by Hope Anika
Any electronic communication was out—even a fax would be risky—and forget her phone. She’d removed the cell’s battery and flushed the small microchip just to be safe, and she’d considered using the pay phone in the tiny lobby, but she didn’t want to risk reaching out and inadvertently provide a location that could be tracked.
She didn’t know what to do, other than to keep still and wait. Perhaps tomorrow they could carefully make their way to the Firm’s office, but even that seemed dangerous and foolish. They would have to do something, however, because her money was gone, which meant they couldn’t stay here another night. And they would need food.
How did this happen?
Wanda wasn’t certain. Yes, she’d yearned for a little adventure. The cosseted life she’d lived with her family had been confining and suffocating, and escaping that life had been both liberating and terrifying. But then she’d been robbed, and her careful, thoughtful plan of escape had bled away like chalk washing from a sidewalk. She’d suddenly found herself in the most sinful place in all of America—one she’d not planned on ever setting foot in, but also one in which her father would never look to find her—and she’d been...lost. Frightened and anxious and alone.
But then she’d found the Hostel and realized there was work if she could get it, and she’d begun to think it all might be okay. She was resilient. And anything was better than returning to her family and the man they’d given her to, a man Wanda feared with an unholy fear, an evil man, and one she wasn’t certain she would’ve survived.
And then she’d been attacked—nearly raped—and Charlie had saved her, bursting in like one of the superheroes in her brother’s comic books, and then he’d taken over, which was, she’d come to learn, simply Charlie’s way. He’d taken her from the Hostel, given her a place to stay and a job. He’d made sure she had food and clothes, and after coercing the truth of who she was and what she’d fled from her, he’d secured her a new identity as Wanda Linn, complete with a birth certificate and Social Security number. He’d saved her, truly. But more, he’d made her part of something.
And Wanda had never been part of anything.
For a while, it had been enough. But then she’d begun to watch Ash—fierce and independent and unflinching, no matter the circumstance—and Wanda had wanted...more. She wanted that self-belief and fearlessness; she was tired of being afraid. Because even though she’d become someone new, she was still afraid.
Sometimes she thought she would always be afraid.
So she’d decided to ask Charlie if she could be a bigger part of the Firm’s cases—an active investigator who worked the field. Charlie had only laughed—not unkindly—and sent her back to her desk. But after Charlie died, Ash had sat Wanda down and said, “I know you want more, and I’m not Charlie, so if you ask, you’d better mean it.”
Wanda had asked, and this afternoon, Ash had answered. She’d called Wanda to the Vault and told her to hang tight with Eva Pierce while Ash went to shower and get food. It wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a brief babysitting stint.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
But it was.
And this, Wanda realized, would determine her future. Either she did this—and did it right, without panicking or getting them both killed—or she failed, and if she failed, the opportunity would be not presented again.
And she’d probably be dead.
What she needed was a plan. An out—and some way to communicate with—
“Thank fucking Christ,” said a sharp voice, and Wanda looked up to see Wylie suddenly standing in the open doorway. His long, sandy blond hair was windblown, his chin thick with bristle. An army-green knapsack hung from his hand. “You okay?”
Wanda stared at him stupidly. How had he...? And then she remembered that he’d been the one to return to the Hostel with her after Charlie had whisked her away that day, that it had been Wylie who’d gone in and retrieved the things she’d left behind in her hurry to escape.
Beautiful, inexplicable Wylie, who wanted nothing to do with her, something he made repeatedly apparent. Wanda wasn’t certain what it was about her that seemed to offend him so deeply—she’d almost asked once, but had quickly lost her nerve—but it was disheartening and annoying, and he was the last person she wanted to save them.
Which was just stupid.
But true.
“Fine,” she told him and closed her laptop.
He peered around her at Eva, who he studied for a long, silent moment before saying, “And you?”
“I’m well,” Eva replied politely. “Thank you.”
His brow quirked, and his dark, cobalt gaze moved back to Wanda. “We need to go.”
But she didn’t move. Wylie was built like a brick house; tattoos wound up his arms and around his neck, bold, black markings so intricate they looked like a map. He wore black chinos and a form-fitting t-shirt the same dark, shimmering blue as his eyes beneath a black leather jacket. On his feet were scuffed, sturdy leather boots. His hands were scarred, his eyes were hard, and it was clear that he was not a soft man—or an easy one.
He looked strong and reliable, someone who was more than capable of sheltering them from the storm currently raging around them.
It was a sad fact that Wanda knew differently. Strong, yes. Capable of sheltering them, yes. But reliable?
Not so much.
“Is it safe?” she asked calmly, watching him.
“Nothing’s safe,” he retorted. “Get up, and let’s go.”
Still, she didn’t move. “We’re safe here.”
Darkness crawled across his features. “Like you were safe here last time?”
She looked away and damned him to a thousand hells.
“Christ,” he muttered. He swiped a hand down his face and stepped into the room. “I had to lose a tail on the way over. You’re not safe here.”
She peered up at him. “What’s going on?”
He snorted. “You know more than I do, baby.”
