Mr. CEO

by Willow Winters

  I think back to that moment, right before the call from her friend Darcy, when we were so close. Was I making the move to kiss her, or was she? I know I wanted to, and at that moment I'd have been willing to risk a shattered nose or a broken arm to kiss her.

  As the morning light brightens our hotel room slowly, I calm myself by studying Katrina's face. Okay, fine, I'll admit it to myself. I have feelings for her. In fact, they're more than just feelings. And as much as my cock stirs at the thought of her touching me the way she did in the limo, I want to hold her and protect her. Even though I know that if the zombie apocalypse ever does break out, she's probably the one who'd end up protecting me. I want to give her the happiness that's been denied her life for so long, and I want to see her smile more like she did before she got that phone call.

  Katrina stirs, a little smile coming to her features, and she opens her eyes, seeing me looking at her. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” I answer. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Better than you did,” she replies, reaching over and taking my hand. “You tossed and turned a lot.”

  “Sorry,” I apologize, thrilled by the touch of her hand in mine. “Did I disturb you?”

  She shakes her head and gives me a soft smile that sends warmth flooding my chest. I'd kill for this woman at this very moment if she asks me. “No, I was okay. Actually, I've slept a lot worse than tonight. My first few weeks in the loft, I had a hell of a problem with rats and mice.”

  “Oh? The place looked spotless every time I've been there.”

  Katrina nods and her smile becomes a little more predatory. “You'd be surprised what you can do when you sleep light and you have a decent pellet gun by your side. That was before I got my Glock.”

  I chuckle and shake my head. “So what's the plan?”

  “Breakfast, then we head down to Coral Gables,” she says. “It's going to be a long day. I'd prefer to not just kick in someone's front door without some sort of verification.”

  Our first stop is, in fact, a Burger King, where we get breakfast sandwiches and talk. “So my plan was to use the Metro today,” Katrina says as we munch. Burger King does at least have decent tater tots, although I think the sandwich itself sucks. “I mapped out the address the other day, there's a station just a few blocks away. I think it'll make our work a lot easier and less conspicuous.”

  “If you think so,” I say, sipping at my drink. “What about sun and heat?”

  “We'll stop at a 7-11 or something like that, and stay mobile,” Katrina replies easily. “Also, I was thinking, on the way is a shopping mall. They've got to have a sporting goods store, so we'll stop and get a pair of binoculars or a spotting scope or something. Something small, so we can still look inconspicuous.”

  “You seem to know a lot about doing surveillance on places,” I note, and Katrina grins. “Wait, don't tell me... you did ninja training, too?”

  She laughs and shakes her head. “No, but I did intern with a private investigator for a summer. I didn't do a lot, mostly made sure he stayed awake during night stakeouts, oh and one time I acted as a plant for him as he was working a divorce case. Seems the husband supposedly had a taste for teen girls.”

  “Did he?”

  “Maybe, but never for me. That was where I met the girl who taught me the Touches, and you know how useful those are.”

  I shiver at the memory, and she gives me a little smile. “Yeah, they're pretty effective.”

  “I think it's the person giving them as much as the technique themselves,” I say, and then grin. “Sorry... I guess that's a little too personal.”

  “No, I appreciate it. In fact, I appreciate everything you've done the past few weeks,” Katrina says quietly. “Maybe Darcy was right.”

  “About what?”

  She shakes her head, and finishes her juice. “Later. Come on, let's grab some drinks, make sure we're protected. You've got your sunblock?”

  We take the Metro to the mall, where we get a pair of palm-sized binoculars and get back on the Metro, going two stops past The U and getting off. It's not far, less than a mile, and to be honest, it's not a great neighborhood. “I wonder why a man who stole so much from the city lives in such a fucking bad neighborhood,” I ponder as we leave. “Seriously, you'd think he'd have kept enough to live a bit better than this.”

  “That's probably why,” Katrina says, pointing out two coeds who go walking by in short shorts and bikini tops. “Let's face it, if he had an affair with your mom, he's probably not above cheating on my mother with other people, too. And this is... a neighborhood with a lot of scenery.”

