JACE (Lane Brothers Book 3)

by Kristina Weaver

  I’d had to remember, mostly because Parker won’t let me forget, that it’s not just Beau and Vincent I’m hiding from. Eric Brennan is still out there somewhere, and if what he’d said that night is still true, the man will kill me deader than dead if he ever gets his crazy paws on me.

  “It’s me, Sis. Just calling to let you know that I’ll be out of the country next week. Business that can’t be avoided. If I don’t call, don’t worry.”

  “Crap, Park, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

  “Sorry, babe. I’m in the middle of something right now. Just wanted to let you know everything’s still fine. Blake gave me another call today and got real nasty about my continued silence. That man’s going batshit crazy the longer it takes to find you,” he said for the hundredth time, making me aware of his stance on my defection.

  Parker doesn’t agree with the whole running away thing, had in fact threatened to tell Vincent my plans till I’d started crying so hard I’d almost puked.

  Now it’s a struggled to convince him that I’m fine and that no matter what my parents said—or Vincent—I am better off here. At least for the time being, till I get my head on straight and my emotions under control.

  Obviously, I need a band aid for my heart, because time’s doing nothing for me in the heartbreak department.

  “Sissy, you still there?”

  “Yeah. Just wondering when you’re gonna start lecturing me about my choices and threatening to call Vincent,” I say tiredly, unwrapping my burger even though my appetite’s gone to shit.

  I hear his customary sigh of irritation, and then he surprises me by changing the subject. Obviously he’s just as tired of this as I am.

  “Jules has agreed to give me a second chance,” he says, and I hear the total joy in his voice.

  It’s no secret that he’s more than head over heels for the woman—nope, he’s so obsessed it’s a wonder he can get any work done for thinking of ways to be with her.

  “I thought you were already…?”

  “Nah. That was just sex. She was using me as a booty call. It got to the point that I called her yesterday and called it quits, you know, wanted to save myself further pain before…” He laughs humorlessly and I swallow, wincing when the chunk of half-chewed meat and bread sticks in my throat.

  “That must have been really hard.”

  “Yeah. I just about fell apart before making that call, but she surprised me. Turns out she was just testing the waters before committing to us, and…I love her, Sis, like really love her. If she doesn’t feel the same…”

  “Of course she does. Who wouldn’t, Park? You’re a freaking catch. I’m seriously regretting turning you down before,” I joke, only half serious.

  “So you’re okay?” he asks, changing the subject again, something that bothers me, as it’s just not his style.

  Usually he can chew a subject to death before losing enough steam that I can get a word in edgewise. Now, though, he just sounds tired.

  “I’m fine. Tired, but fine. Listen, Parker, if this cloak and dagger stuff is too much for you, I’ll understand. Bee and Justin are an item now, and you’re family…I’ll understand if you don’t want to be in the middle of this.”

  Yeah, I’ll understand all right, I think miserably, feeling my stomach knot. Parker is all I have left of my old life, and the thought of losing him makes me feel wretched.

  The burger looks like a pile of smashed beef by the time he answers, and I walk over to the trash before washing my hand at the sink.

  “No, Sis. You and me, babe. You’re my best friend, as pathetic as it sounds, and I won’t abandon you. Just promise me you’ll think about calling your mom. She deserves better than this.”

  “Okay. But not yet. I need to find a way to call her without Beau finding out.”

  Paranoid, but totally necessary. If any of them get even a whiff of where I am…I can’t risk it yet.

  “I understand, but this is gonna have to end soon, Sis. Vern keeps pestering me, and if Blake gets any worse I’m afraid he’ll kill me with his bare hands.”

  A half hour later I’m still standing at the sink, my eyes staring into space as I fight to clear my head of all thought. Some days I operate on autopilot, and others it’s a struggle just to stop the voices from spilling out and taking control.

  Eventually I have to go home, I know it, but for now I need this time. Grabbing the bottle of booze Nic’s mom sent, I wander into my sparsely furnished bedroom and flop onto the bed.

