Defied

by Maria Luis

  I nudged Avery in the arm, gathering her attention. “Wanna live life on the edge?”

  A soft laugh escaped her, and in it I heard all of the longtime exhaustion of actually existing on that cusp of no-return. “Why not?” she said, lips turned up in a smile. “Might as well go all out.”

  “Brave girl.”

  Her shoulders jerked, and the plastic bag tangled in her hands whipped to the right as she twisted to face me. “That’s the second time you’ve said that to me. You say it like you admire me.”

  I didn’t want to lie but given recent news about our respective connections to Jay Foley, I didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable either. Over the years, I’d learned that if I wanted something, no one would ever be there to offer it to me.

  I took, or the opportunity passed me by without a second chance.

  With Avery—Laurel—it had to be a two-way street. I couldn’t take without her giving approval first that she wanted me in return, and I couldn’t assume that we were both on the same page.

  “You’re a force to be reckoned with,” I finally said, meeting her gaze without hesitation. “I’d be an idiot if I didn’t admire that.”

  She chewed on that, literally biting down on her lower lip as she gave me a onceover that had my cock hardening in my pants. “I can’t imagine Captain America ever being an idiot.” With a wink and a smile, she turned away, her long ponytail swooshing with the movement. “Now where are we going? I’m ready to take a risk. You’ve convinced me.”

  My feet were rooted to the concrete.

  And, for the first time in my life, I wished for something other than death.

  If I closed my eyes, I could almost pretend that this was my life—having a midnight picnic up on a levee with a beautiful woman who made my cock hard and my heart warm, and who made me want to toss her over my shoulder, just to hear the sound of her laughter as I teased her with the possibility of throwing her right into the water.

  The reverie got away from me, and then it wasn’t just Avery and me here at the riverfront, but also a dog pouncing around after a tennis ball. He’d be muddy, feet dancing with the water, before tromping back and shaking himself dry at our side while I wrapped him up in a towel and looked to Avery. Her dark hair draped over one shoulder; her face glowing with happiness; her one hand settled over the curve of her pregnant belly.

  “Lincoln! Are you coming?”

  Just like that, the vivid visual dissipated like mist on a hot, sunny day.

  The chill coming off the Mississippi River cooled my racing heart, even if it did nothing for the hard-on I was now sporting below the belt.

  “Yeah,” I muttered, my voice rusty with want, “follow me.”

  Just like we’d climbed up the levee, I led her down the other side of it, toward the water. We’d had weeks without rain, which meant that the river was lower than usual and grassy banks had popped up along the waterfront. One glance at the exposed knees of the cypress trees was enough to tell me that we didn’t have to worry about the river’s current coming this way—they were as dry as the Sahara.

  I picked a spot with a view of the skyline and the GNO Bridge we’d taken to drive over to Algiers Point. Down here on the banks, with the lights from the Point eclipsed by the height of the levees, there wasn’t a chance that anyone would spot us if they happened to be meandering down the bike path.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Avery murmured, as I laid out the blanket for us to sit on. “I was so young when I came here last, I don’t even think I paid any attention to a view like this.”

  Sitting down, I patted the empty spot next to me. “At home, I’ve got a picture frame up with this view. I got it down on Royal—someone was selling artwork on the street and I had to have it.”

  “And Sergeant Asher always gets what he wants.”

  She said it in a teasing tone, but it rubbed me raw, anyway. “Sometimes you learn the hard way that no one is out there handing you freebies just for breathing.”

  That made her laugh. Picking up one of the sandwich containers, she popped it open and handed it over. I took it with a husky thank-you and waited until she’d done the same to her own sandwich before taking a bite into mine. Chicken salad on rye bread—not bad.

  “We’re such a jaded pair,” she said after washing down a bite with a swish of water. “Katie likes to joke around that I’m too wound up, but I just . . . I don’t know how to let my guard down. After my momma . . .”

