Blood Sky (Broken Mercenaries Book 1)

by S. Massery

  Do not throw up, Delia.

  I look toward the truck, which has been closed but not locked. The screaming is half-muffled. Tortured. It breaks me open.

  Edgar comes to me and helps me up. “We need to leave,” he says. “We’ll call the police on our way home. Let them help those girls.”

  I start to shake my head, but Edgar grips my chin and forces me to look at him.

  “Now’s not your moment of grace,” he says to me.

  If not now, when?

  What was it that I had said to Jackson? I need to see their faces. The men who attacked us in Wyoming weren’t cousins of mine—they were Castillo men. I didn’t even have a chance to kill them. But these men? My own blood was spilled tonight.

  I let Edgar lead me to the car. My whole body tingles on the edge of numbness.

  “This is our secret,” he mutters. “We were never fucking here. Got it? Shit, Delia—”

  “Ruthless enough for you?” I ask, tipping my head back. I’m angry at him for bringing me here without some sort of warning. I’m furious at myself for what I’ve done. I almost can’t believe that this has been going on beneath my nose for years. And because my father thought I was too weak? Because I asked him to stay out of that business when I was younger and he agreed—but he lied and didn’t want to hurt me?

  I don’t have answers.

  Edgar shakes his head. “Fuck.”

  We don’t speak. He drops me off at the top of my street, and I manage to slip into the house without getting caught. There will be damage control to be done tomorrow, but for now, I am alone with my thoughts.

  Silence prevails in my small room. Grief and worry and every negative feeling I’ve ever had storm to life, begging for attention. I crawl into bed and let the ghosts close in around me.

  24

  JACKSON

  It’s almost ironic that I end up in Vegas, in the same city as Delia, and I couldn’t feel farther from her.

  Spike had to use a wheelchair—stolen shamelessly from the hospital by Griffin and Zach—to get me from my bed to the car, and later from the car into the apartment he shares with Mason.

  Spike and Mason bought their condo in downtown Vegas almost three years ago. The complex has a pool on the roof, a glass-walled gym beside it, and a restaurant on the first level.

  I’m ashamed that I’ve never visited before. Not because it’s beautiful, but because I’ve neglected everyone in my life in some way or another. I’ve been floating around the West Coast for two years. Why couldn’t I manage to visit my only brother?

  I grab Spike’s arm one day, a week into my stay, and try to apologize. “I’m going to do better,” I promise.

  He shrugs. “I’ll believe it when I see it, brother.”

  Mason comes out of the shadows after Spike leaves for work. “He’s just—”

  “You don’t have to make excuses,” I say.

  Another three weeks pass. I’m not allowed to do anything out of my wheelchair. Spike and Mason go so far as to hire me a babysitter for when they’re at work.

  “Please, take me to work with you,” I beg Mason one day. This confinement is going to my head. I wheel around their apartment and agonize over every single decision I’ve ever made. It doesn’t feel like four weeks have passed—more like four years.

  Every day, my thoughts return to Delia. I want to know where she is, what she’s doing, who she’s with. I’m learning the difference—the terrifying difference—between lust and love. If I had thought my emotions toward her were purely physical, I was wrong. I was wrong in a way that cracks open my chest every time I lift her shirt to my nose. The scent is barely there, more imagination and memory than anything else. Sometimes, I can’t think about her. I put her in a box and store her at the back of my mind.

  She always breaks free.

  Mason snorts. “You’re a bull in a china shop in that chair, Skye. There’s no way I’m letting you around paying clientele and expensive equipment.”

  I roll my eyes. “I don’t even need it anymore,” I say. For a while, the concussion caused severe nausea and dizziness. The doctors said it triggered vertigo, which meant that I was useless until it went away. That, plus the rest required by Griffin post-surgery, meant that I had a tendency to roll my wheelchair into walls, tables, and occasionally, people.

  I stand up to prove my point, but he just shakes his head. “Nope! Read a book or something. Clean your room.” Almost to himself, he mutters, “Who knew he was such a mess?”

