Don't Break This Kiss (Top Shelf Romance Book 5)

by Jessica Hawkins

  “I don’t keep any figurines or anything around. How did you know?”

  “Just remembered you put up a picture on social media once. Given the somewhat stressful situation we’re in, thought they might make you smile.”

  “Huh.”

  We keep going for miles and miles along dirt roads barely deserving of the title. Somehow Thom manages driving with the splintered windshield. With dawn rising in shades of violet and gray over the hills, he pulls up next to a hatchback left on the side of the road with a For Sale sign in the window near the highway. The Charger’s battered windscreen faces away from the road, the worst of the damage hidden from any passing motorists.

  God. It’s taken just about the entirety of the drive for my heartbeat and breathing to return to normal. And I thought the panic of making a floral delivery on time was intense. Thom has to be an adrenaline junkie or something.

  “This is our new ride,” he says.

  “We’re stealing this car?”

  He stops, glances at me. “Betty, priorities please. We’re on the run from dangerous people. People who want us dead. We need a change of vehicle and our options are not good. Come on.”

  Still, I hesitate. I can’t help it. Mom and Dad raised me to try and see both sides of any situation. While the hatchback is admittedly old and crappy, it still belongs to someone. A person who probably needs the money from the sale of the vehicle. I’ve never actively broken the law before (apart from the occasional bit of speeding or jaywalking, which don’t count). Though I don’t actually want to die. It’s a conundrum.

  “Give me strength.” He lifts up his shirt, displaying an elastic-type band halfway up his chest. It’s about the width of his hand and comprised of pockets, and is apparently the stealthy version of Batman’s utility belt. From one of the pockets, he pulls out a wad of cash and throws it on the seat of the bullet-hole-riddled Dodge Charger. Then he marches over to the hatchback, pulling out a small kit from another pocket. Lock-picking tools, apparently. “Come get the For Sale sign. Quickly. Stick it in the Charger’s window.”

  “Thank you.”

  A snort of amusement from him.

  In no time at all, with the help of the straightened wire, he has the hatchback open. Next, he sets to work hotwiring the engine. It splutters before catching on, a far cry from the roar of the Charger. Yet I highly doubt anyone will be looking for us in this vehicle.

  I put the sign in the Dodge’s back windshield before climbing into the new car. The interior is tiny. It’s like one of those little cars out of Europe. Perfect for the inner city and not much else. Country and Western blasts out of the tinny stereo. Thom surprisingly turns it up. Guess he’s a Dolly Parton fan. I approve of this entirely.

  Next, he does the traditional killing of the SIM card before getting out to place his cell under one of the front tires. Guess he ran out of time earlier due to the gunman sneaking up on us. To destroy the entire phone, he must be seriously concerned about us getting tracked down. Understandably.

  “We overpaid,” he says. “You know, the bad guys are probably going to find the Charger and the money long before the owners of this piece of shit do.”

  “At least we tried.”

  A grunt.

  “Not screwing over people is important.”

  “If you say so,” he says.

  “Your empathy levels are of concern to me.”

  He gets us onto the highway and on our way before answering. “Guess I’m not used to having many people to care about. Most of my life it’s been everyone for themselves and sacrificing anyone for the greater good. Keeps things simple.”

  “And yet you came looking for me.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “So you were ready for complicated.”

  A small line appears between his brows. “Didn’t think it would get this complicated.”

  “Relationships. What can you do? Emotions won’t stay confined in neat little boxes just because that’s what works for you.” I try to get comfortable. But the size of my ass versus the width of the seat makes it hard. Thom’s head brushes against the roof; his elbow bumps the driver’s side door. I’m not alone in this quandary. “So what comes next?”

  “You want to talk about having children?” he says, sounding a little surprised. “I’m not totally against the idea.”

  “No, Thom,” I say slowly. “I mean, what’s next in Operation Don’t Get Killed?”

  “Oh. We’re heading to a small airfield to rendezvous with a charter flight to New York. Time to get out of here. You’re going to hole up in a safe house I have in the city while I go and get some answers.”

