Sweat trickles a fine path down my spine as I scan the room frantically.
There’s no sign of him and my heart is pounding nearly out of my chest. I’m not sure if I’m terrified I will see him, or that I won’t. Most likely both.
The place is in full swing, packed with a sea of bodies, making it impossible to find him in the crowd. I crane my neck, but I don’t see anyone who looks like him. No one who makes my blood race or my knees weak.
Everyone I see looks ordinary. Not him.
I take in a deep lungful of humid air, thick from the press of too many bodies packed together. I wait.
And wait.
Sure if he sees me, if he’s looking for me, he’ll look here first.
One techno electronic song turns into another. Several men pass me by, looking me over, but I barely notice, they’re simply white noise.
I wait some more.
Irrationally, I’m now in a panic that I’ll never find him. My feet are restless to move, and I can no longer stand one more second of inaction. I have to look for him. I’ll walk the perimeter until I’m satisfied I’ve lost him for good. Unsteady on my heels¸ I walk toward the farthest corner of the room and start making my way through the crowd.
What if he’s in one of the theme rooms with someone else? What if I’ve been replaced by a girl not as complicated and fucked up as I am? What if I never see him again?
I forget all about my earlier resistance. Forget that I’m getting exactly what I wanted. Instead, I’m propelled by my need, and I focus on nothing but my search.
Face after face passes me—some young, some old, some handsome, some ugly—but none of them his.
What if I’m too late? Or simply, he decided I wasn’t worth the effort. Which I’m not… I’ll never be carefree and easy again. It’s why I had to turn down someone as great as Chad. He deserves someone better, who doesn’t have all my issues. He deserves a nice girl, although for his sake, I hope she’s at least a little perverted.
Maybe Michael found someone just like that, and he’s forgotten all about me. I don’t know what to do with the knowledge or how the thought makes me sick to my stomach.
I make my way around a corner and my gaze inadvertently snags on a guy in his mid-thirties. He’s got that mean look in his eye, that casual dismissiveness I usually glom on to. He’s exactly the kind of man I’d normally go for. I can practically feel his coldness. How emotionally remote he is. How safe.
As I pass, he reaches out and grabs my arm. “And who do we have here? Aren’t you a pretty little thing.”
Before, I’d have gone right into mode, flashing him my cool, distant smile, engaging him just enough to give me the opportunity to outline my requirements. Momentarily, I still, thinking it through.
This man is not a threat. Michael is. Doesn’t it make more sense to abandon this crazy search and go with the safe bet? This guy could give me what I’ve been getting from the club since the first time I showed up here—a calculated interaction filled with cruelty that will leave me empty and defeated.
My punishment.
There’s that word again. Is that what this has been? Does it matter?
This man before me is the only thing I’ve ever wanted from this club, what I still want, but somehow, I can’t. Can’t force myself into the act one more time.
I pull my arm away. “Thanks, but I’m not interested.”
His eyelids dip; casting his dark eyes in a hooded gaze that I’m positive drives women mad. “Are you sure about that? I can make it hurt real good, baby.”
Sadist. A hard-core one, I’d guess.
“No, thank you.” I move away before he can say anything else. Before he thinks I’m just being coy and want him to give chase.
Suddenly, I’m overcome by a deep sadness that sinks down so far inside me I feel like I’m drowning in it. My throat tightens, and I turn away, not sure where I’m going.
And, once again, I smack right into Michael.
I teeter, and his hands grasp my hips to steady me. His palms are so hot they’re like a brand on my skin, burning me through the red jersey dress I wore tonight.
I stare at his chest, as broad and strong as I remember, in a black knit V-neck shirt. My relief is so powerful it scares me, and my flight response kicks into high gear even though I know I’m not going anywhere.
I steel my spine, pulling myself together to prepare myself for the smugness I’ll find on his face. I look up and finally meet his hazel-eyed gaze.
The arrogance I’m expecting isn’t there. I search and search, but can’t find it. Instead, he studies me intensely, his brow furrowed in what I can only assume is concern.
He’s here.
I blink.
And burst into tears.
“Sshhh,” he murmurs, pulling me into his embrace and cradling me close. He strokes my hair before gliding down my spine. “It’s okay, sugar.”
I’m mortified. I should pull away, should run but I don’t, I curl in deeper and suck in his spicy masculine scent.
“It’s okay,” he says again, his hands moving a slow path up and down my back.
It’s not okay. With him, it will never be okay. I’ve come to him. I’ve broken the most important rule of all—never, ever get emotionally involved.
The lights and music pound away at me, beating to the frantic pace of my heart, throbbing against my temples.
My hands curl into fists so I’m not tempted to clutch at him. I want to trace the lines of his muscle, run my palms over his sure-to-be warm skin. I want his mouth all over mine. I need it. At the wrongness of my desire, I punch at his chest as I accuse, “You knew.”
“Yes,” he says, his tone soft as he wraps me up tighter. “I knew you’d come.”
I want so badly for him to be annoyingly arrogant and filled with bluster, but he’s none of that. He makes his statement as the simple truth. Nothing more. Nothing less. “How?”