  It tastes like battery acid going down, and by the time I’ve had three healthy swallows I’m more than tipsy and feeling just happy enough to fall asleep with a smile on my face.

  ***

  “You meant nothing to me.”

  As I look at his face and feel myself cramping up with pain and humiliated adoration, I know full well that this is a dream. Even as the thought solidifies I cry out in horror and anguish, my heart breaking as he’s surrounded by a crowd of beautiful women, his mouth curved in an arrogant twist of satisfaction and scorn.

  “No!”

  “Yes. You were always just a means to an end. How could I love you?”

  “No!”

  I wake with a start and sit upright, panting heavily as tears stream down my cheeks to land on the twisted sheets, tangled around me. It’s always this way. I have these dreams, dreams in which I’m forced to watch him take other women, and no matter how hard I try I can’t get myself to revile him before I wake in a cold sweat, crying and unsettled.

  “You’re pathetic, Sissy. How long is it gonna take for you to let go?”

  Always the same dream, and always the same question, and, as with every other, I have no answer to defend myself with, even if it’s just against myself.

  You’d assume that three months’ worth of pep talks and internal confidence building would have done something to help me, but the truth is, the longer I stay away, the worse I feel.

  Sure, I’m no longer a useless lump of tears and tissues, but inside, that’s where I’m broken.

  Shaking off the dream and the heaviness I feel, I throw back the sheets and pad to the window, pulling back the curtains to see the very edges of dawn peeking over the horizon.

  The clock blares its red numbers at me and I hop with a squeal, racing to the bathroom. It’s not yet fully dawn, but if I don’t hustle I’ll be late for work and Vi will have my ass.

  Forty minutes and a lot of coffee later I pull into the employee parking lot and bolt out of the car, making it to the door just as Nic opens it.

  His knowing grin makes me scowl, and I throw him a good natured glare.

  “I don’t know if your mom’s a cyborg or has free liver transplants every year, but that shit was potent.”

  “Told you it’d knock you on your ass, Lil. At least you got some sleep. You look better. Did you finish that burger?” he asks, keeping his gaze on me through the order window as we both tie our aprons and get ready for the breakfast run.

  “Most.”

  Okay, so maybe lying isn’t nice, especially to a guy who’s been so good to me, but I don’t need a lecture right now, not with the remnants of that sucky ass dream still dogging me.

  “At least eat a bacon roll before you start your shift.”

  He doesn’t give me a chance to argue, and by the time I turn back from prepping the coffee pots I’m assaulted by the rich, greasy aroma of a butter bacon roll.

  Yuuumm.

  By twelve I feel like a freight train has done laps over my entire body, and I turn to glare at Nic. Belated hangover. Shit.

  “Stay hydrated, Lil, and the headache’ll go away real quick. Oh, and here’s table four’s extra side of fries.”

  I want to flip him off and tell him what an unholy crone his mother is if she can drink this shit on the regular without dying, but I refrain and grab the fries, turning with a huff, only to come to a screeching halt mid-turn.

  Every ounce of blood in my body drains to my toes, making me lightheade
d—no, that’s not true, I’m woozy from lack of oxygen when I realize I’ve stopped breathing altogether.

  “Hello, dove.”

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Nothing comes out of my mouth, not a single syllable or breath, as I stand frozen to the spot, my every hope and dream shattering and reforming in that one instant.

  I feel everything recede but that handsome face and the slight quirk that lines his sensual mouth. For a split second I pray that the shit Nic’s mom hooked me up with has some sort of psychotropic drug…anything to explain—I’d rather be tripping on drugs than for this to be real.

  And yet my heart is singing in my chest, breaking out in waves of elated song at the sight of the man taking up space at my counter. That’s when I do something I haven’t done in my entire life.

  The plate tilts, spilling its golden, fried cargo, and drops, shattering in a sparkle of worn white porcelain as I feel my eyes roll backward, and I slump, approaching the floor.