  “Answers from who?”

  “People who run the zoo.” His gaze shifts from the road to me and back again. “You know, we could talk about the future if you want.”

  I frown. “Still not convinced we have one.”

  “A couple of kids would probably be all right.”

  “I’m sorry, Thommy Junior. Daddy’s going to miss your school play because he’s off dusting a dirty politician this week.”

  “No.” He gives a brisk shake of the head. “Politicians are usually pretty soft targets. You can often just blackmail them into early retirement. Don’t have to resort to wet work. Much less mess, so long as it sticks.”

  “What a relief.”

  “My job really bothers you,” he says, as if this is somehow news. “I mean, I knew you weren’t crazy about the odd hours and time I had to spend away. But I didn’t think you hated it.”

  “Your work hours did irk me. But again, that wasn’t why I left. And also, Thom, that was when I thought you were an insurance assessor. Now I find out you’re some weird vigilante assassin ninja super-spy, I don’t even know what exactly.”

  “Just ‘operative’ is fine. Fits onto a business card easier.”

  I lean back against the headrest. “Honestly, I have no idea how I feel. Give me the spare magazine so I can reload this gun for you just in case we need it sooner rather than later.”

  He shifts in the seat, slipping his hand into his pants pocket to retrieve the ammunition as requested. “Thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  “See?” He smiles. “We work well together.”

  I say nothing. I don’t know what to say. The hope and enthusiasm he has for our faux relationship throws me. Though to be fair, the last few days have been real. Strange and hellish in parts, but genuine.

  Without too much trouble, I remove the empty clip and slide in the new one. My aim may not be the best, but I don’t totally suck at guns. And his enthusiasm over us doesn’t weird me out due to my not believing I’m worthy of a loving and honest relationship. Or that having someone fight for me is such an out-there notion. Just to clarify, by “fight” I didn’t mean guns blazing, et cetera. But a person willing to stick by my side through good times and bad. A best friend. Maybe even a soul mate. All we have is a bundle of lies to build on. Where would a rational and sensible person stuck in this particular situation even start? I mean, seriously.

  “Babe,” says Thom. “I realize you’re thinking deep thoughts. But please don’t tap the gun against your thigh like that.”

  “Oh.” I place the loaded weapon into the mostly empty glove compartment alongside a small half-used packet of Kleenex and an out-of-date protein bar. Nice and safe.

  He gives me a nod, satisfied with the precautions. The other gun disappeared back into his ankle holster earlier. If necessary, he can get his hands on one or the other relatively quickly. Now that we’re on the move once more, on a busy-ish highway, he’s back to darting his eyes from the road to all the mirrors and back again. Making sure we aren’t being followed. Yet he’s also obviously watching me too.

  “How did you know I was thinking deep thoughts?” I ask, curious.

  “You’re always overthinking something. It’s pretty much your S.O.P.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “Wouldn’t have stayed alive long if my thoughts d
rifted when I’m on missions,” he says. “I’ve been trained to collect the data and crunch it. Decide upon a plan and carry it out.”

  “You never change your mind?”

  “If factors alter, of course I do. You have to be willing to be flexible.”

  “So why haven’t you changed your mind about us?”

  “I see no reason to change my mind about us.”

  “Even though I know your secret now and all the parameters you set on this relationship have been shot to hell?”

  He glances my way. “I figure if anything, Betty, you knowing should make our relationship better. In the long-term. Once we get through this somewhat rocky period.”

  “Only you would describe being on the run for our lives as a somewhat rocky period.”

  “Only you would make me pay for this piece-of-shit car.”

  I laugh. Apparently fear makes me giggly sometimes. Go figure.

  We pull off the highway, taking a one-lane road deep into some different woods. These are on flat ground.

  “I’m still not going to kill you and bury your lovely body among all of this natural splendor, just in case you were wondering,” he says.

  “I wasn’t. I know you’re not.”

