JACE (Lane Brothers Book 3)

by Kristina Weaver

  So wrapped up in a vision of sandy white beaches and nude sunbathing am I that when a loud, insistent pounding booms around me it takes a minute to understand that it’s coming from my own door.

  That sends shards of pure terror through me, and I almost laugh at my silly convictions. Who am I kidding? I’m freaking terrified.

  Creeping on tip toe to the door and its cleverly conceal peephole, I breathe out a sigh of heartfelt relief and open the door, regretting my stupidity immediately when Vincent grabs hold of me, lifts me into his arms, and kicks the door shut with a resounding bang that reverberates through me.

  His eyes are moss green, giving me my first hint that he’s pissed and ready for a fight. The second comes when he lean his head down and kisses me hard enough to rattle our teeth together.

  “What the bleedin’ ‘ell is goin’ on?”

  Gone is the cultured elegance of his accent as he practically shakes my brain from its moorings and glares down at me heatedly.

  “What?”

  “I said, what the hell is going on?” he roars at me, breathing heavily, though he’s recovered enough to enunciate every word with a crisp bite of fury. “Who were you screaming at on the phone? Are you sick?”

  No, just terminally stupid enough to be ecstatically happy to see you again. And why the hell can’t I seem to stop the fizzing in my blood just because you’re here?

  It’s ludicrous to be this happy suddenly, really it is, but as he pushes me away and starts that infernal pacing of his I feel so giddy I can hardly draw a decent breath.

  “No, I—it was nothing. Just a crank caller that got me a little worked up is all. It was silly. No one can get in here without—wait, how did you get up here?”

  His snide remark makes my cheeks burn, and yes, I feel more than a tiny kernel of fear to know that he’d simply walked straight into the building and gotten to my door with nothing more than a sneer in the doorman’s direction.

  Shit.

  “You’re coming home with me right this minute. No. Do not argue with me right now. I’m in a decidedly violent mood after listening to your fear and the resultant sickness. Go pack a bloody bag before I call your parents!”

  I gasp and splutter out a very unladylike curse at his gall, pushing my fear away with a force of will that is borne of anger and the remembrance of that episode in the supply closet at Park’s wedding.

  It would be so easy to forget every rotten thing he’s done to me and just accept the crumbs he’s willing to throw my way…something I can’t do and keep my bruised pride intact.

  So instead of bowing to his wishes as usual, I snort and walk to the door, opening it with a steely-eyed stare that makes me feel wretchedly powerful.

  “Leave.”

  “Dove—”

  “I am not your wife or girlfriend to boss around whenever the need arises. I divorced your lying ass for a reason, Vincent Blake. I want you to get out of my life and stay out. And so help me God, if you call Mama and Beau and blab to them when they’ve just recovered from his health scare, I will never forgive you!”

  Not that that’s gonna make any difference to him, I think cynically, but whatever.

  “Keep your bloody doors locked.”

  When he’s gone I can do nothing else but sag against the closed door and stare dry-eyed at the darkened windows and the even darker night beyond.

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Sleep eluded me all of last night, to the point that I’d finally crawled out of bed around four in the morning and opened the window, almost crying when I’d found Marty perched near my window sill and meowing to be let in.

  Don’t laugh when I tell you that I’d carried him inside, snuggled to my chest despite the reek of garbage, and fed him a plate of the tuna I’d found in the back of the cupboard.

  His bath had been a horrific ordeal of splashing water, furious cat screams, and slashing claws that had left trails of blood all over my arms. In a way Marty reminds me of Vincent, always so distant and standoffish and yet...in need of love and care and warmth.

  The thought saddens me when I think about the things I’ve said and done, and for what? To save face and show him how little he means to me? This, this person I’ve become, is not who I am. Vincent may not love me, but I’d always known, somewhere deep down inside, that he’d counted on my love, grasping at it like a drowning man.

  Jesus, I’m ashamed of myself, and all of a sudden I know exactly what I have to do to rectify the huge mistakes I’ve made. We may never be together again, but that doesn’t mean that I’m willing to keep on this road to nowhere.

  I nestle on my sofa and watch the gray sky turn to the purples and pinks of a glorious sunrise, and I feel better. It’s a new day, another night that I’ve survived, and I feel…ready to let my fear go and be the woman who’d fallen so heedlessly in love all those months ago.

  “Well, Marty ol’ pal, what say you and I go do something special?” I ask the cat, standing to my feet slowly.