  “I've seen better,” I reply, giving Katrina a meaningful look. “Besides, you could probably kick both of their asses, and their boyfriends', too.”

  “Well, yeah, like... duh,” Katrina replies with a fake bimbo accent that has me in stitches. “Point taken, compliment accepted, and thank you. But we're being pros right now, okay?”

  “Okay,” I agree, following her. Katrina's dressed in her work clothes too, the same pants she wore yesterday along with her long sleeve crop top, baseball hat and sunglasses, although the light training shoes have been replaced with lightweight mid top boots. She's ready to kick some ass if need be, and I wonder if somewhere in those baggy pants is her Glock. I mean, we flew, but still, who knows what tricks she’s learned.

  We get to the apartment complex, the Palm Garden Apartments, which is a five-story stucco building with what looks like maybe some sort of green area and a pool in the middle. “Well?”

  “According to the address, the apartment's most likely on the third floor,” Katrina says, taking out our new binoculars and giving the building a quick scan. “Let's walk around, see if we can spot anything.”

  We can't get to one side since there's another apartment in the way, but we do find a way to circle around, and I see a problem. While the building has only one main entrance/exit, a security gate that connects to the parking lot and the walkway to the sidewalk, the apartments wrap all the way around. “There's no way to watch all four sides at once.”

  “Then we focus on the entrance-exit,” Katrina says. She looks around, and points. “There, that looks decent enough.”

  The 'decent enough' spot Katrina points out is a little bookstore with a coffee bar in front, sort of a Barnes and Noble clone, and we settle in. I'm glad for the shade and air conditioning, and the shop owner seems happy enough when I go over and slip her fifty bucks, as well as ordering some tea and scones. I'm not really hungry, but we are using the shop's seats, after all, and I don't plan on buying any books.

  We keep watch together for about an hour before Katrina taps my arm. “Hey, instead of both of us, let's take thirty-minute shifts.”

  “I'm not confident enough to identify your parents if they walk by, especially your mom,” I admit sheepishly. I don't like admitting I'm not Superman. “I mean, I'll help when I can, but I might be calling for your help.”

  Katrina considers it, then grabs the binoculars. “Wait... there he is!”

  I look across the street and see a man, roughly fifty or so with a rather large, angry pink bald patch on his head, just about Katrina's height, with a bit of a potbelly and a slouch coming down the street, wearing jeans and what looks like a bowling league shirt heading toward the security gate. “You sure?”

  “He's got the same birthmark on the left side of his neck that my Dad had. He's gained weight, gone to seed a lot, but it's him.”

  “Great, so how do we get in?” I ask, stopping when the shop owner brings us more tea and scones. I guess she thought that my fifty was asking for repeat service, not that I mind too much. “I doubt he'll just answer if we buzz that we're UPS or something.”

  “Actually, that's pretty close to what I was thinking,” Katrina says, sipping her tea. “What do you think?”

  I take a sip of my tea and grimace. “I think I've picked up Nathan's tea snobbery. This stuff is terrible.”

  Katrina chuck
les and downs her tea quickly. “Come on, we can take the scone with us in your backpack.”

  We cross the street, and Katrina studies the security gate. “Hey, we won't have to do anything. It's not buzzered or anything,” she says, and I see she's right. There's a simple latch, but that's it. I guess it's not the sort of apartment to have all that much security. “Cheaper place than I thought. Come on.”

  We go inside, stopping at the mailboxes, where we see that apartment 302 is listed as 'Ball'.

  “You ready?” I ask Katrina, who looks suddenly nervous. “What is it?”

  “I... I don't know,” she says, looking over at the stairs. “I mean, it's been ten years. And while I know there's a lot of things to not be happy about... it's my parents, Jackson. What if, what if there's a reason they did what they did? What if I can't do it? What if...”

  I pull Katrina close and hug her tightly, cutting off her self-doubt. “You'll do the right thing. I know this much about you, Katrina. Live in the moment, and don't let your self-doubt stop you.”

