by Megyn Ward
The text isn’t from Jane.
Unknown: Did you
like my gift?
The words start to squirm and swim like a thousand tiny fish trapped inside my phone, even as I feel my breath stall and my lungs seize in my chest like they’ve gone dry.
Unknown: I see you.
Shit.
Nik.
He’s still here.
He’s not supposed to be.
Gray threw him out.
He’s not supposed to be here.
But he is.
Nik is here.
Someone screams.
Then a lot of someones scream.
The fire alarm starts screaming too.
Not me.
I should be screaming but I’m not.
I can’t.
The fizzy feeling bubbling through my veins is too big for screaming. All I can manage is a single, pathetic bleat before an arm snakes itself around my waist and I feel hot breath against my neck. “I’ve missed you, Delilah.” A familiar voice whispers in my ear as the arm around my waist tightens like a vice and begins to haul me back into the dark.
SIXTEEN
Grayson
NO.
That’s all I can think as I push and shove my way through the melee of panicked bodies surging and rushing through the alley.
No.
Not again.
“Get the fuck out of my way!” I roar it, my voice an angry bellow that propels me forward, faster and faster as people scamper and flee like I’m a homicidally deranged Moses, parting a terrified Red Sea. Way cleared, I start running at full speed down the alley just as the dark figure disappears around the corner, dragging Delilah with him, his arm wrapped around her waist while she stumbles and trips along beside him. “If you take her, I’ll fucking find you.” I’m still bellowing. Still running. “I’ll find you. I won’t stop until I do and I’ll fucking kill you.”
People are watching, gaping and pointing as they follow my trajectory down the alley toward the man running, dragging Delilah behind him. Anyone who saw them would see a good Samaritan, helping a fellow club-goer to safety, and me, charging after them like a goddamned crazy person. For all I know, that’s exactly what’s happening. Maybe I’m being crazy. Possessed by age-old demons.
Trying to right wrongs that I was too young to stop.
Rewrite a past I can’t seem to escape.
Mijo, what happened wasn’t your fault. You were so young. How could you hope to change the outcome of something you can’t even remember?
My father was wrong.
I remember what happened.
I remember everything that mattered.
I gain the corner and round it fast, sure I’m going to find them gone. Disappeared. Because I lost sight of them for a split second. Because he’d be smart. Have a car waiting. His getaway mapped out.
Fuck.
Like I knew it would be, the sidewalk in front of me is empty.
She’s gone.
He took her and she’s—
Chest heaving, I stop short, scanning the sidewalks. The street. Looking for a flash of pale blonde hair. A dark hooded figure shoving her into a waiting car. Dragging her down another dark alley.
Fuck.
Not again.
Jesus Christ, not again.
Not her.
Not again.
There’s a tight knot of pedestrians clumped together under a construction scaffold bridged over the sidewalk about fifty-yards from where I’m standing, heads bowed like they’re looking at something on the ground. Heart lodged in my throat, I rush forward, shoulder barging my way down the crowded sidewalk because even though it’s close to 3AM, it’s Friday night in Manhattan and the sidewalk is as crowded now as it was twelve hours ago. Maybe even more so.
The closer I get, the easier it is to pull words from the buzzing drone of noise under the scaffold.
“…looks like she came from that club over there.”
“That place is on fire.”
“… looks like she needs help.”
“… is that her. I think it’s her.”
Pushing and pulling people out of my way, ignoring their protests at my intrusion, I shove myself into the center of the buzzing knot, instantly dropping to my knees because it’s her.
It’s Delilah.
She’s lying in a crumpled heap on the dirty sidewalk, her dress pulled up around her thighs. Knees bloody and bruised. Arm scraped and filthy like she fell and whoever took her tried to drag her before letting her go.
Jesus.
