by Naima Simone
Chay extended his cell, but as she plucked it from his hand, his fingers closed over hers.
“You can’t tell him where you are, Aslyn. Look at me.” He gripped her chin, tilted her head up. “I know you trust him. But this isn’t about trust. It’s about your safety.”
“Liam wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that,” she objected. Liam, the orchestra, her crew—they were her family, her support system. None of them would ever harm her.
“He already tried to follow me here when I left the office,” he said flatly. “Liam may not intentionally try to endanger you, but that doesn’t mean he can’t—or won’t. The person after you is smart. Obsessed and unbalanced, but smart. If he can’t find you, he’ll search out the people in your life and use them to get to you. Liam included.”
“Can I use your phone?” she murmured.
“Aslyn.”
“I promise not to tell,” she snapped. “Now can I use your phone or not?”
She cringed, hearing herself. A bitch. She sounded like an ungrateful bitch. But damn it, anger and sorrow coalesced and swirled inside her like a supernova. Quinton Lakes had stolen so much from her. Her security, her confidence, her music, and worst of all, Jenna. He’d robbed Jenna of her life. Now, just as Aslyn’s life had started to recover, another menace threatened her freedom, healing, and relationships all over again. Liam had been her one constant through the hell of the last year and a half. Would she lose him, too? She couldn’t. She couldn’t….bear it.
Chay slowly removed his hand, his steady gaze unwavering. No condemnation or frustration in those eyes. Just understanding, which elevated her from regular ol’ bitch to Queen Bee Bitch.
Sighing, she pulled up the phone’s keypad and tapped in Liam’s number. Her manager’s familiar voice echoed through the line after two rings.
“Liam. It’s Aslyn.”
“Aslyn!” His relief poured into her ear, deepening her guilt until it seemed to loom over her, pointing an accusatory finger. “Oh my God. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for days.”
She closed her eyes, squeezed the bridge of her nose. “I know. I’m so sorry, Liam,” she rasped. God, she missed him. Missed his solidness. His consistency. He never changed in a world that shifted with every breath she inhaled. A wave of nostalgia crashed over her.
Lifting her head, she instinctively sought out Chay. Why? Who knew? But in that moment when she was being tossed on an emotional swell, she needed him to be her raft. To help her float on top of the wave instead of drown beneath its surge. But Chay had left the room, probably deciding to grant her privacy she didn’t want.
Liam shushed her, and she could imagine him flicking his hand as if waving aside her apology. “Chayot Grey explained to me what happened last week. Good God, Aslyn, I’m afraid for you,” he whispered. “Come home. I shouldn’t have ever suggested Boston—I put you in the crosshairs of a lunatic. Please come back to L.A., and we’ll hire the best team for your protection. After Lakes, I promise no one will hurt you again. But you belong home and not cooped up in some second-rate safe house in an unfamiliar city.”
“Liam.”
A small portion of her yearned to agree. To hop on the first thing smoking back to her hometown. To her life before Quinton Lakes. Before this new threat. But a larger piece recognized she would be running. Again. She would once again hand her power over to someone whose sole intent was to control and possess her.
She’d allowed Quinton Lakes to direct and shape her movements and thoughts for an entire year before he’d finally followed through on his threats and attacked her. And after his incarceration and death, he’d continued to dominate her life by stifling the most important part of her—her music, her passion. For six months, she’d allowed him to amputate her identity, leaving her unsure and questioning who she was, her purpose. She couldn’t do it again—refused to do it again. Refused to run and hide, scared and lost. Not when she’d just recovered what she’d believed had been lost.
Thanks to Chay.
He’d helped her to heal the broken pieces, to fight past the fear, to seize control again.
No. She shook her head, though Liam couldn’t see the gesture. She would stay in Boston and face this new faceless, nameless stalker.
And she’d do it with Chay.