  She stiffens for a moment, then hugs me back. It feels amazing, and it feels even better when she sets her head on my chest. “This is why I'm glad you're here, Jackson. Thank you.”

  “It's no problem,” I reply, my nose filling with the scent of her hair and stirring emotions deep inside me. “I'll be right by your side the whole time.”

  Katrina squeezes me tightly and lets go, stepping back. “Okay. Then let's go see what's going on with my parents.”

  Chapter 19

  Kat

  My feet tingle as Jackson and I take the stairs up to the third floor of the apartment complex, and twice I stop, Jackson waiting patiently for me to find the guts to continue. I didn't think it would be this hard.

  Never in my entire decade since seeing them supposedly blown up have I felt as much fear as I feel right now. I've spent nearly ten years training, focused with burning intensity on one goal, and until Jackson came back into my life, I thought that focus, that intensity, would never waver. Now I'm seeing that my blind devotion has left me weak, at least in some areas, and I'm glad that Jackson is here with me.

  We reach the third floor and we walk to our left, following the unit numbers as they drop from 310 toward 302. We get to the door, and Jackson takes my hand again. “Remember... live in the moment, focus on the goal. All that stuff you've been reading and training for, it applies here, too. Okay, Kat?”

  At my assumed name, Jackson's words jolt me into place, and I nod, determined. I turn back to the door and knock three times, pleased that I don't sound weak at all. I'm ready to take this on, and as I hear footsteps approach the door, I'm strong, ready, and actually a little bit pissed off. These people left me behind.

  The door opens, and I see, for the first time in ten years, my mother. She may be nearly forty-five now, and the years have added some stoop to her shoulders and some gray to her hair, the exact color as mine, but it's Theresa Grammercy. “Hello?”

  “Mom... it's me,” I say, probably the stupidest reply in the history of the world, but I haven't exactly had a chance to practice this before, you know?

  “Theresa Grammercy?” Jackson interjects, and Mom's eyes flitter to him, and before she can even start to protest, I see the truth. She knows who we are. “My name is Jackson DeLaCoeur.”

  Mom's eyes come back to me, and there's guilt there, at least a little bit, but she doesn't move. “You shouldn't be here.”

  “And you shouldn't have left me in New Orleans to live in foster care for six years,” I shoot back, keeping my voice low. “Now do you let me in, or do I have Jackson call the cops now? I know for sure that Michael and Theresa Ball are not legal identities.”

  Jackson plays along, taking out his phone, even though there's no way in hell I'd call the cops. That would bring attention to me, and I don't have a legal identity right now.

  Mom doesn't know that though, and backs up, letting us in. “The Lord teaches us to submit to the will of those in authority above us,” she mutters, and I see just how sad Mom looks. She'd always been pretty conservative, foregoing makeup most of the time, but she looks positively mousy now, her hair grown out, but hanging in two thick and limp braids that stretch halfway down her back. She's in a dress that I think might have started its life as a very ugly couch. Pale blue and pink rose patterns dominate the shapeless bag of a dress, and she's wearing house slippers. “You're breaking the Lord's will.”

  “And I'm pretty sure if I dig in the Bible long enough, I'll find something that says that faking your own death and abandoning your daughter is also against the Lord's will, too,” Jackson replies, thankfully. Listening to her speak, I'm too angry and sad at the same time to form words. I want to scream and cry, but I'm paralyzed, not saying much at all. “Where's Samuel?”

  “He don't live by that name no more,” Theresa says, but points anyway. “His name's Michael now. Like the archangel.”

  “Theresa?” a harsh voice booms from the living room. “What the fuck are you babbling in there? We got visitors?”

  The way Theresa flinches motivates me to speak, and I step forward, going toward the living room of the apartment. “Yeah, some ghosts from the past,” I say, walking into the living room. Samuel is sitting in a cheap recliner, his eyes going wide as I walk in. “Hello... Daddy.”

  “Katrina...” Samuel whispers, then plasters a big, fake smile on his face. “Oh honey, it's so good to see you!”