  Rumors circulated enough in the underbelly of New Orleans that I’d always suspected Foley had done away with his wife the same way I’d been sent to do away with Avery. At the time, though, I’d selfishly only thought about my life and wanting out of it.

  Sandwich clasped in my right hand, my knee bounced under the weight of my elbow. Tell her everything. Own up to it.

  My mouth opened, and an apology wasn’t what emerged: “Go on. I’m not going to repeat what you say to anyone.”

  “And I should trust you . . . why?”

  You shouldn’t trust me. I didn’t say that either.

  I tapped her knee with the back of my hand, the one holding the sandwich. “Thought you said you wanted to take a risk.”

  “I do.”

  “Then lower your guard,” I said, hating myself with every word for not doing what I preached, “and let me in. No tarot cards, this time—just me and you.”

  She treated me to her profile as she glanced out across the river. In the dark of night, the water appeared almost black, though the lights from the CBD and Quarter reflected off its swirling currents. She huffed out a soft laugh. “Funny how sitting on this side of the Mississippi makes me feel like I’ve got an entirely different perspective on life.”

  Someone could have held me at gunpoint, and I still wouldn’t have wrenched my gaze away from her face. Moonlight kissed the crooked slant of her nose, caressed the crests of her cheekbones, highlighted the length of her neck.

  “Tell me why,” I rasped.

  “Give me your guns.”

  Incredulous laughter climbed my throat and bubbled out. Only, she didn’t laugh with me. Chest tightening, I stared at her. “You’re not fuckin’ with me right now, are you.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  She only patted the empty space between us, much like I had, the palm of her hand landing on the chip bag and making it crinkle. “I’m evening out the playing field. You want me to trust you? Then I want you to lower your guard, too.” Her mouth quirked up. “Unless you’re too much of a chicken to do as you preach?”

  Do as you preach . . .

  Christ, she didn’t pull any punches.

  Flicking my gaze up to the levee, I submitted. Not that I was happy about it. “Hold my sandwich,” I grunted, already questioning my sanity as I passed the damn thing over and bent one leg. Lifting the hem of my pants, I unholstered my sidearm and placed it on the corner of the blanket. Still in reach if we needed it, but far enough to make a point.

  I was lowering my guard—literally.

  Only for her.

  After repeating the process with the gun at my hip, I motioned for her to give me back the sandwich. It wasn’t that great, but eating it beat worrying about the fact that I was unarmed—

  “Other gun, too.”

  I lifted my arms, my brow raised. “All out of guns to give up, sweetheart.”

  Her gaze roved over my torso, then paused and cocked her head. “Anything else you want to put in the pile?”

  Fuck, but she was pushy.

  Popping the rest of the chicken salad sandwich into my mouth, I chewed, frustrated, and then lifted the hem of my shirt. From its leather band, just behind the holster for my gun, I withdrew my trench knife and dropped it next to the firearms. “Happy?”

  She chewed on a bite from her sandwich. Swallowed. “Feeling naked, Cap?”

  I was feeling something all right, but it was probably for the best that I kept all grumbling to myself. “The captain thing isn’t going away anytime soon,
is it?”

  “I like it.”

  “I’m not a hero, Avery. We both know that.”

  “Maybe not, but how about, for tonight, we both pretend to be something we’re not?”

  My mouth went dry. And my hand went to my chest, right over where her number was inked into my skin, and then I voluntarily stepped in front of the proverbial bullet: “What’re you pretending to be?”

  “Yours.”

  13

  Avery

  I was playing with fire.

  And there was not a damn thing I could do to stop myself.

  Sitting here in the calm of the night, away from the bustle of the city, made me feel like anything was possible. For the first time in years, my head felt clear. There was no Jay, no fear, no need to be brave for the sake of survival.

  What had that lady said at my table in the square some weeks back?

  I want to be wanted.

  It felt like some odd twist of fate that Lincoln had walked into my life that night. Here I was, three weeks later, almost to the day, and I was just like that woman, smoking a cigarette, hoping beyond hope that all would be well in the end.