“Good.” Satisfaction and delight eased the strain from Liam’s tone. He’d obviously misconstrued her prolonged silence as agreement. “I can have us both booked on a flight out tonight. I can come pick you up from wherever you are. Or,” a sneer entered his voice, “if Chay won’t permit you to reveal classified information, he can arrange for you to be dropped off at the airport. I’ll have—”
“No.”
Silence beat against her ear, the volume of it increasing with each passing second. “What? Aslyn…”
“I’m staying here. In Boston. I’ll return home once this is resolved.”
“You can’t—”
“I know it’s difficult for you to understand,” she said, cutting through his objection. “But leaving here and returning to L.A. will only be a change in geography. And I trust Chay and his firm.”
“Because they’ve done such a bang-up job of protecting you so far.” He laughed, and the harshness of it abraded her eardrum. And heart. “You were almost kidnapped, for God’s sake. Under his watch.”
“No one could’ve predicted that happening. Just as no one could’ve predicted Lakes would be hiding in my dressing room.” Once the words escaped her lips, she flinched. Liam hadn’t been to blame for that breach. No more than he’d been to blame for the attack that followed. He’d hired bodyguards, had ordered increased security at the venue. And still Lakes had sneaked past the safety measures like a skulking rat. “Liam, I didn’t mean to imply you were responsible…”
“But I was,” he murmured. “Your protection was my responsibility, and I failed. Which is why I can’t do it again.” He sighed. “Okay, Aslyn. We’ll do this your way. But I’m staying in Boston. I’m right here if you need me.”
“Liam.” But he’d ended the call.
She tightened her grip on the phone. She’d hurt him. With her actions, her careless words, her decisions—she’d hurt him. A sob welled in her throat. The conversation replayed in her head. His joy in hearing her voice. His fear for her. His pain and, finally, her rejection of him. Loyal. Liam had always been unfailingly loyal to her. And she hadn’t reciprocated. Not when it’d mattered.
A brittleness seeped into her bones. As if she’d snap if she moved too fast. Carefully placing Chay’s phone on the piano, she turned and smacked into a solid wall of muscle and flesh.
“Jesus,” she snapped. “You should wear a bell or something. Or whistle when you enter a room.” She babbled but couldn’t seem to find the off switch. Because the prattling kept the crying at bay. And, Christ on the cross, she’d slung enough snot in front of him to last two lifetimes.
“You didn’t choose me over him,” he murmured, slicing to the heart of the matter in his own quiet, sharply perceptive manner. “You chose yourself. There’s no shame or guilt in that.”
Oh goddamn him. She’d managed to wrestle back the tears, to contain them to biting stings in her eyes. But with three sentences, he’d jeopardized those efforts.
Hadn’t she leaned on him enough? Asked and taken from him time and time again? Exactly how was she supposed to be this strong, badass heroine of her own story if she couldn’t stop depending on him?
Screw it.
She pressed her forehead to his chest, rested it on the groove between his pectorals that seemed created just for her. Fisting his shirt, she closed her eyes. Inhaled his scent.
She didn’t cry. Didn’t weep.
She just clung to him.
Chapter Twenty
“I think I’m coming down with a rabid case of cabin fever.”
Chay glanced over at Aslyn, a smile kicking up a corner of his mouth. With her mass of curls piled on top of her head in a messy bun, Minni
e Mouse plastered to the front of her graphic T-shirt, and shorts displaying her long legs, she seemed several years younger than twenty-five. The surge of heat that never seemed to fully extinguish simmered in his gut. He’d become used to this state of low-burn. Had come to associate it solely with her, since no other woman had ever affected him like she did.
And he seriously doubted another woman ever would.
She grunted as she moved a black checker forward. He shoved in a diagonal move.
“It’s been four days. Not long enough for cabin fever. Especially a ‘rabid case.’”
“Then why am I wondering if your thigh tastes like chicken?” She picked up another black checker and set it down on the board with more force than necessary.
He snorted, countered her move. “What does that prove? I’ve wondered how you tasted since the first moment I saw you.”