  Theresa and Jackson are right behind me, and I restrain myself carefully as Samuel gets to his feet and holds his arms out, coming over to give me a hug. I hold my hand up, and he stops a few feet away, realization dawning on his face that I'm not here for a happy family reunion. “I guess I should have expected that,” he says, dropping his hands and sighing. “Well, will you have a seat at least? We've got a lot to talk about.”

  I look at Jackson, who arranges his body in the short connecting hallway, blocking most of it with his bulk while Theresa sits down in a wooden rocking chair, her hands folded in her lap and her legs jammed together. Her head is hanging slightly, but whether it's in shame or if she's praying, I can't tell. Jackson gives me a nod, and I grab an ottoman from the couch area and squat down on it. I don't want to be backed up against anything. “All right... talk. Start with why the fuck you faked your deaths and left me in New Orleans to go through six years of hell in foster care.”

  “You will not use foul language in this house, young lady,” Theresa interjects, a hint of hysteria in her voice. “The Lord despises a foul mouth.”

  “And a liar?” I ask. “Besides, after what I've been through, if there is a God up there, I owe him an ass kicking.”

  “Katrina, your mother has... she's become very involved in the church,” Samuel says, trying to explain. “We've been through a lot of stress the past ten years, honey. Theresa has found that it comforts her. After the mob came after me, I knew I couldn't stay in New Orleans, and the only way to do it was to leave you behind. I thought that they'd ignore you if they thought I was dead.”

  “Oh, bullshit. You left me behind. Why?” I look at Theresa, ignoring Samuel for a while. “Huh, Mom? Him, I can understand, what with what I've learned... but you? Why did you go along with it?”

  “Wives, submit to your husbands as you do to the Lord,” Theresa shoots back. “My husband's will as head of this household is the final say. He said that this was the plan, and I obeyed him.”

  “The very next paragraph though says that husbands should love their wives as Christ loved the church, and that they should ensure that their wives are pure and blameless, to love them as their own bodies. I don't think faking your death and abandoning your daughter follows that particular teaching,” Jackson says quietly. When I look at him in surprise, he shrugs. “I've been to my fair share of church in my time, too.”

  “Regardless, you're still lying to me,” I add, looking back at Samuel. “Why?”

  “You need to go, Katrina. It's not safe,” Theresa says, her c
ontrol wavering. “You can't be here. You need to go.”

  “I'm not going anywhere. Not until I have answers,” I say, my own calm evaporating. “For Christ's sake, you two left me! Why?”

  Theresa starts crying, sobs shaking her shoulders, but I feel no guilt, no pity for her as she trembles and shakes. She's muttering to herself, and as I catch words of it, she's praying or quoting the Bible or something like that, which just infuriates me more. I jump to my feet, having had enough. “Shut up!”

  “That's enough!” Samuel half-screams, getting to his feet as Theresa sobs harder. “We did it to protect you, Katrina! The mob was after me, and I couldn't think of any other way to protect myself and my family!”

  Protect his family. His words are yelled with such vehemence, with so much passion that for a moment, I want to believe him. But then I remember what Jackson told me Nathan Black said, and what I went through going through foster care. Virginia may have trained me, but it was tough love from the beginning, and there was nobody there to protect me for the six years I lived under her roof. The pain of the past ten years protects me from being swayed by his lies, and I square up, looking at Samuel, who I realize I am now actually taller than in my boots.

  “You lie, Samuel. You were a corrupt cop, and if you were running from the mob, why'd you go to Peter DeLaCoeur for help? Why'd you get Nathan Black to rig the whole thing? Peter's as much in the mob as anyone else.”

  Samuel stops, then starts to go red, his anger at being called a liar turning him the color of old brick. “Fine. If that's the way you want it, you miserable little whelp, then I guess I'm going to have to throw your ungrateful ass out of my house.”

  Jackson goes to move, but I hold up my hand. No, this is my battle. I tilt my chin, cracking my neck, and nod. “Then come on. Maybe while I'm kicking your ass you can finally tell me the truth.”