plastic shopping bag hung from one of her wrists, and she held two coffee cups.

  She looked him up and down, gaze lingering on his crotch, and he remembered he only wore boxers. “Hey, sexy.” Her light and playful tone would have been pleasant, if it weren’t such a stark contrast to the night before. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” He wasn’t going to admit he’d worked himself into a frenzy at the thought of her walking out on him again.

  “Good.” She handed him one of the cups, then set the bag on the table. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a run. I bought muffins.” She pulled several individually wrapped snacks out and set them in a line. “I wasn’t sure what kind you liked, so I bought one or two of everything. And there was a note for us at the front desk.” She plucked out a white envelope last.

  The flap was torn at the corner, leaving it open. On the front, in neat, red script, it said Mad Hatter and Alice. Blake didn’t like the look of that. “What is it?”

  “Her Majesty, Queen, has invited us to tea... at The Chess Board.�
� Reagan handed him the note.

  He really didn’t like the sound of that. His phone rang before he could summon a reply, and he grabbed it. “Yeah.”

  “Do you remember that night in Phoenix?” Ephraim asked.

  Blake’s blood turned chilly in his veins at the terse lack of greeting. It was a code they’d learned years ago. “I can’t say I do.”

  “Checkmate.”

  If Ephraim was calling, law enforcement knew where they were. Blake disconnected, and tossed his phone aside. He’d get a new one at the next stop. If it was being used to trace him, they already knew the device was here.

  Reagan set her coffee down, expression going blank. “What is it?”

  “We need to go now.” He grabbed his gun from the bedroom, yanked on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, tossed on a hoodie to hide his gun, and then hesitated.

  Reagan waited near the door, tapping her toes.

  “No argument?” he asked.

  “You said now. I assumed you meant it. Are we leaving?” She reached for the handle.

  “Yes.”

  They strolled together to the elevator, pace casual. Taking the stairs down twenty flights would make them look like they were hiding something. This way, they were as bland as any other guest.

  “Who are we running from?” Reagan asked as they stepped into a lift.

  “Law enforcement. I don’t know more than that, but if he called, he picked something up.”

  “Who’s he?”

  Blake didn’t know if they had time to make it out the front door, but they didn’t have much of a choice. If whoever it was had already arrived, they had all the exits covered, and leaving via something like the loading docks would draw far more attention than walking onto the main sidewalk, like a normal guest. “A friend I trust.”

  “That must be nice.”

  Blake would read more into her tone and meaning later. Now, exit was the only objective.