  I’m fainting, something so foreign to my ‘kiss my ass’ attitude that for that strange time while I’m heading for a nose slam, I feel a euphoric giggle bubble in my chest.

  “Christ!”

  That’s all I hear before everything goes dark, cutting off the exultant panic wending its way through me.

  “Get…pulse…back away…”

  Seconds, minutes later I’m swimming back to consciousness, my mind lighting up like a freaking Christmas tree despite all attempts to remain hidden in that murky place that is unconsciousness.

  I don’t want to wake up and see those mint green eyes or that smug smile. I want this all to be the effects of Nic’s mother getting me tripped out on her night time rescue/liver killing tonic.

  My eyes pop open against my will, and I gasp, once again held immobile when I see those bright eyes shining down at me even as his arms surround me, pulling me close as he rises, taking me with him.

  “Lily, darlin', are you al lright?” I hear to my left, only half registering Nico’s voice and the murmurings of concern floating around me. “I told you to keep hydrated and to eat more, little one.”

  I hardly track and can’t even tear my eyes away from the chiselled jaw—now clenched so tightly I see a muscle tic beneath his skin—as he starts barking orders at someone to his right, his voice filled with steely control and supressed anger.

  “I’m taking her home. Get the door, Billings!”

  That’s when my brain fires back to life and I struggle weakly, pushing at his chest and cursing softly when he, and everyone around me, ignores my annoyance, and I find myself deposited on the back seat of his chauffeur-driven car.

  “Let me out!” I yell, going for the door release even as the driver starts pulling away. “I don’t want to go anywhere with you. I hate you!”

  Vincent grabs my arm in a steely grip and pulls me back, his eyes flickering with some emotion I can’t decipher but definitely followed by the same arrogant sneer I know so well.

  A tinted partition goes up between the seats, separating me from the driver and what I now know is my only respite before his arms shove me down and his big body comes crashing down over mine.

  It’s no easy fit with him being so big and the seat being smaller than the position requires, and I’m left trapped beneath his weight as he pins my arms above my head and keeps me immobile.

  “Shut up and fucking listen!” he yells, so fiercely I feel his breath enter my lungs.

  The taste is just as I remember it, and I feel my traitorous body heat, wanting more of that mint-scented air, filling my lungs, my mouth, every inch of me.

  I’ve lain awake nights remembering his flavor and the way I’d be infused with his breath as he thrust into me, sharing his very life force even as he took mine.

  I’ve missed—

  No! You will not do this to yourself, Cecilia. Get a grip.

  “Fine,” I say, quitting my struggles to glare up at him. Handsome bastard. “What the hell do you want?”

  I see him tense further, feel it in the way his fingers tighten infinitesimally around my bound wrists before he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

  “Dove, I don’t know how to say this…”

  That sends a foreboding chill down my spine. Vincent is never hesitant, never…afraid, as I see he is now, so whatever he has to tell me is either really bad or so fucked up I don’t even want to know.

  Damned curiosity.

  “Your father…” He swallows and levers himself up, pulling me along with him and into his chest.

  I push back, needing some distance as the scent of his citrusy cologne starts firing up synapses I’d ruthlessly tried to kill these last three months.

  But wait—

  “Daddy? I mean, Beau? What…what’s wrong?”

  He’s avoiding eye contact, his shoulders strung so tightly I feel the stirrings of panic hit me. I’m angry and hurt and not yet ready to call him my dad yet, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love the big, controlling galloot.

  “Vincent…what’s going on?” I ask, grabbing at the military perfect lapels of his jacket and turning him back to face me.

  “Beau collapsed last week—”

  “What! Oh God, is he okay? Please tell me he’s okay. I should never have bolted. This is all my fault. You’re such a brat, Sissy. If he’s de—”

  “Christ, get a hold of yourself!” he yells, shaking me fiercely enough to rattle my brain around in my skull and dry up the stream of hysterical panic and self-recriminations. “He’s fine. He’s got high blood pressure, and the doctors aren’t too impressed with his cholesterol at the moment, but…”

  “But?” I ask, watching his face like a hawk for any sign that he’s downplaying the situation to keep me from having a meltdown.

