Her Own Best Enemy (The Remnants, Book 1)
Page 9
He threw his head back, the fluorescent lights spearing uncomfortable false brightness straight into his eyes. A grunt of frustration passed his lips and echoed off the cement walls.
Discovering the vast underground concrete bunker located just over the Mexican border hadn’t been a stroke of good luck but rather a good business transaction on his part. The facility was worth the money he’d paid for it. The myriad of concrete cells served as office, prison, laboratory, and storage for all his lucrative dealings over the years. It was also conveniently located near the asylum that cared for his brother.
His traitorous heart twisted fiendishly the way it always did when he thought of daddy’s little golden boy locked away—imprisoned in both mind and body.
It was necessary. You know that. Your associates would’ve killed him.
He realized the truth of his conscience, but it didn’t make it easier to bear. Though there had never been any love lost between him and his brother, he didn’t wish him ill.
Okay, well, maybe a little. After all, the little piss ant had usurped The Keeper’s position in the family from the moment he came into the world, killing their mother with the act of his birth and forever marking him their father’s favorite. But family was family. And he believed in always taking care of your own.
Even if the bastard had always outshone everyone.
The Keeper, on the other hand, had the misfortune of looking too much like the mother who’d had the gall to die on good old dad. No matter how hard he’d tried, he could never compete with his perfect brother.
He snarled. If he’d been so damn perfect, he should’ve known better than to mess in The Keeper’s affairs. To try to profit from his hard work.
His teeth ground against each other as he exited the room via the steel plated door.
The cell phone at his hip vibrated. He tore it from its holster and checked the caller ID.
He smiled. “Hello?”
“Hola, Señor. Your brother, he is—how you say?—Lúcido. I caught him mumbling in his room a few minutes ago and trying to get out of bed.”
The Keeper flexed his hand on the phone. “Sounds to me as if he’s up for a little company. I’ll be by shortly. Thank you, Santiago.”
He clicked the phone shut as he traversed the narrow, dank hallway. The etorphine hydrochloride he was paying to have administered to his brother was not supposed to wear off this quickly. Could the little bastard be developing a tolerance to the synthesized morphine?
He couldn’t have that. He had enough problems on his plate right now. With King and that woman eluding his men once more, Stevens finally in custody, and Al-Ak Raman breathing down his neck over the codes that should’ve been delivered days ago, the last thing he needed was to worry about his brother becoming lucid enough to blow the whistle on the entire operation.
Two years ago when the sniveling shit had tried it, The Keeper had barely escaped the clutches of the Mexican mafia with his life. Only his written in blood promise that his brother would never be in the position to interfere again had kept his head firmly attached to the rest of his body.
The Keeper’s boots echoed loudly against steel as he ascended the rungs of the metal ladder leading outside. He popped the hatch. A wave of humid heat assaulted him when he pushed himself out of the tunnel and dropped to the tall grass.
He swatted at a fly buzzing around his head, kicking the hatch shut with the heel of his boot. The overgrown grass and weeds hid the small door, obliterating any signs of the tunnel along with the adjoining underground rooms.
Ahead of him, loomed his brother’s home for the past two years. After all the money he’d sunk into the place, the crumbling three-story brick asylum now boasted a state of the art facility.
Nothing but the best for his bro.
Page Eleven.
Grace plucked the Ranger Rick Magazine off the vinyl seat and grappled with its slick paper while she switched on the overhead dome light. Her clumsy fingers couldn’t flip the pages fast enough. The slim book fell open to page fourteen.
“Come on. Come on.” The nonsensical prayer tumbled past her lips.
She quickly backtracked, her fingers trembling when they brushed across the half-finished crossword puzzle. In Mark’s scraggly handwriting.
Written in haphazard block letters across the boxes were the following words: LAKE, STORAGE, POWELL, MARINA.