She looked away again, her cheeks burning. Baby. Such a stupid, insignificant thing, one that held no weight whatsoever. Something that should have rightfully offended her, independent woman that she was. Yet it made her blush. “I don’t know anything.”
“How about you?” Wylie asked Eva. “What do you know?”
Eva only blinked at him, silent.
“We need to go,” he said again, impatient. “There’s no security in this place. I walked right in. How did you get here?”
“The bus.”
His gaze narrowed. “Smart.”
Wanda’s cheeks burned. Damn it. “This was the only place I could think of to come. I didn’t want to use my phone, and I didn’t think it was a good idea to go back to the office.”
“Good girl.” He turned to look down the hallway when a small commotion ensued. “We need a plan.”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s what I was working on.”
“Any success?”
“Not yet,” she said grimly.
He nodded. His gaze met hers. “These places usually have second-hand stuff, clothes and crap.”
“Yes. They have a room that has things people have left or forgotten but—”
“Let’s go there,” he said and motioned impatiently.
“Why?”
“Because they know what I look like, they probably know what you look like, and they damn sure know what she looks like.”
She didn’t understand. “What are you—”
“Let’s go,” he growled and took a step toward her, as if he was going to touch her. Wanda scrambled out of reach, which made him scowl blackly and halt. Eva watched the interaction, her features a mask of indifference.
“Fine,” Wanda said, her heart suddenly beating with painful force. She put her laptop into her bag and slung it over her shoulder. “After you.”
For a long moment, Wylie only stared at her, his eyes dark, glittering, and she didn’t know what he was thinking. Then he looked at E
va.
“We’ll get you out and some place safe,” he told her. “I give you my word. But we need to go now.”
Eva stared at him, unmoving. Then she looked at Wanda.
“It’s okay,” Wanda told her. “Wylie is one of us.”
Eva pushed to her feet, picked up her yellow pack and her book. “Alright.”
Wylie watched the girl, his eyes narrow. “Who are you?”
“Eva,” she said.
“The room is downstairs,” Wanda told them and stepped widely around Wylie. She moved into the hallway and turned left and led them down the wide set of stairs that took them to the basement. Another turn and they were in the small room that held the lost and found and other items people left behind.
She looked at the piles of neatly folded clothes; she didn’t know what they were looking for—what could be of use here?—and she turned to see Wylie tearing through the piles. He collected several items and then found a green and yellow Green Bay Packers ball cap, which he stuck on Eva’s head. He tossed Wanda a sheer, lacy black shirt and a pair of scarred leather pants.
“Put those on,” he ordered. “And take your hair down. Here, see if these fit.”
Two black boots bounced across the floor toward her, knee-high with thick heels and a strip of animal print around the top. Wanda stared down at them, then looked at the clothing he’d give her.
She couldn’t wear this.
No. She’d been raised in a modest Indian household. The loose khakis she wore were scandalous enough; how could he expect her to put on leather pants?
She moved to protest, but someone suddenly appeared in the doorway, and she swallowed the words.
“Hey,” said the newcomer. He was young, nearly as tall as Wylie, but not as broad. His hair was dirty blond, gathered in a scraggly ponytail at his nape. He looked at her. “Everything ok?”
“Fine,” she said hurriedly, clutching the indecent clothes to her chest. “Thank you.”
The boy turned to watch Wylie, who was tossing a pair of jeans and a football jersey at Eva. “You sure?”
“She’s sure,” Wylie retorted, his voice hard, but when he glanced up and looked at the kid, he stilled. He stared, his eyes narrowing, and the boy took a step back in alarm.
“Shit,” Wylie said. “What’s your name?”
The boy glanced at Wanda, who stared back helplessly. “Um...I’m Jesse.”
“Nice to meet you,” Wylie said. “You got a driver’s license, Jesse?”
The kid blinked, as did Wanda. What was he doing?
“Ah...yes. Yes, sir.”
“Good. You interested in making a little money, Jesse?”
“Money?” Jesse repeated blankly. Eva watched, silent.
“Money. Green. Cold, hard cash.”
The boy looked back at Wanda, who could only blink owlishly at him. He looked at Eva, and his eyes widened, and his cheeks flushed.
“Um, well, what do I gotta do?” he asked, clearly suspicious.
“Be me.”
“I’m sorry?” He took a step back. “What does that mean?”
“It means I need you to be me,” Wylie said. “You go out, get into the red Sierra GMC parked out front, drive it to the address I give you, and deliver a message to someone at that address. They’ll pay you, and then you’re free to go.”
“That’s it? Just...drop off the truck, deliver a message, and I get paid?”
“That’s it.”
Wanda shook her head. “You can’t—”
“My call,” Wylie interrupted, shooting her a steady look.
She stared at him. What was he doing? What was to stop this boy from simply stealing his truck? Because Wanda had learned—painfully and with much regret—that most of the people in the world were jerks, and they would sooner take than give. They couldn’t trust Jesse with anything.
It was asinine.
“This isn’t necessary,” she argued.
“Put those clothes on, both of you,” Wylie replied. “Let me worry about this.”
“You can’t lose your truck,” she insisted. “It was Charlie’s.”