“Delilah…” I reach out to pull her dress down, shame burning in my gut because I did this exact same thing not more than an hour ago and—
“Gray?” She sobs my name, the sound of it strange and slurred like she’s impossibly drunk, her arms twitching like she’s trying to reach for me but can’t lift them. Like they weigh a thousand pounds. “Gray…I’m fizzy… I don’t… I don’t know how. I don’t know what…”
“Hey pal, I think she needs help.”
“Yeah, I think maybe we should call 911?”
“No.” I’m not thinking rationally. I know that. I know that calling 911 is the smart thing to do. Someone just tried to kidnap New York royalty. That’s something that needs to be reported to the authorities, but if I do that, they’ll take her away from me. They’ll take her away and shut me out. Lock her way in her ivory tower and I can’t let that happen. Not if I have any hope of keeping her safe.
“Listen, pal—she’s fucked up. She needs—”
“I’m chief of security at the club she was just in.” I lift her hand off the sidewalk and turn it to show the grumbling knot of pedestrians the bright pink L stamped on the back of it. Making up my mind, I slip my arms under her neck and knees and lift her gently into my arms. “There was a fire—I’m sure it’s just smoke inhalation.” I turn and gesture to the circus of first responders that’s popped up in front of Level. “EMS is already here. I’ll take her over to get checked out.”
As soon as I have Delilah secured against my chest, she stops crying. Buries her wet cheek in in my neck and lets out a shuddering sigh, her entire body going lax.
No one’s taking her from me.
I’ll kill anyone who tries.
Like he can read my mind, the guy who keeps calling me pal, holds up his hands in surrender. “None of my business, pal,” he says, blading his body to the side, giving me room to maneuver my way down the sidewalk, back the way I came.
They’ve got the street blocked off a block in either direction, wet, sooty club-goers milling around in the void, blankets draped over their shoulders. Sucking down bottles of water. A few of them who were closest to the fire sitting in the back of ambulances with oxygen masks strapped to their faces. I can see Angel on the sidewalk in front of the club, talking to who I assume is the fire chief. I should be there. Conducting traffic. Talking to officials. Claiming responsibility. Minimizing the damage as best I can.
What I should be doing isn’t going to happen.
I’m halfway down the sidewalk, Delilah in my arms, when I look back. The tight knot of buzzing pedestrians under the scaffold is gone, dispersed and scattered along the crowded sidewalk. Back to their lives—either confident that I’ll get her the medical attention she needs or deciding they really don’t care, one way or the other.
Looking down the tunnel created by the construction scaffold hanging over the sidewalk, I see him. Standing stock still at the top of the block, an unmovable rock that the relentless sea of bodies breaks itself on as it passes him by.
A figure in dark clothes.
Hood pulled up to hide a face that’s aimed right at me.
Watching me.
Waiting for me to loosen my grip.
Close my eyes.
Look away so he can take her.
Next time, I might not be so lucky.
Looking down, I work my hand down the length of her arm, I press my fingers to the inside of her wrist. Her
pulse is rapid but steady. Her breathing is fast but not obstructed.
Praying to god, it’s not the wrong one, I make a decision.
When I look back down the sidewalk, the dark figure is gone.
SEVENTEEN
Gray
I CALLED LOGAN.
Because, for all intents and purposes, Delilah is Tobias’s sister-in-law and Jase knows about the fire by now and he’s already pissed and has his hands full and really, I can’t deal with either of them right now.
Logan is different.
He’ll do what I ask, no questions. No lectures. No voice of reason. Not because he’s indifferent but because he understands that sometimes you have to go off book. Sometimes, you have to disappear.
“Tell me you have someone in New York,” I say as soon as he answers the phone. “Someone you trust.”
“Actually, I do,” he answers without an ounce of hesitation or disorientation. It’s 3AM and he’s fully awake. Probably hunched over one of his computers in the dark, his thick-framed glasses shoved up into the unruly rat’s nest he calls a head of hair. “What do you need?”
“A ride.” I need a lot more than that, but a ride will do for now.