  Grabbing up the phone, I ring downstairs and go to work, getting everything ready in record time, when Henson knocks on my door and greets me with a smile.

  “Hiya, Mrs Blake. Uh, sorry, Miss Bennet. Are your packages ready?”

  “Yeah, come on in, Hen. This is everything. Please, don’t let them ruin anything. These are worth a lot.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Hey, that guy last night, I wanted to ask how he got up here without clearance,” I cut in.

  His brow furrows, wrinkling his deep brown eyes.

  “No one gets in without clearance, ma’am. Unless you’re talking about Tony. He been bothering you? I’ve spoken to building management about him turning up in the middle of all hours on the excuse of doing his job, but you know how it is. Hate the thought of the maintenance guy skulking around, though.”

  “What? I’m not talking about the maintenance guy, Hen, I’m talking about Mr Blake. How did he get in without clearance?”

  “Mr Blake? He don’t need clearance, Miss Bennet. He owns the whole building,” Henson laughs, shaking his head with a laugh. “Anyhow. I’ll take these and get them delivered.”

  “Thanks.”

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry when I close the door behind him and slowly walk towards the bedroom in a daze. Vincent…you’re always one step ahead of me, aren’t you?

  He’d done…no, he’s always done what he thought necessary to protect me. I know now that his easy capitulation in the lawyer’s office had been the exact opposite of what he’d wanted.

  I know I’m assuming, trying to save myself or piece my heart back together with fragile hope, but I’m pretty positive I know that he’d let me go because he’d wanted me to be happy.

  That makes me want to burst with happiness, because I now know Mama was right. Vincent’s been allowing me to lead him around like a freaking dog while scrambling to keep me within his reach, to protect me.

  God, I’m such an idiot!

  “I need to get him back, Marty,” I say to the hissing cat, laughing at my own foolishness as I rip off my clothes and scramble into the closet. “Do you think he’ll listen?”

  That’s when doubt sets in. What if it’s too late? I mean, I love him, but what if I’ve let things go so far that Vincent no longer wants the love I have to offer?

  “I’ll call Bee. She’ll know what to do.”

  When I get through to my old friend it’s to the happy news that she’s already in the city, visiting her parents before they fly back to Chicago. She arrives twenty minutes later bearing a huge box of assorted donuts and a bottle of wine.

  “Let’s hear it then, asshole,” she drawls, grabbing two glasses and shoving me down onto the sofa. “So you’ve finally realized—”

  “Oh shut up! Like you have any room to judge me, Miss Pot. You almost killed yourself loving a man.”

  Yeah, and I’d gone in the opposite direction, almost killing my heart in the hopes of not loving.

  “Tell me everyth
ing,” she says quietly, taking my hand in hers and waiting in that same, patient way she’s always had with me, reminding me why I’d never been able to fully let her go.

  I tell her everything, right from the beginning, to the very end of this morning when I’d found out that he’d bought the building I now live in, and by the time I’m done, even she’s wiping at her eyes.

  “I’m gonna go to the bathroom while you go change and get ready to get your man back,” she says, rising with a grimace. “Swear to God, this kid your brother put in here is either growing like a giant or he’s an alien plant. I pee more than someone on Depends.”

  I look down at what I’m wearing and flinch to see that in my excitement I’ve thrown on pink yoga pants and an orange tunic my mama had given me as a Christmas gag gift, a tradition in our family that means my closet is full of weird clothes and ugly shoes that even Gaga wouldn’t wear.

  “You go pee. I’ll go burn these and get changed. Be careful if Marty’s in the bathroom. The little bastard scratches,” I warn, laughing when she clenches and gives the bathroom a hesitant look.

  When I’m dressed, having dug out the same red skirt I’d been wearing the day I’d first met Vincent at the Met, I feel light and bubbly despite the nerves.

  “Lord have mercy, girl, come on and get off the pot. Just think, this time next year we could both be married and giving my parents grandbabies,” I yell at the silent bathroom, fluffing my hair one last time.

  “Oooor, you could both be dead and rotting in an unmarked grave where no one will ever find you.”

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  At the sound of that snidely amused voice I whip around, my blood freezing in pure terror when I see Eric Brennan standing in my doorway, his right hand pointing a gun straight at my heart.

  My brain stutters out a belated alarm, urging instant flight when I see his cold smile and the slightly manic sheen lighting his eyes. He’s gonna kill me, has been waiting months, probably planning his next move for months, and—

  The pause in my heart’s stuttering rhythm almost brings on hysteria when the total silence in the apartment finally penetrates the fog of fear gripping me and I realize that Bee, my pregnant soon-to-be sister-in-law, hasn’t made a sound.