  The smile he gives me is kind of glorious. The way it reaches his eyes. Old Thom’s grins kind of left me unmoved a lot of the time. Unsure about his true intentions or feelings. They were perfunctory things. Now I know why, of course. But also, now I’m seeing something so much better. It’s even a little tummy fluttering and knee weakening. Damn him.

  “You do trust me,” he says.

  “Eh. Maybe.”

  He smiles some more as we pull into a small airfield. There’s one large hangar and a sleek white private jet waiting on the tarmac. We might be on the run for our lives, though if I’m not much mistaken, Thom is actually starting to relax around me. To be himself. I don’t know how I feel about this. It is harder to sustain the anger when he’s being all charming and protective and so on. But maybe our relationship or lack thereof doesn’t require an emotional status update. Maybe I can just let it be.

  Bear comes down the little jet’s steps, the big man lifting a hand in welcome. With his long blond hair neatly tied back, he’s dressed to impress. In a pilot’s uniform, by the look.

  “You think he’s safe?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” Thom nods and we pull to a stop near the jet. “He was the first to be cleared by our new hacker friend. She’s pretty efficient at searching for offshore accounts and so on. Any possible dodgy or coded communications that might coincide with recent events. We can’t be a hundred percent certain of anyone, but I’ve known Bear a long time. Switching sides isn’t his style.”

  “Your hacker works fast.”

  “She does. Charges a fortune too,” he says. “But you get what you pay for. Can’t afford any more mistakes with this. Whoever is involved needs to be found. You hop out here and I’ll go stash this thing around back, out of sight.”

  “Okay.”

  Bear opens my door, giving me a hand out. What a gentleman. “Nice ride.”

  “Fuck off,” replies Thom without heat. “Wheels up in five.”

  “On it.” Bear tucks my hand around his elbow, leading me toward the plane. “There’s fresh clothes for you onboard. We need to get rid of everything you’re wearing, okay?”

  “Is this about possible beacons or tracers or whatever?” I ask.

  “Got it in one.”

  “Can I keep my gun?”

  Bear’s brows rise. “Thom gave you a gun?”

  I nod.

  “If it’s one of his, then sure, you can keep it.”

  “Wait, will there be airport security when we land?”

  The man just smiles and ushers me up the steps. I guess airport security isn’t a thing in the circles these guys move.

  Inside is all white leather and charcoal-gray carpeting. Big comfortable-looking seats and discreet lighting. It’s the sort of thing billionaires and celebrities ride around in, no doubt. Wonder where they got it from. I’m probably better off not knowing.

  “Bathroom’s at the back,” says Bear. “Your outfit’s hanging up inside. Try and be quick, all right?”

  I nod.

  The facilities aren’t much bigger than on a regular plane. But there’s a tiny sink trimmed in marble and an impressive, if small, shower unit. Hanging on the back of the door encased in clear plastic is a navy pants suit in my size, complete with a white knit crew neck. The brand is all Escada. I’m certainly dressing fancier since Thom got outed as an operative, that’s for sure. As per Bear’s instructions, I hurry. Behind the suit is a bag with all of the necessary underwear. No shoes, however, so I head out barefoot.

  “Where do you want them?” I ask, old clothes bundled up in one hand and boots in the other. “Do I keep the same shoes or what, because they don’t really—”

  And I stop ever so slightly dead.

  Thom is standing in the aisle pulling on a pair of dark boxer briefs. His arms flexing and junk hanging free. There’s just so much skin to see. Take the ridges of his spine and strong planes of his back muscles leading to the dimples above his ass, for instance. The sadness and almost indifference of the days prior to my leaving him have been replaced by a horrid hyperawareness of him, which is growing by the moment. And it’s dangerous.

  My gaze cannot be averted fast enough. Why the hell can’t the man keep his clothes on? I feel personally attacked.

  “Give me a second,” he says, reaching for a pair of black suit pants. Then he, too, stops. “Why do you have your angry face on?”

  “I’m not angry; I’m fine.”

  Nothing from him.