Mark was leaving clues for her. She drew a deep breath. It all felt so Hansel and Gretel-ish. Like Mark and Ryker were leaving breadcrumbs to signal their trail. Only the wicked witch was some psycho with an unlimited supply of weapons and soldiers at his disposal.
Grace glanced at Keith. “How did you...?”
His eyes were closed, his head against the headrest. Had he passed out?
“Keith?”
No response.
Her moist palms slipped against the glossy pages of her son’s magazine. She tossed it onto the seat, jammed the key into the ignition and twisted.
Keith’s left arm was soaked with blood. How badly was he cut? Did his arm need stitches? Oh, God, if it did...she didn’t have any experience beyond doctoring Ryker’s occasional scrapes and cuts.
Did Tusayan even have a hospital or a medical center? She swallowed and pushed her apprehension aside as she shifted the Jeep into drive. If it didn’t, she’d have to leave him behind somewhere.
Grace kicked the door of the hotel room shut and helped Keith to the bed. He’d regained awareness on the short drive to the hotel and continued to insist he was fine as he rolled on top of the comforter.
“It’s just a scratch,” he said, but ruined the lie when he winced against the pain. The fact that blood darkened the sleeve of his shirt didn’t help either.
Grace hovered at the edge of the bed. “I really think we should get you to the doctor.”
A muscle leapt in his jaw. “No. We don’t have time for a doctor. Get the first aid kit.”
She tore open his backpack and yanked out the red first aid pouch. The zipper stuck as she drew it back. “Damn it.”
With a vicious tug, she yanked it free. Bandages, gauze, tape, scissors, needle and thread, antiseptic, and a small tube of super glue spilled onto the comforter.
Her gazed snapped to the needle. The thin gleaming sliver churned her stomach. “Please don’t tell me you expect me to sew you up.”
He shook his head, eyes closed. “Superglue.”
A harsh laugh scraped past her throat. “You can’t be serious.”
“Dead serious. Better than stitches in a pinch.”
She sucked in a shaky breath, climbed onto the bed on her knees and snatched up the scissors. Carefully she cut away the fabric of his shirt and peeled it back to expose the angry gash that ran from just below his shoulder to the inside of his elbow.
Blood seeped from the wound. She sat back on her heels. The cut was long, but although it bled heavily, it didn’t look particularly deep. She ripped open an antiseptic wipe and cleaned away the blood that covered the cut.
Her hands trembled as she grabbed the tube of superglue and unscrewed the lid.
“Hold the skin together as tight as you can so you’re gluing the skin and not the open wound.”
She nodded and tried to squeeze the sides of the cut together with one hand while holding the tube of glue in the other. Sweat beaded on her forehead and slid down her nose. She swiped at it with her sleeve.
“Can’t do it,” she gasped. “The cut is too long to hold closed with one hand.”
“Here.” Keith lifted his head and spoke through gritted teeth. “Let me try.”
She pushed him back with a hand to his chest. “No. Lie still. I’ll do it.”
She blew out a breath and placed the tube between her teeth.
A pained laughter rumbled from deep in Keith’s chest. “Careful you don’t glue your lips together.” One corner of his mouth tipped into a grimaced grin. “On second thought, might be kind of nice. Keep you from arguing with me.”
“Yeah, but I can pretend I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
Grace shook her head, her cheeks tight with the smile she forced herself to suppress. She pinched the folds of Keith’s skin tightly together with her fingers then bent and squeezed the tube with her teeth, carefully dripping the adhesive across the length of the cut.
She spit the tube onto the comforter and sucked in a breath.
“Think it’ll hold?”
He nodded. “You handled that like a pro.”
She rolled her eyes. “Just call me Dr. Stevens.”
“Are you?”
“What? A doctor? Hardly.”
Once, she dreamed of going to med school, but Keith had shattered that dream, along with her home life, on that long ago prom night. It should’ve been one of her most special high school memories, instead it haunted her, chased her every move.
A fist of annoyance twisted in her chest. She jerked her eyes from his arm and met Keith’s questioning gaze.