  “His attack came when we got news that Brennan was headed this way and that he was precariously close to you,” he finishes, uncurling my fists from his jacket to flatten them against his chest, his hands trapping mine.

  I feel his heart beat strongly and look away, closing my eyes against tears of relief and the constant heartache that’s starting to surface now that I know Da—Beau isn’t lying dead in the morgue.

  “Dove, are you listening? Did you just hear what I said?” he asks, his tone laced with frustration and an effort at patience.

  What’s his—I realize two things at once. One, Eric is still a—as I’ve always known—problem that needs taking care of, and some real caution on my end lest he succeed where he’d left off before. Two, Beau and Vincent—

  “You’ve known where I was all this time, haven’t you?” I ask in a choked whisper.

  And here I’ve been so ignorantly smug about making my escape and getting one over on them all. It had been a small victory in the greater scheme of things, but something I’d been proud of, considering my epic fail by actually marrying a man who doesn’t even want me.

  “Not all along,” he growls, glaring darkly. “We found you two weeks ago by sheer bloody coincidence. Seems you didn’t manage to make it altogether out of that photo the historical society took of the diner,” he muses, making my teeth clench nearly to the point of shattering.

  I remember that smarmy little photog and his ‘skills’. I’d spent the better part of an hour dodging his lens, and it seems I’d failed. How Vincent had run across me in some obscure little Georgian local newspaper, though, is a good question, and one that saves me from actual conversation, so I ask it, watching his smile curve higher.

  “You’d be surprised what money can get you in the way of information and a decent photo,” he drawls. “I had a techie from my company keeping an eye out for any indication as to your whereabouts. Color me surprised when he came screaming into my office and slapped down a photo of my wife, working at a bloody greasy spoon diner for minimum wage.”

  That drawl and the way he’s licking his lips while staring at the cleavage revealed by my uniform has me wrenching back and scuttling to the farthest edges of the seat, right up against the
door, which coincidentally is locked.

  “I’m not your wife.”

  Keep saying it and maybe it will be true.

  “Oh, but there you’re wrong, dove,” he snarls, pulling me back into his chest, his left hand settling my ass firmly over his lap and the impressive—clench-worthy—erection beneath.

  “What are you doing?”

  Now would be a great time to start struggling and get myself the hell away from temptation. I freeze, though, taking in the clenching deep within my neglected sex, and his subtle shifting as he pulls me down and into his cock.

  Every emotion and lustful desire I’ve been supressing roars to full and consuming life, sending me into that eerie realm of fantastic remembrance. In my mind’s eye I see him throwing me down to the leather seat and coming over me in a wave of need and lust.

  I feel his breath whooshing past my lips just before his lips crash down over mine, his tongue thrusting in, owning me in mimicry of what I want him to do between my legs.

  Those large hands cup my breasts, expertly strumming my hardened nipples to points of screaming readiness, and his cock, I feel it probing, pushing past the thin barrier of my panties before gliding over the slick entrance to thrust up—

  I come back to earth with a jolt when his hand lands on the inner skin of my thigh and begins stroking in little circles that have my breath exploding out in little pants that leave me lightheaded and resentful.

  It’s always been so easy for him. Not once since we’ve met have I ever put up anything more than a token resistance to his experienced and practiced seductions.

  Even now, feeling bitter and in a state of turmoil, I want nothing more than to throw my hurt pride and scruples to the wind and kiss him, devour him, beg him to touch me and take away the lonely emptiness his loss has caused.

  But I can’t, no matter how good I know he’ll make me feel, because when the pleasure fades all I’ll be left with is the empty ache of regret for giving him back the power I’ve only just gained.

  “Stop it,” I hiss, wiggling frantically to get away and retake my seat.