  “Can you please get dressed? We’re in a hurry, right?”

  “Huh. I find it fascinating that seeing me naked messes with you to this degree.”

  “Thom,” I growl.

  The side of his mouth kicks up. Smirking bastard. “Dump them anywhere. I’ll deal with them. Your shoes and coat are on the chair there.”

  I don’t throw my clothes on the ground because it would be juvenile and possibly confirm his bullshit theory about me being frazzled by his bare ass. He’s right, but he doesn’t need to know this. Also, I really did dig these unicorn jammies. Instead, I place my load gently on a plush white leather seat and turn to inspect the rest of my goodies. Not thinking about the thickness of his thighs or anything along those lines. Though I may need some private time soon. All of this restless (possibly slightly sexual in nature) energy is amassing inside of me. It can’t be healthy. Maybe it’s been brought on by all of the ongoing fear and tension from almost being killed, et cetera. Couldn’t be anything to do with him. Or it shouldn’t have anything to do with him.

  Yeah, right.

  Regardless, I don’t look at Thom again. It’s nice to know I have at least this much restraint. Meanwhile, Bear is in the cockpit, doing whatever pilots do before takeoff. My shoes are a pointy pair of gray leather high-heeled booties that I’ll quite possible break an ankle in. Though they are lovely. I’d kill for some make-up, but never mind. A woolen coat, pair of big sunglasses, and a Chloé handbag complete the outfit. Nothing is actually in the bag, but you can’t have it all.

  “If you make me dump this outfit somewhere, I just might have to hurt you,” I say. “I look good in it.”

  “You look good in everything, and I will buy you more unicorn-patterned items. Promise.”

  I ignore the compliment. It’s safer that way. Yet when I dare a peek from under my lashes, it’s hard to say if I’m relieved or disappointed at his full state of dress. He, too, is wearing designer, by the look of things. A beautifully cut black suit with a plain white shirt. No tie. Shiny black shoes and hair slicked back. They say a man in a suit is like a woman in lingerie. Now I understand why.

  “So what’s the occasion?” I ask.

  “Another couple of rich assholes hitting New York for some shopping and a couple of shows shouldn’t raise any in
terest.”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  Thom gathers up the old clothes, tossing them out the plane’s still-open door. Such a waste. Hopefully whoever uses the airfield next will put them to use. My parents would be appalled. They don’t get rid of anything until it’s half-past dead, and even then, it’s inevitably somehow recycled.

  Thom and I, on the other hand, are leaving a trail of abandoned cars and clothes across the country. Something tells me such things don’t concern operatives. Further evidence of my fiancé and me having nothing in common. I’ll have to donate to a charity on both our behalfs to erase the karmic debt so I’ll be able to look my parents in the eye come Christmas. Damn guilt complex. Of course, we have to live that long first. They must be so worried about me. I hate not being able to contact them, let them know I’m still breathing.

  Thom hits a button and the stairs fold up, the door slowly closing. “Put your belt on, please.”

  We could both catch a bullet at just about any time and yet he’s always so safety conscious in these little ways. It’s interesting. I do as asked. “How did you organize all of this stuff so quickly, the outfits and plane and everything?”

  “I have my tricks.” Of course he’d be secretive. It’s second nature to the man. He takes the seat beside me, settling in and closing his eyes. The plane engine hums and we start to move, taxying down the runway.

  “Or you could give me a straight answer,” I suggest.

  He gives a slight shrug. “Contacts. Ground crew. People for hire. Take your pick.”

  “And you trust them to know where we’re going?”

  “I trust people who are completely removed from this situation with small amounts of information.”

  “But you thought Henry was completely removed from the situation too.”

  “Yeah.” The little line appears between his brows. “We were traced. I’m not happy about that.”

  Not a pleasant thought for me either. But not one I wish to dwell on right now. “I’ve never been to New York.”

  “No?” he asks. “Oh, you’ll love it, even though you’re not going to get to experience any of it because you’re going to be tucked away nice and safe while I sort shit out.”