He flinched. “I don’t need your help with this. Get dressed.”
Jesse was looking between them. He was thin, but not overly so, and he looked fairly healthy. He wasn’t gaunt and haggard, his skin unmarred by the blemishes and bruises that afflicted the addicts she’d seen, and while his clothing was worn, it was clean. He looked wary but tempted.
“What’s it gonna be, Jess?” Wylie took another step toward him. “An easy hundred bucks or not?”
“Be you,” Jesse repeated slowly. “How do I do that?”
“You start by putting this on.” Wylie removed his leather jacket, which made Wanda blink in disbelief, and a protest bubbled in her throat. He’s giving up his beloved coat, too?
The man had lost his mind.
“And this.” He pulled off his t-shirt, revealing a sculpted chest covered in elaborate black ink. Several scars marred the golden perfection of his skin, and both of his nipples were pierced with glittering golden rings. Wanda couldn’t look away, her heart like a drum in her throat.
He was...perfect.
She whirled, turning her back on him, the clothes he’d given her balled in her hands. This was...
Insanity.
“You got a pair of boots?” Wylie asked from behind her.
“Work boots,” Jesse said. “Yes, sir.”
Sir. He was a polite boy. Too bad she knew it signified absolutely nothing. Wylie was going to lose his truck—Charlie’s truck—and his coat to this crazy gamble, and she couldn’t protest, because Wylie loved to gamble.
This was on him. All of it.
“Put ‘em on,” Wylie ordered. Orders. He was good at issuing them.
Not so good at taking them.
“I’ll...I’ll go get them.”
“You do that. And come right back. Wait—you got a pair of scissors?”
“Um, yeah,” Jesse said. “I can find some.”
“Make it quick.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wanda turned back around as Jesse left to see Wylie pulling on a pale blue, button-down shirt. The sleek lines of his chest flexed as he slid his arms into the shirt, and deep inside her, something tightened. Fluttered. And began a steady, rhythmic pulse.
Stupid, beautiful man. She hated what he made her feel.
“Get dressed,” he said again.
“You can’t do this,” she replied, ignoring the dictate. “You can’t let him take your truck. What’s to stop him from just driving away?”
“If the tail I suspect is still out there follows him, I’m good with it,” he said, buttoning up the shirt.
“No,” she argued stubbornly.
His face darkened, and he stalked toward her. “Get dressed.”
“I can’t wear this,” she protested, her hands tightening on the clothing. “It’s...indecent!”
“You will wear it. Three different people are going to walk out of here, understand?” He glanced at Eva who, to Wanda’s astonishment, smiled a small smile and said, “Yes, sir.”
He halted in front of Wanda, far too close, and his scent—wild and earthy and male—surrounded her.
“Eva gets it,” he said. “Why don’t you? Do you need help? Is that it? You want me to help you get into those sweet leather britches, baby?”
Wanda stared at him, furious.
“You are an exasperating man,” she said, her voice low, shaking.
He smiled, all sharp white teeth, but his eyes were dark, watchful. “Yes. Don’t forget it.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
“Good.” He turned away. “Now get fucking dressed. And don’t dawdle, or I’ll drag you out of here naked, if necessary.”
Wanda looked down at the clothes in her arms and felt her cheeks burn. For the briefest moment, she thought of Mr. Sparky. Of Wylie dropping at her feet, his body seizing, drool dripping down his chin.
“Now
,” he snarled.
Today is not the day, she told herself.
But it might yet come.
CHAPTER
-5-
Ruslan had nary a hair out of place.
Ash eyed him with a scowl as they strode toward his car: a dark, ocean-blue 1967 Chevy Impala, an odd car for Ruslan, who seemed like an Audi kind of guy. He looked incongruent behind the big wheel in his elegant, hand-tailored suit, but it purred like a big, contented cat and could do zero to sixty in about three seconds, so she understood the appeal.
“Not a mark on you,” she muttered. “And I look like road kill.”
Pale eyes met hers. “You were lucky to survive the encounter.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it,” she retorted. “That was pure skill, baby.”
“Indeed,” he said, and the faint Russian accent that turned the word did nothing to soften the chill in his remote tone.
The man had a great voice—deep, resonant, a little rough—but nothing he said—nothing—held any intonation. It was like talking to a machine, one not particularly interested in the conversation.
It drove her kind of crazy.
The summer she’d turned thirteen, they’d worked a mud show on the East Coast, and the son of the man who owned the animals had been autistic, something to which Ash had never been exposed. The kid had been withdrawn and distant and lost entirely in his own strange world. Even the circus folk had shied away from him.
Not her. Nope, she’d hung out with that kid every chance she got. Part of her had wanted desperately to figure him out—like he was a puzzle to be solved—but mostly it was the fact that he didn’t treat her any different than he treated anyone else. He didn’t watch her with pity or judgment or condemnation; he didn’t talk behind her back about her monstrosity of a father. He could’ve cared less what her story was. And sometimes—once in a rare while—he would actually speak to her, and they would have wonderful, random conversations about the stars, or the moon, or the smell of the animals in the sun.