  “I heard that,” I grumble. I sit back down with a thud. My legs are still a little shaky, which is all the more reason to practice walking. If I had been in a hospital, I’m sure I would’ve been labeled a fall risk.

  I push back to my feet and make my way into the guest room that I’ve taken over. I keep my hand on the wall to steady myself and breathe out a sigh of frustration when I look around the space. He’s right: there are clothes everywhere. Every single item from my duffle bag has been laid out, meticulously calculated, and then abandoned.

  It takes me a while to go through everything again. I find the jeans that I wore while I was with Delia, and my lungs stop working. Pain shreds my chest. My heart stops working for a second as memories filter past my eyes. It’s such a visceral reaction that I almost drop them.

  Breathe, I remind myself. I suck in air and start to fold the jeans. They’re just pants. There’s no need to get emotional. Even if holding them drags out thoughts of Delia. Her smile. The tremor in her fingers when she’s trying not to show that she’s terrified. Her exhale in my ear when she attacks me from behind.

  I miss her and I hate it.

  Smoothing the fabric as I fold it, my fingers hit something stiff in the pocket. I pull out a business card. The blood drains from my face. I had forgotten this moment in the grand scheme of things: when I opened the door to the two men looking for Delia in the hotel room and they bought my frazzled work-trip story.

  Delia wasn’t aware that subterfuge was part of my training. If she hadn’t kept calling the lawyer, we would’ve been okay. Switching vehicles, staying off the grid, not attracting undue attention—well, the fight was probably unnecessary, but she really didn’t have a part in it.

  The men had given me a business card and told me to call them if I saw her.

  I dial Mason’s number.

  “It’s been less than an hour, jackass. You’ve had a babysitter for a week. Don’t tell me you can’t last a day?”

  “Well,” I cough, “I actually need you to run a number for me.”

  “For fuck’s sake.”

  That makes me smile. And then grimace.

  “Okay,” he says. “Give it to me.”

  I read him the number. There’s keyboard clicking and then, “Burner phone. It’s impossible to locate unless it’s connected to a call.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I mutter. I nix the idea of calling it.

  I have a better idea, anyway. Getting dressed quickly, I speed out the door down the elevator. I’m out on the hot Las Vegas sidewalk in no time, staring at the strip in the near distance.

  A quick taxi ride later—well, quick in Vegas terms, which isn’t that quick at all—I find myself looking up at Delia’s family home.

  It’s bigger than I would’ve pictured for her, but it makes sense for her family. Her father was a mafia boss. She’s inherited an empire. Of course they live in a mansion on a street full of other mansions.

  “Can I help you?” a woman asks, walking down the driveway.

  “I’m looking for Delia,” I say. “Is she here?”

  The woman stiffens. “You’re him, huh?”

  Confusion must pass across my face. This isn’t the same woman from the restaurant in Salt Lake City, but she looks similar. She looks similar to Delia, too. If I didn’t know Delia was an only child, I would’ve thought this girl was her older sister.

  She smooths the front of her pale yellow blouse. “Jackson, right?”

  “How did you know that?�
� I ask. I can guess: Delia told her. It would mean that Delia is here, alive, thriving.

  She just smiles at me. Her red lipstick is a gash across her face.

  “She’s staying at my house,” she finally says. “There’s so much death in this house, she didn’t—”

  “I get it,” I say. “So… she’s not here?”

  “No, Jackson,” she says, and it sounds a little off. I wait for her to elaborate, but she just blinks her big dark eyes at me.

  “Okay,” I mutter. I start to turn away, then spin back. “I didn’t catch your name?”

  “Alexa,” she says. She doesn’t smile at me. “I’ll tell her you stopped by.”

  “Alexa Moretti,” I say, but she just watches me. “Nice to meet you. Good luck with the ghosts.”

  She looks away from me, and I realize that her dad might’ve been one of the ones to die, too.

  I make it halfway down the block before someone comes running at me, down a driveway to my right. I manage to turn just as the figure leaps at me.