“Why is you becoming a doctor so farfetched? You’re tough, you’re smart. You’re a rock.”
The compliments heated her cheeks, and in her fluster she blurted out the first thing that came to her. “You know why I couldn’t...” The rest of the words died on her lips.
She couldn’t tell him. Not yet. What if he refused to help her further because she’d failed to tell him the truth upfront? To find Ryker, she needed Keith on her side.
His brows drew together. “Couldn’t what?”
“Nothing.” She mashed her lips together.
“No, what is it?”
Hurt darkened his eyes. A surprising spurt of discomfort slithered through her belly.
She sighed. “You of all people should know that life doesn’t always work out the way we plan.”
He nodded, but said nothing further. Silence stretched between them. She chewed on the inside of her lip. Keith’s muscles tensed beneath her fingertips. A whispered mumble passed his lips, too low for her to understand.
She leaned in. “What?”
He turned his head, bringing their faces mere inches apart. Their eyes clashed and held for a suspended moment, then his flicked to her mouth and lingered there.
His Adam’s apple did a slow bob in his throat. “I said, you can let go now,” he whispered.
“I’m afraid to.” Her words matched his in tone. “What if it doesn’t hold?”
The saliva died in her throat at his heavy lidded gaze. Her fingers itched to run themselves along the sensuous curve of his mouth.
“Then you’ll just have to re-glue it.”
Her breath hitched. She shook her head and a strand of her hair fell in front of her face. “No thank you. Once was enough.”
Keith reached up with his good arm and stroked the section of hair back behind her ear. His fingers lingered there before trailing down her jaw.
“Your skin is so damn soft.” He bent his head even closer. His breath caressed her cheek and sent a delicious shiver through her body. “You held up real good today, Grace. Better than I expected.”
Her heart thundered in her chest. “Why is that?”
“I didn’t expect you to be so tough.”
He closed the remaining distance between them and molded his mouth to hers. Heat speared through her and pooled low in her belly. His woodsy scent surrounded her, tantalized her, as he slipped his tongue past her lips and explored her mouth.
She knew she should pull back. Keith, of all people, shouldn’t create this rush of desperate longing through her body, but when he deepened the kiss, she leaned into him even more.
His hand left the haven of her hair and slipped over her breast.
She gasped and jerked back. “I...I should...” She gestured to the other bed.
His eyes lit into hers with a golden fire that he quickly banked. “I’m sorry, Grace. I shouldn’t have—” His jaw hardened. “Stay. For a little while.”
She licked her lips, the warm taste of Keith’s mouth still tingling on her tongue. “Okay. Just for a little while.”
Through the sliver of moonlight that slipped through the crack in the curtains, Grace watched Keith sleep beside her. He looked almost boyishly sweet. A deceptive lie, she knew, but she couldn’t help thinking it just the same.
She blew out a breath. Daylight would come upon them soon and she knew she was in for another difficult day. She should go to her own bed and get some sleep.
She rose on her elbow to leave Keith’s bed, but unfamiliar noises assailed her. Outside, the wind rhythmically shushed through the glass pane of the window, dust scraped across the pavement, and the hotel creaked ominously.
Doubt bombarded her. What if they didn’t find Ryker? What if they found him...just not alive?
She shut her eyes tight, but it was no use. The noises grew and grew until the scraping sounds invaded the room, the familiarity of Keith’s soft snores her only comfort.
She drew her knees to her chest. The other bed looked larger than life and far too lonely. She’d never get any sleep in it.
Lips pressed together, she lowered herself next to Keith and laid her head on the empty pillow. What if he woke up horrified at the thought of her lying next to him?
God, she should be the horrified one, contemplating sharing a bed with the man she’d spent the last fourteen years abhorring. He was the villain in her tragic story; the person who’d stripped the core of her family from her.
And the only one who could make the tangible difference between fear and comfort.