“For the same reason I would have sat here and waited for you until the last person left and they kicked me out, locking the door behind me. Because sometimes you have no other choice.”
I am shocked at his bluntness. That he would admit such a weakness. With tears still clinging to my lashes, I meet his gaze. “Why?”
“I don’t know why.” His voice is so confident and filled with strength I want to curl into it for a million years. He feels like safety and danger, all rolled together. His thumb swipes across my cheek, wiping the wetness away. “I only know when I look at you, you feel like you belong to me.”
No! No! No! I shake my head, and move to step away, but, of course, he won’t let me. I tilt my chin and say with as much determination as I can muster, considering I’m a watery, tear-streaked mess, “I can’t belong to you, not now, not ever.”
“You’re wrong.” Simple, sure words.
“No. I belong to someone else.”
Hazel eyes flash with bright bits of green, before they narrow. “And where is he?”
I blink, and another tear slips free. “He’s dead.”
The statement hangs in the air.
I can’t believe I said it. That I’ve told him. It’s another rule broken.
“I’m sorry.” His fingers curl around my neck. “But you’re still here.”
I shake my head, but I’m not. That girl I was, the one I recognize as me, she’s gone. I’m broken now, and momentary fleeting bits of lust and need are all I can manage.
Michael’s lips brush my ear. “You are and this is real. Flesh and blood. You’re not going to be able to escape it.”
In that instant, everything inside me flares to greedy life. I bite down on my lip to keep from moaning. When I think I’ve got myself under control, I say, “Please, you need to leave me alone.”
Someone bumps into us, jostling our bodies so we’re pressed closer together. His erection brushes against my belly and my core gives a hard clench of demand. My body doesn’t care about practicalities such as emotional danger.
His
hand grips my neck tighter. “Is that why you’re here, for me to leave you alone?”
“I don’t know why I’m here.” I only know I’m not strong enough to resist, which leaves his willpower as my last refuge of hope.
“Don’t you?” His voice turns harder now, losing that soft edge of concern, and reminding me he expects to be in control.
“No.”
He suddenly jerks, and the next thing I know I’m being pushed backward. He’s walking so fast, practically carrying me as I stumble to keep up. I almost fall but the wall of the club catches me.
The cool of the building’s concrete is a heady contrast to the heat of Michael’s strong, hard body. His entire length presses into me. Trapping me. Exciting me. Desire obliterates my fear as that feeling of helplessness takes hold of me.
His fingers encircle my wrists and I flinch away. “No, please, anything but that.”
His gaze narrows, then he releases my hands. “What happened?”
“I can’t.” I shake my head, fighting the sudden, violent slash of images assaulting me.
Please, no, not now. Anything but this. The strobe lights over the dance floor flash before my eyes, disorientating me. I snap my lids close and feel the sting of a fist on my jaw.
Don’t think about it. Don’t. But it’s too late.
The cold of the concrete at my back, it’s just like before. I’m trapped. John crumpled to his knees.
I shudder.
The tight bind on my wrists. I can’t move. I’m helpless.
My palms slick.
The duct tape over my mouth.
I can’t breathe. Adrenaline races through my body, a mad rush that crushes my lungs.
I’m going to pass out.
The river of blood. John’s blood and mine, mixing together, our lives joining for the last time.
My heart is going to explode. I’m going to die. Right here in this god-awful place.
A rush of panic consumes me, dulling my vision, putting me back in that alley, bruised and broken.
John’s head on my lap. His vacant eyes staring up at me.
I want to scream, but nothing comes out. I cover my face and whisper, “No, no, no.”
Over and over.
Suddenly, I’m ripped away from the brutal scene as someone shakes me by the shoulders.
I lower my hands and clutch at a broad chest. Solid strength. Real. I gulp for air, the tight constriction binding my ribs loosens. The attack recedes and I’m once again in reality.
The music comes blaring back, anchoring me.
I blink. Look up.
It’s Michael.
I feel vulnerable. Stripped and shaken. I peer into his not quite handsome face, with his compelling green-gold eyes, and his expression is filled with concern.
I’m shocked at the words that leave my lips. “Please, help me.”
I have no idea what I’m asking for, only that I need something from him.
“I will, sugar.” Gently, with the upmost care, he wraps me up in his arms. “Let me get you out of here.”
I start shaking my head before he even has the sentence out. “I can’t.”
It’s exactly what I want, but I can’t. It’s against the rules. I’m afraid. If we leave here, then he means something.
“You can, and you will.” He leans away, and keeping one arm around my waist, he tilts my chin. “We’re leaving. I’m going to take you to the little coffee shop a couple of blocks from here and we’re going to sit down and talk like regular people.”
No! I can’t do that. I need to keep this contained. Isolated in this club. The room, the press of bodies, the loud music jacked up to accommodate the Saturday night crowd, the flashing strobe lights, I need all of it to maintain the façade. It’s a layer of protection I’ve grown dependent upon.
In a flash, I realize, I don’t want to be here. I fucking hate this place. My own little masochistic torture chamber. The knowledge doesn’t change that I have to keep Michael here. Where he belongs. Locked away with the other nightmares.
He crooks my chin higher. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you.”