  The flash of brown hair is the only hint I get before they latch onto me like an octopus, arms winding around my neck and legs hooking around my hips. Delia’s scent hits me and I relax, hugging her tightly to me.

  Eventually, I have to let her go. I release her slowly. She slips to the ground and looks up at me, tears in her eyes. “You came for me,” she whispers. “Jackson—”

  I look back toward where she came from. A man stands in the doorway.

  “So much has happened,” she says. “I have so much to tell you. You came at a perfect time, actually. You and I—”

  I close my eyes. “Delia.”

  “Jackson,” she answers, her voice soft. She threads her fingers through mine, lifting our hands between us. I stare down at her pale fingers next to my tan ones.

  “I just…” I inhale and let it out slowly. Hearing her out wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Standing in front of her is surreal. She’s even prettier than I remembered. She still has a haunted look in her eye, but it’s pushed away when she meets my gaze. Her hair has grown an inch, and her roots are light. “Who is that? Do you need help?”

  I missed you and I hated it.

  She rolls her eyes, stepping closer to me. I like that she wants to touch me, to be closer than we should be in public. A shiver slides through her. And then she says, “That’s Oliver, Alexa’s husband. He likes to think he’s my own personal watchdog. I’m lucky that I get to shower alone.”

  I growl under my breath at the thought of her cousin’s husband in the shower with her. My blood spikes hot, and I wouldn’t mind kicking his ass for her.

  She pats my chest with her free hand. “Not like that,” she laughs, her eyes bright. “Only you.”

  “I met Alexa,” I tell her. “She said you’re living with them because of the ghosts.”

  Her smile drops. “Right.”

  I trace her jaw with my hand, sliding my fingers through her hair. I really want to kiss her, but I don’t want to do it with her cousin and cousin-in-law breathing down our necks.

  “Do you need help?”

  “I have things under control. No blazing guns needed,” she says. She looks me up and down. “You look thinner. Are you okay?”

  “I’ve had an interesting month,” I answer. By the way she nods, I realize that she’s probably had a more interesting month than healing from a car accident and surgery. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”

  She pulls me toward the house. “My room,” she says. She glances back and smirks at me, adding, “It has a lock.”

  My mouth goes dry, and suddenly my heart is beating a hell of a lot faster. What is it about this girl that makes me want to forget all of my morals? I brush off the fact that she thinks I can’t help her other than to shoot people. It isn’t like I ran tactical support for hundreds of wildfire fighters in my most recent job. She only sees the mercenary.

  That’s all you’ve shown her, a voice in my head whispers.

  “Oliver,” she says to the man who still blocks the doorway. “This is Jackson. He saved my life.”

  “And now you’re inviting him into my home?” he snaps.

  Alexa appears behind us. “Let him in, honey,” she says. Her voice is reed thin when she talks to her husband, with a sort of breathlessness that makes me glad Delia doesn’t talk like that.

  Oliver’s glare melts away when he looks at her, and he steps aside.

  Delia wastes no time pulling me up the stairs and into the small bedroom at the top of the hall. She locks the door behind us. “You can’t imagine how this has been,” she says to the door.

  I want her to turn around and look at me. All the feelings that I’ve been stewing on this past month are more intense around her. I’m going to combust into flames if I have to hold back from touching her one more second.

  “Delia,” I murmur. I sweep her hair off of her neck, pressing my lips to the soft flesh behind her ear. She melts backwards into me, tilting her head to give me better access. I brace my hands on the door on either side of her.

  I run my lips down her neck, her shoulder, pushing the strap of her tank top down as I go. She turns slowly in the cage of my arms and blinks up at me. “Kiss me,” she demands.

  I oblige. Our lips touch, feather light. Once, twice. I pull back, a hint of a smile on my face, and she scowls at me.

  “Like you mean it,” she clarifies.

  “Like I’ve been dying of thirst, and you’re my oasis?” I ask.

  A blush rises to her cheeks. “Yes,” she whispers.