Her hand hovered over the board. He caught her sharp inhalation, noted the increased rise and fall of her chest. Until this moment, he hadn’t cared one way or another about Disney characters. But now, he might start his own fan club for Minnie.
“Your turn,” he murmured.
She blinked. “Right.” She cleared her throat. “Right.” And slid a game piece forward. “And how do I, uh, taste?”
The flame in his stomach flared brighter. The memory of her flavor rushed into his head, flirted on his tongue, and blood rushed to his cock. Desire, hot and thick, slid through his veins like warm, slow molasses.
“Like honey and cinnamon,” he said softly, lust roughening the edges of his words. “Sweet, rich with a hint of boldness. Addictive.” Her eyes widened, and his gaze dropped to her parted lips where small pants escaped. Color stained her elegant cheekbones. “I could have it day after day and never get tired. Just greedy for more.”
“Holy shit,” she breathed.
He chuckled, though the rigid erection pressing against his zipper added more than a little strain to the laughter.
“You’re so good at that. The talking. No man has ever spoken to me like you do.”
The game forgotten, he leaned forward.
“But you like it,” he stated, recalling her words from their first night in the safe house. He couldn’t keep the need from seeping into his voice. Didn’t try. What would’ve been the point? All she had to do was glance down at his lap and view for herself what she did to him.
“Yes,” she admitted, the confession no more than a sigh. Her gray eyes gleamed like minted silver. “God, yes. It’s hot as hell. It makes me feel…sexy. Wanted. But it’s also honest. No pretenses, no sly flirtations. Just honest need for me as a woman. Not a pianist. Not as a celebrity. But a woman.”
“Why haven’t you had sex in four years?”
He abruptly asked the question that had been bothering him like a pebble in a shoe since Thursday night. Aslyn personified passion—from the fire in her hair, to the zeal and excitement in her music, to the arms-wide-open thrill she’d lived life before Lakes had entered it. How could such a fiery, alive person cut herself off from the sensual side of her personality like an amputation?
She studied him for several long moments before dropping her gaze to the checkerboard and traced the top of a game piece.
“I could say because the two times I had sex were abysmal at best. I found more satisfaction washing a load of laundry. I could say because you have pulled more pleasure out of me with one kiss then I’d experienced in an entire sweaty, awkward half hour with another man. Those things would be true. But the reality is,” she lifted her head, and the hunger and vulnerability in her eyes punched him in the gut, “none of them were you.”
Mentally, he scrabbled backward, shaking his head.
Her soft admission seduced and haunted him.
None of them were you.
Five little words that contained the power and impact of a sledgehammer to the chest. The ravenous need to claim her for his own nearly overwhelmed him. Nearly propelled him from his chair to press her down into the couch cushions, rip her clothes free, and thrust into her, branding her in the most primitive way possible.
Then those same five words twisted, darkened.
She was more accurate than she could’ve perceived. None of those men were him. None of the other men bore emotional scar tissue that made Freddy Krueger look like one of People’s Most Beautiful in comparison.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, deliberately hardening his voice and leaning back in his chair. Away from temptation.
“Then tell me.” She propped her elbows on her thighs, her hands open in supplication. “Let me in.” She paused, briefly closed her eyes before meeting his gaze, unflinching and earnest. “Is this about the murder twenty years ago?”
She knew—of course she knew.
Someone as intelligent as her, who had been through hell and back, would have researched the mysterious neighbor who’d shown up on her doorstep in such a dramatic fashion. Like Superman with his cape flapping in the wind. But she only possessed knowledge of what she read online. She had no idea about the whole truth.
“Do you believe I would blame or condemn you for what happened, Chay?” she whispered. Those beautiful musician hands flexed and straightened as if searching for the words that seemed to elude her. “In a week you have been my hero, my confidante, my protector…my every fantasy. You’ve given me so much; how could I judge you? I couldn’t.” A breath shuddered from between her lips. “I was in a situation when a madman came after me. And I did nothing. I froze. I crumbled. I—”
“You survived,” he snarled, jerking forward in his chair. “You did what you were supposed to.”