  I wanted to be wanted—by no one else but him, the man who was wrong for me on every level.

  “Avery.”

  He said my name like it was the last word he’d ever utter, and I took the opportunity to appreciate the way the moonlight glossed over him. He was on his knees, hands on his belt, and I took the plunge.

  “Ask me whatever question you want, and I’ll answer.” I eyed his shirt, the way it flirted with his pants. God, I wanted to strip it off him and finally see all of him. “I’ll do the same in return.”

  His face turned away, toward the river, exposing the unmarred side of his face. Sinful. He looked downright sinful with his big muscles playing under the fabric of his shirt, and the messy way his dark hair fell over his brow. He needed a cut, just like he needed a shave, and yet I didn’t want him to do either one.

  One hand lifted to scrub over the lower half of his face. “I need two questions.”

  “That’s being greedy.”

  He flashed me a wicked grin, his teeth appearing extra white in the evening light. “Put it this way—one question is for me and the other is for us.”

  Us.

  Two little letters and yet they warmed my heart like no other.

  “You push a hard bargain,” I said, trying to sound playful and not nervous, “but I accept.”

  Sitting back on his heels, his hands went to his thighs. “Tell me what happened to your mom.”

  Murdered. Brutally so.

  In theory, it should have been as easy as that to admit. It wasn’t like it was the first time I was telling someone—Katie knew. And yet, my tongue felt swollen as I sat there, fingers reaching for the water bottle to quench my sudden thirst.

  He was patient in waiting, expression solemn, body completely still.

  Just say it.

  I took a sharp breath. Clenched the water bottle in a tight fist. Forced the words out: “He killed her. The one man who the whole world of N’Orleans has put on a pedestal. He . . .” My throat closed with anger, and I swallowed a fistful of water. “He hired someone—I don’t know who he was—and that man shot her. I-I heard it all.”

  Lincoln let loose a volatile curse, and then he was shifting forward and wrapping his big arms around me. “Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he said into my hair, “fuck, don’t cry.”

  I wasn’t crying.

  I hadn’t cried in years.

  But as he rocked me in his large embrace, I touched a finger to my cheek and was startled to find it damp.

  Crap. I was crying.

  “He’s a bastard.” Lincoln cupped the back of my head, cradling it as he encouraged me to look up and meet his gaze. My heart went into triple-time at the strained set to his face—he looked ready to commit murder, and I had a sneaking suspicion who the mark was in this case.

  And it wasn’t me.

  As though he’d opened the dams, I couldn’t lock them back up. The words flooded forward, a tangled mess of things better left unsaid. “I hate him. Every day I wake up and I”—my hands flexed against the strong muscles of his biceps—“I think about how much he took from me that night. My mother, my identity. I’m no one, and there is nothing—nothing—more that I want than to return that favor.”

  Lincoln’s body froze against mine. “You can’t.”

  Can’t?

  Pushing backward, I landed on my ass—and the chip bag. With a pop! it wheezed out air. I swatted it to the side, frustration sharpening my motions. It made my voice even sharper. “What? You don’t think I can do it? I’m not a kid, Lincoln. If I wanted to kill him, which I do, I would have no trouble—”

  Strong hands wrapped around my wrists. “Stop,” he growled when I tried to twist away, “just stop and look at me.”

  Perhaps it was the imploring note in his baritone voice, but I gave in. Just like that, the struggle fled my frame.

  “Look at me, Ave. Fucking look at me.”

  I looked.

  And suddenly wished I hadn’t.

  His blue eyes were eerily intense in the sporadic light that slashed across his face, and there was something almost ruined in the way his gaze searched my face. “You asked, once, if I knew how many people I’ve killed. I told you tonight that I did.” His hands tightened around mine. “Sixty-one. Sixty-one people I’ve looked in the face like I’m doing to you now and betrayed them in the next breath.” Breath drawn in tight, he blew it out like a gust of wind. “There’s no pleasure in it.”