  “Alright,” I say. I lean down and press my lips to the corner of her mouth. She turns her head and catches my lower lip between her teeth and tugs. Heat explodes through me, and my growl is met by one of her own. Our mouths clash together, warring for control. My tongue slips against hers.

  She moans deep in her throat. I mirror the noise when her fingers slide into my hair. Her nails scratch my scalp.

  I lift her shirt off of her in one movement, barely leaning away to get it off of her head. She grins and jumps, trusting me to catch her. I do, even if it’s painful. My hands go to her ass and I turn, carrying her to the bed while her hands roam all over me. She yanks my shirt up.

  When I set her on her back and stand up to remove my shirt, she freezes. “Oh my god,” she whispers. “Oh my god.” It comes out louder. And then she’s yelling, “What the fuck, Jackson?”

  I look down at my bare torso. My ribs are still healing, my whole body is varying shades of yellow, green, and red splotches—a big improvement from the black and blue bruises from a month ago. The pink scar from the surgery stands out against my tan skin. Adrenaline keeps away the pain. My erection is the only thing I can feel. It’s been a month, and I know if I’m not in her in the next few seconds, I will die.

  “I’m okay,” I tell her. “Please.”

  She’s not convinced. She sits up slowly, the heat fading from her eyes.

  No.

  I lean forward and kiss her again. “I’m not broken,” I say against her lips. “Please.”

  Her nod is slow. Her fingers are already at the button of her jeans. I take my own pants off and then take over peeling off hers. They’re skin-tight, nothing like I’ve seen her wear. She’s fucking beautiful. She tosses her bra aside.

  My dick twitches at the sight of the hard peaks of her nipples. As I step forward, she scoots backwards on the bed. I fit in the space between her legs. Instead of slamming into her, which is what every fucking instinct in my body is begging me to do, I turn my attention to her breasts.

  I cup one breast with my hand. My thumb circles her nipple lightly. She arches her back into me and her hand sneaks between us, to the hot, wet space between her legs. Not so long ago, she was too shy to do that. I guess the distance has made her bolder.

  I grab her wrist and pull it above her head. “Not yet,” I whisper.

  “I need to feel you,” she murmurs, her tongue flicking against my earlobe. Her teeth follow
, scraping and tugging. The electricity goes straight to my erection, and I don’t need more prompting. I push into her.

  Both of us inhale, and I stay there for a moment, fully sheathed inside of her. She feels so fucking good, I can barely breathe. I could die here a happy man.

  She moves her hips.

  I meet her eyes. She stares up at me, biting her lip. I release her wrist one finger at a time, trailing my index finger down her arm. I stop at her throat. My hand curls around her neck. My thumb catches her crazy pulse.

  Agonizingly slow, I pull out and push back in. If I thought our rhythm would be lost since she left me, I was wrong. We fit together like two perfect puzzle pieces, and each stroke inside of her shatters me.

  “Delia?” her cousin calls from the other side of the door.

  We freeze.

  “Yeah?” Delia answers. Well, she kind of gasps it.

  There’s a moment of silence and then, “Are you coming downstairs?”

  Delia rolls her eyes at me. I smirk and lazily thrust into her again, like we have all the time in the world and her cousin isn’t on the other side of the door. Her eyelids flutter.

  “Soon,” she manages.

  “Okay,” Alexa says.

  “You’re evil,” she whispers to me, kissing my lips.

  “Not as evil as you,” I laugh. I try not to let the laugh fall off abruptly, even if reality crashes back around me.

  “Don’t retreat just yet,” she murmurs.

  “That obvious?” I whisper.

  “It’s just us in this room,” she says, cupping my face with both of her palms. “Just us.”

  We haven’t done this before. We haven’t shed our guards so easily, so completely. I look at her and see all of her: the rough, broken edges she’s hidden since I met her. Her desire. Lust. Love. She communicates it in a look, in the way her breath coasts past her lips, in the blush that rises to her cheeks.

  Whatever this is, I feel it, too.

  I pick up my pace and she groans, but she doesn’t look away from me. I put a little space between us so I can rub her clit in small circles. Her breathing picks up. My balls tighten.