“So did you,” she murmured.
Her quiet statement exploded in the room like a bomb, the silence afterward radiating out like a mushroom cloud—heavy and dense.
He dropped his head. Clenched his fists. Pressure built behind his sternum, shoved into his throat, and filled his head until he drove his fingers through his hair, gripping his scalp. As if he could decrease and contain the force pushing against his skull. He didn’t deserve her admiration. Her desire. Her trust.
He didn’t deserve her.
He was a liar.
A coward who’d tried to take the coward’s way out.
None of them—Gabe, Mal, Rafe, the police, his counselor—knew…
“I did not.” The objection tore out of him, leaving behind a gaping cavity in his soul. She opened her mouth to refute him, but he cut her off with a furious shake of his head. “I survived by mistake. A fucking fluke.” He lifted his head, stared into her eyes, needing to see her reaction. Needing to see the revulsion even if it would crack him in half. “When I ran into the kitchen and grabbed the knife, it wasn’t to fend off Richard. It was to kill myself.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Shock coldcocked Aslyn.
She almost reeled from the blow, but somehow remained steady and silent. Instinct warned her that one wrong move or word would cause irreparable harm. There would be no do-overs with Chay. No second chances to convince him he was safe with her.
Inside, she was screaming in outrage at the pain and rage the younger Chay must’ve suffered to contemplate such a desperate and final act. And the agony the adult Chay still endured. The mask she’d come to recognize as his defense shield hardened his face into stark, expressionless lines. But his eyes…
Good God, those eyes. So bleak.
She wanted to leap over the damn coffee table and throw herself against him. Wrap him in her arms and legs. Cling to him so he would realize he didn’t have to bear this burden alone. That if he would just allow her, she would gladly shoulder it with him. But instead, she remained seated on the couch. Barely breathing. Aching.
“That night I’d made plans to go to a party then afterward go to Gabe’s house, since my mother had planned a girl’s night out and wouldn’t return home until late. Because that’s when it happened. When Mom wasn’t home.”
“It.” She was a
fraid to ask what “it” was, since the papers said Richard had only tried to assault Chay before he’d killed him. But a horrified part of her already suspected. “I’d only gone home to change clothes. A half hour, tops, then right back out the door. But Richard must’ve been watching. Waiting. Five minutes after I arrived home, he walked into my room. After a year of dating, my mother had given him a key, because she trusted him.” He barked a harsh laugh, the serrated edge of it sharp enough to cut stone. “He entered my room as I pulled on my shirt. He laughed and told me I shouldn’t have bothered. Though he blocked the doorway, I somehow got past him and ran for the kitchen. I heard him coming down the stairs. Coming after me.”
Stop. No more. The cry bounced off her head. But she sank her teeth into her bottom lip, maintaining her silence. Letting him continue.
“My only thought was getting to the knives. I couldn’t stand it anymore. Couldn’t stomach… Couldn’t live through it again. Not even to save my mother’s life. The three times he’d—” His lashes lowered, but only for a second before once more she drowned in the pain swallowing his hazel eyes.
Couldn’t live through it again. Again that “it.” Only now she knew—she knew with a certainty what he referred to. Bile roiled in her belly, surged up her chest, and razed the lining of her throat. She longed to grab him, embrace the hurt, angry, betrayed teenage boy he’d been. She yearned to touch the man he was now, ease the agony in his gaze.
She wanted to kill Richard Pierce all over again, make him suffer for the destruction he’d waged in so many lives.
“He’d threatened my mother’s life,” Chay continued. “Promised me he could get away with killing her because everyone would believe him, a wealthy, admired businessman. And I believed him. He always had a gun…always held it when… But that night, I couldn’t. I figured if I was dead, he would no longer have reason to harm my mother. She would be safe. And since I was already dying on the inside, finishing the job didn’t matter.”