“Out of the city?” he asks, like all of this makes perfect sense.
Looking down at Delilah, I try to think rationally. Try to care about what’s going to happen if I take her and just fucking disappear. I can’t. Not right now. “Preferably.”
“Okay. Stay where you are.”
He doesn’t ask me where I am or tell me who to look for. He just hangs up. If it were anyone other than my weirdo little brother, I’d be worried. Wondering what the hell he’s up to. How he’s going to make it happen, but I’ve come to accept that how really isn’t something you what to know when it comes to Logan. Because knowing how could potentially make you an accessory.
Awkwardly juggling my phone back into my pocket, I sit down on a random stoop, Delilah cradled in my lap, to wait. No one gives us a second look. She’s just another drunk girl and I’m the exasperated boyfriend waiting for an Uber to take us home after too much fun on a Friday night.
She’s out cold. Checking her pulse and breathing again, I note that both are the same as before—fast but steady.
She’s okay.
She’s going to be okay.
She’s okay.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I ignore it.
I know who it is.
Jase.
Probably freaking the fuck out because his baby almost burned down and I’m in the wind instead of handling shit like I should be.
He can wait.
Everything can wait until I know Delilah’s safe.
Ten minutes later a sleek luxury car rolls to a stop in front of the stoop I’m camped out on and its dark tinted window powers down to reveal a gorgeous, smiling redhead sitting in the passenger seat. “Hi, are you the brother?”
“Yeah.” I nod my head cautiously because this isn’t what I expected. I expected a white panel van with blacked-out windows and a noisy muffler. A sketchy driver hopped up on too many energy drinks and conspiracy theories. Not a New York socialite in a Maybach.
“Fantastic.” The driver leans forward and it starts to make a little more sense because this guy is much more Logan’s speed. Dark hair, a little too long to be considered presentable. Tattoos crawling up both arms. More ink wrapped around his neck. A silver ring on his left hand. “I’m the someone you trust.” The back door on the car pops open. “Get in.”
I hesitate, but only for a second, before I stand, hefting Delilah against my chest, before carrying her to the car. Seconds later, we’re settled in and darting back into Midtown traffic. “Thanks,” I say because I don’t know what to say. “I—”
“I’m Con,” the driver says, shooting me a quick look in the rearview. “And this is Daisy.”
The woman in the front seat turns to look at me. “My name is Henley.” She laughs and rolls her eyes. “I went to high school with Logan and Conner was one of his professors at MIT.”
Even though the later claim seems unlikely since the driver isn’t much older than my brother, I don’t question it. Nothing about what’s happened in the last hour and a half has been what would be considered likely. “I’m Gray.” I look down at Delilah. She’s still out cold. It’s starting to worry me.
I look up to find the guy watching me in the rearview.
“Con?” I say, finally making the connection. “Conner Gilroy? The guy who helped Logan out of that sticky situation with that co-ed in college.” From what Tob and Jase would tell me, it’d been a complete shitshow. The girl Logan was seeing went missing on spring break and he somehow ended up as the prime suspect in her disappearance—until Conner Gilroy found her a few weeks later, completely unharmed, and dragged her back to Boston.
The guy gives me a cheeky grin. “That’s me.”
“Don’t you live in Boston?” When he gives me a half-assed nod, I feel my face crumple into a frown. “What are you doing in New York?”
“That’s a sensitive subject,” the redhead chimes in with a slight wince. “We’re here visiting my mother.”
“You might be here visiting your mother,” Conner grumbles. “But I’m here to visit your stepdad because he’s an actual human being.”
“It’s only for a few days,” she chides gently but I can see it. It isn’t just a visit and she doesn’t want to be here any more than he does.
“Are you sure because it feels like we’ve been here for years.” Instead of arguing with her, Conner flicks me another glance. “Okay—usually, I’m not one to pry but I have to ask since she’s completely unconscious in the backseat of my car—what are you doing with Delilah Fiorella?”