All the noise in my head quiets. I can’t think of a way to argue myself out of this. So I divert, ignoring the issue altogether. “What’s wrong with you?”
He chuckles, and I realize how crazy that sounds, since I was the one in the middle of a full-blown panic attack. Steady now on my feet, some of my defensiveness rears up. “Are you some sort of glutton for punishment?”
His lips quirk. “Let’s just say a damsel in distress appeals to me more than it should.”
“So you have a hero complex.”
He shrugs. “I’m a cop, it goes with the territory.”
I jerk back, my eyes going wide in shock. This disturbs me on some deep level. I don’t want to know anything about him—let alone to find out he’s a cop. I don’t like cops. They didn’t help me. Or John. They ask questions. Questions that make you feel unclean. “You are not.”
He reaches behind and pulls out a badge, handing it out to me. “Detective Michael Banks.”
I take the badge and trace the line of the engraved star with my fingers. The words Chicago Police curved over the top and the word detective, plain as day, underneath.
This is the last thing I want him to be. I hand it back. “I should go.”
“You’re not going anywhere without me.”
“You can’t stop me.”
One dark brow rises. “You sure about that?”
No, I’m not sure at all. Right now, I don’t think there’s anything he couldn’t talk me into except handcuffs, which is why I need to leave. I’m already starting to feel as though he’s a real person. That he’s more than an object, existing only in this darkened room, to cure me of my cravings.
“Here’s how we’re going to do this,” he says, his tone slightly amused but with an edge of command. “We are going to leave and walk to the coffee house. When we get there we are going to sit down and have a cup of coffee. This isn’t open to debate. I won’t touch you, but you are going to talk to me. Do you understand?”
I know how silly it sounds. How crazy it is to someone who doesn’t have my tendencies. But his absolute certainty that I should obey, the perception that I don’t have a choice in the matter, frees me in a way nothing else has in eighteen months. If I weren’t so stripped away, so beaten, I’d ask him what would happen if I didn’t understand or something equally sassy. But today, I don’t have any fight left. I’ve been fighting him, our chemistry, my reactions and raging emotions for two long days, and I’m done. I’ve got nothing left.
I nod, and look over his shoulder. I’m breaking another rule. Because of him.
“Good.” He grips my jaw and forces my gaze back to his. “Now, tell me, what is your name?”
Transfixed, I stare at him for a long, long time. The moment suspended. Freeze framed.
His attention doesn’t waver from my face. I can’t hide the truth, or myself.
Written in his expression, I know not telling him will be a deal breaker. If I want him, I have no choice. If I don’t concede, I won’t get another chance. That he has no need to explain this to me is a measure of his confidence, and of his certainty that in the end, I’ll comply.
Which is why I didn’t want to come to the club tonight in the first place. Detective Michael Banks is too impossible to resist. And furthermore, right now, I don’t want to.
I take a deep breath and lick my parched lips. “My name is Layla Hunter.”
He knows my name. I can’t believe I told him.
I sit across from Michael in a tiny, dimly lit, late-night coffee house at a complete loss for what to say. We’d walked in silence, ordered coffee in silence, and are now sitting in silence. I suspect he’s giving me time to mellow out before he starts asking questions like the detective he is, and I appreciate the time, even while it grates on my nerves.
In the corner, next to the picture window overlooking the street, a guy
with long blond hair, a graphic T-shirt, and jeans plays an acoustic guitar, singing Hey There Delilah in a smooth, mellow voice. I watch him with rapt attention, unwilling to look at the man I’ve broken so many rules for. Who’s stripped away so many of my defenses.
I have no idea how to act out here in the real world. Michael is part of my dark, secret life, and sitting here with him evokes an irrational fear that everyone scattered about the cafe knows all of my secrets.
The night has been endless. Wrought with unexpected changes and outcomes. I feel like I’ve traveled a thousand miles since my date with Chad, who now seems like a distant dream. When I’d raced to the club, I’d convinced myself it was for sex, to satiate the need clawing away inside me. I still want to believe that, but how can I with Michael across from me, and I’m still untouched?
Out here in the real world, he’s even more overpowering. He seems to fill up all the free space, but instead of the panic I should feel, I feel protected. And that scares me even more.
“Are you going to pretend you’re sitting here alone?” Michael’s deep voice reaches into my thoughts and pulls me back to the coffee shop.
I glance at him, and then look quickly back to the singer, tucked neatly into the corner. While it’s one thirty, it’s Saturday night, and we’re in the heart of Wicker Park. The streets are still bustling from the bar crowd. A group of girls pass by, arms locked at the elbows as they wobble on too-high heels. They look happy and carefree and I find myself wistful for when I was just like them.
“Layla.” Michael’s tone is commanding, speaking to that twisted part inside me that feels compelled to obey.
I’ve fought enough. I have no sass in me. I reluctantly turn my attention away from the slice of normal life to the man that threatens everything I’ve come to depend on.
The round table, cluttered with our two cups of coffee, looks far too small for him. Almost like he’s sitting at the kid’s table. Anxious to focus on something innocuous, I tilt my head, and ask, “How tall are you?”
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