She shifted on the bed and bumped his injured arm with hers. Her muscles tensed. She froze, clamped her lips together and waited for him to wake up and kick her out of bed. Instead, he rolled closer to her, flooding her with his warmth and strength. She tilted her head so it rested on her shoulder and sank gratefully against his body.
Oh. My. Lord.
She was sleeping with the enemy.
Chapter Eight
“This is the place.”
Grace pulled their newly acquired Ford Bronco into an empty space at the front of the building and killed the engine. She and Keith had abandoned the Jeep first thing this morning before making the two and a half hour drive to the small town of Page, Arizona.
She kept her eyes on the bright blue SecureStor sign, unable to look at Keith. Not after the way she’d awoken sprawled across him this morning.
Heat scalded her face, remembering the hard length of him pressed against her thigh. She’d expected him to do something—make a comment, kiss her senseless—but he’d simply given her a heavy-lidded inscrutable look, rolled from under her and out of bed to make preparations for the day ahead. She, however, couldn’t shake the embarrassment of the awkward moment.
“You have the cardkey?”
She flinched at Keith’s words, the first he’d spoken to her this morning, and hesitated. “Of course.” She turned her face to him, noting the strained shadows under his eyes. He’d refused the ibuprofen she’d set out for him. She wanted to kiss the tightness in his mouth away.
Her stomach flip-flopped. She swallowed hard. “How’s the arm?”
“What’s the unit number?”
So, he didn’t want her concern? Fine.
“It doesn’t have one.” She yanked the Bronco keys out of the ignition and put her hand on the door. “I’ll check at the office.”
“Good.” He unlatched his door.
“Let me do this alone. Please.” Grace hoped the management would prove more cooperative if she approached them by herself.
Keith narrowed his eyes, but miraculously stayed put.
She jumped out of the Bronco and strode to the entrance. Her chest tightened further with every step. This could be a dead end. She couldn’t afford to get her hopes up.
And, yet, she couldn’t afford to give up hope either
.
The bell above the door jingled when she pushed it open and crossed the threshold. She wrestled the cardkey from her pocket, heart revving, and stepped to the counter.
“May I help you?” The older woman at the desk raised a pencil-thin brow over her excessively made up eyes.
Grace slid the thin plastic rectangle across the dull white Formica. “Um...yes. My husband left this key for me. I was hoping you could tell me which unit it belongs to.”
The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t give out that information. It’s against our policy. You’ll need to call your husband.”
“Yes, I understand that. But I haven’t been able to get a hold of him and I really need to grab some things from storage.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. You’re just going to have to wait until you speak with him. There’s nothing I can do.” The woman turned her back on Grace, opened a file cabinet and busied herself with a bundle of papers.
Tears stung Grace’s eyes. She forced them back but couldn’t stop her heart from plummeting to her stomach.
Stop it. Don’t give up. You need this information. Fight for it.
Grace pulled Ryker’s picture from her pocket. I’ll find you, baby. “Excuse me?”
The clerk turned, frowning. “Yes?”
“Can you tell me...do you recognize this boy?”
Grace thrust the picture at the pinched-face receptionist, whose squinted eyes scrutinized the photo.
“As a matter of fact...He was in here day before—no it was yesterday—with Bob. He’d lost his key and needed a duplicate.”
“With...Bob?” Who the hell was Bob? “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Bob’s a regular. Has been for the past several years.”
She frowned. Several…years? “Can you describe him?”
The woman pursed her lips. “Tall. Short, short dark hair—almost black. Deep brown eyes. Very quick with a smile, kind of a lopsided one. I never forget a face, and Bob Moffitt’s a real looker if you ask me.”
She’d just described Mark to a T. Mark and Ryker had stopped here yesterday! Adrenaline spiked and buoyed her heart. Oh, my God. Yesterday. Her hands shook as she thrust the cardkey in the receptionist’s direction. “Could you check and see if this is registered to...um, Bob?”