  “I’m not doing it for pleasure, I want to do it—”

  “For vengeance,” he finished for me with a quick shake of his head. “You asked me if I killed Tom Townsend. You were so determined to know if I had or not. So, ask me again.”

  My stomach turned over. “Lincoln . . .”

  “I won’t bite. Ask me the question.”

  God, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to make me question myself. For years, beating Jay Foley at his own game had been all I’d ever wanted. And here was his son, trying to convince me otherwise. The irony was almost painful.

  Bitterly, I bit out, “Maybe you just want to change my mind so I don’t hurt your precious dad.”

  A half-second later, I found myself on my back, Lincoln’s body pressing me into the blanket. I gasped for air, sucking it down into my lungs.

  Our legs tangled. His elbows planted themselves on either side of my face.

  His lips—oh man, they were temptation at its finest, just inches away from my own.

  “Let’s get this straight,” he rumbled, his chest reverberating against mine. “I don’t give a fuck about Foley, but I’ll be damned if I have you ending up just like me.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with you—”

  He tossed his head back with a harsh laugh. “Don’t lie, sweetheart. You called it like it is in that damn motel room. I’m a killer. Coldhearted to the very end. You don’t want to be me. Don’t you get it? I’m fucked up. I don’t sleep. I walk around like a fucking armory. Given the opportunity, half this city would take me out.” His breath wafted over my face as my breasts rubbed up against his hard chest. It wasn’t intentional, but that didn’t stop the two of us from groaning at the contact.

  His arm muscles flexed by my face. “You think you know what it’s like to walk around with a target on your back, but I can promise you”—he lowered his face, our noses almost touching—“you don’t want to find out.”

  “What did you do to Townsend?” I didn’t want to know the answer, not truthfully, but it felt like it was something I needed to hear. Maybe hearing the graphicness of it all would slap me back to reality, back to a place where I was perfectly content getting on one of those MegaBuses down at North Claiborne and Elysian Fields and leaving the state.

  Blue eyes never wavered from my face. “I put a bullet in his skull and left him in the Atchafalaya.”


  I wanted to vomit at the visual, as well as the senseless loss of life.

  And then I wanted to punch Lincoln for being so blunt, as though he knew that if he said it all matter-of-factly I’d wobble in my decision.

  My neck strained as I glanced up at the sky. “Will you kill Tabitha?”

  “Tabitha Thibadeaux? No. I walked out on the job. Jason—Nat’s ex-husband—didn’t take it lightly. They all . . . shit, how do I say this?” He coughed awkwardly, and then rolled to his side, resting on his elbow as he kept his gaze locked on my face. “Your girl got herself mixed up with the wrong crowd.”

  “How do you know that?”

  He blindly reached for my hand and then lifted it, curling my fingers so that they brushed through the dark strands of his hair. Until my middle finger was pressed to a spot at the base of his skull.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Jason’s got a superiority complex. He brands those who work for him—I have one here, where you’re touching me now. Didn’t you ever get curious about your friend’s tattoo on her forehead?”

  “She said she got it on a whim.”

  “Not the way it works.” Dropping my hand, he added, “She worked for him—who knows for how long—and at some point she decided to work for Nat instead. Jason took exception. Hence, the bodies of Banterelli and Welsh, who also ditched him. And, no, I had nothing to do with them two.”

  It just didn’t seem possible that Tabby would be working for any of that. And yet, Lincoln had no reason to lie to me about her either. Hell, he’d been sent to kill her, which said it all, really.

  She was still breathing, which meant she was just fine. For now.

  I pushed up onto my elbows, my gaze landing on the cityscape just across the river. “We both know why I’m still here in N’Orleans. Why are you?”

  “Too many connections,” came his low response. “You can’t leave a city when you’ve got unfinished business.”

  Intriguing. My thumb drummed a steady tempo against the rumpled blanket beneath me. “And when that business is done, you’re going to leave?”