I feel my gut sink to the bottom of my boots.
Of course, he recognizes her.
“I’m trying to help her.”
“By kidnapping her?” The question is delivered in a completely casual tone designed to illicit a reactionary response. One that he can use as a gage to measure the validity of everything I say after it. Whatever else Conner Gilroy is— you can add skilled interrogator and human lie detector to the list.
“I’m not kidnapping her.” I keep my tone calm and even.
“You sure about that?” Conner gives me a quick flash of his dimples. “Because she looks like she’s been drugged, and this feels a lot like a kidnapping.”
“I know what it looks like.” I look out the window. We’re on 34th, heading for the tunnel. “But that’s not what it is.”
“Alright.” The dimples wink out. “So why don’t you tell me what the hell is wrong with her?”
Too many shots. She’s wasted. That’s literally all I have to say. For some reason I tell him the truth. “I don’t know.” I shake my head. “I run security at the club she comes into all the time and there was a fire—I think it was a diversionary tactic—someone set it on purpose to—”
“I understand what a diversionary tactic is.” Instead of laughing at me, Conner frowns. “Why would someone want to create a diversion of that magnitude inside your club.”
“So he could kidnap her.” Even though it’s exactly what happened, it sounds completely nuts when I say it out loud. “I think he drugged her.” He had to have because I know what a wasted Delilah looks like and she was completely sober in that stairwell. “He took her. I chased him down the street and I think I scared him or she was too out of it—I don‘t know, but he dropped her and took off before I could stop him.”
“Who’s he?”
“I don’t know.” Knowing I let him get away makes me feel like a failure. Like the worst kind of coward. “All I know is she’s in danger and I’m not letting her go until I know she’s safe.”
“Okay.”
That it.
Just like with Logan earlier, that seems to be the end of it.
“Okay?” Unlike my brother, I don’t know this guy. I can’t just take his okay for an answer. “What
does that mean exactly?”
“Okay—it means okay.” He gives me a shrug. “Where are we going?”
I don’t know.
I don’t have any idea what I’m doing here.
Before I can say it out loud, Con flicks me another quick glance. “Her brother lives in Boston,” he tells me.
Her brother.
I remember Tob vaguely mentioning something about a brother. The black sheep of the Fiorella family. He owns a tattoo shop.
And my Brothers.
They’re in Boston too.
“Yeah.” It comes out rough. Uneven. “Yeah. Okay—Boston.”
EIGHTEEN
Delilah
I’M ON A BED.
The overhead lights are bright… or maybe I’m under a spotlight. Someone is sitting next to me. Holding my hand.
No.
Not holding my hand.
Giving me a manicure?
What the hell is happening?
I try to move.
Pull my hand away from my phantom manicurist but I can’t. My arms are heavy. So are my legs. Feels like I’m nailed to the mattress. I should be scared but I’m not. The best I can manage is a vacant sort of curiosity. I feel detached. Floating. Buoyant. Bumping and drifting inside my own skin.
I recognize the feeling.
It’s not entirely unpleasant.
“… He’s Logan’s brother. I might not trust him but I trust Logan. He wouldn’t go along with some whacked out kidnapping scheme and he sure as hell wouldn’t involve me in…”
My eyelids are heavy. So heavy, it feels like a monumental accomplishment when I manage to crack them enough to see even a little bit.
My manicurist is a guy.
A super-hot, tattooed guy with dark hair and green eyes.
For some reason he reminds me of my brother, Went.
“Wow… you’re really pretty.” It comes out slow. Like I have to think about how the words fit together, force them into the correct order, before I can let them out of my mouth.
My manicurist stops what he’s doing to my hand and looks up, flashing me a dimpled grin. “I know.” He gives me a wink. “But it’s always nice to hear,” he says before he looks back down at my hand and starts working again.
Somewhere above me, someone snorts and I force my eyes open a bit more in an effort to catch them in my line of sight.