  I want to attack him in that moment, my terror forgotten, but I freeze, looking anywhere but the bathroom. Is it possible she’s hiding in there and he hasn’t seen her yet?

  Probably not, given his lunacy, but if there’s even the smallest hope, I can’t betray her position—

  “I already got to that whore, so you can start breathing again bitch.”

  “Bee—”

  “Is carrying your brother’s bastard. Yeah, I know,” he sneers, leveling those dead eyes at me. “I knocked her out in the bathroom before she could warn you. Now you and I are gonna play a little game. Move, bitch. I want you in the living room,” he snarls, stepping away from the door and waving the gun at me to get me moving.

  Every step I take rattles my fear-soaked mind, making it impossible to think past the need to give in to the urge to bolt and just run for dear life before he goes totally nuts and just shoots me.

  But I can’t, not if he’s telling the truth and Bee is indeed knocked out in my tiny bathroom.

  “Eric—”

  “Shut up! Just move.”

  Okay. There’s no way to play this that can possibly get me out of this alive. I’m just hoping to get Bee out of this before he realizes that she’s still alive in the bathroom.

  I think of the unborn child she’s carrying and the devastation that my family—Justin—will go through if this maniac manages to kill not only me, but Bee and that innocent little life she’s carrying.

  And then, inevitably, I think of Vincent and the stark regret I feel that he’ll never know just how much I regret abandoning him and that I’ll never have the chance to tell him that I’ve never stopped loving him.

  And then, I think of the babies I wanted to have, little boys with midnight black hair and mischievous eyes the color of mint leaves.

  I breathe deeply, harshly, fighting the tears as he shoves me into the straight-backed wooden chair from the desk and pulls a length of rope from what I now recognize as overalls emblazoned with the building’s crest.

  Henson’s words jump out at me, and I grind my teeth when I squint at his name tag and see ‘Tony” embroidered in off white stitching over his left breast pocket.

  “You’ve been watching me this whole time? You’ve been this close since I moved in?” I ask, flinching when he grabs my wrist in a steel-tight grip and starts winding the rope, binding me to the chair with a final length, crushing my ribs and looping to the back.

  Obviously a boy scout.

  Stop joking around, Cecelia, this guy’s just tied you to a freaking chair and he’s got a gun. Think of something!

  When he’s finally done securing me to the chair he flops down onto the sofa and stares at me, an eerily joyful smile curling his lips. It gives me the freaking creeps because it reminds me of that Joker guy from one of the Batman instalments.

  “I’ve been so close at times I could smell your perfume, Sis,” he chuckles, waving the gun loosely. “Just had to wait for you to finally stop inviting that bodyguard of yours up here so regularly. See, I’m a lot smarter than you think.”

  “Vincent will kill you.”

  Not the best thing to say in this situation, but I’m helpless at this point, and there’s no getting out of this alive. Hopefully I can give Bee enough time to wake up, if she’s still alive—please, Jesus, let her be okay—and get out of here in one piece.

  The chair I’m sitting in is facing the door, leaving Eric on the sofa facing me with his back toward it. If Bee’s okay, I can keep him distracted long enough to get out before he loses what little marbles he’s still got.

  “Ha! I was listening at the door when you kicked the schmuck out last night. That ship has sailed, thanks to you. It’s not like Mr Moneybags’ll come running to your rescue now, is it?” he asks, laughing loudly. “And just think! If you’d listened to him last night you’d be behind the walls of his fortress and I wouldn’t have gotten to you. And you even did me a favor by getting that little bitch over here.”

  My stomach churns at that statement, and I work a little harder when he scowls suddenly and turns towards the bathroom, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  “You’re so fucking pathetic,” I hiss, lunging against the ropes, while rubbing my wrists raw to get loose. “Is this all you’ve done since trying to kill me? Running around playing James fucking Bond and rubbing your hands at the thought of killing two defenseless women?”

  He turns back to me and lunges, planting his hands and getting right in my face with so much aggression I rear back and focus over his shoulder.

  “You know nothing about what I’ve been through! I spent weeks recovering from broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder after that animal attacked me! I’ve spent my nights sleeping on piss-soaked mattresses and eating ramen noodles just to stay alive. You ruined me!” he shouts, splashing strings of spittle across my cheek.

  The bathroom door handle wiggles, inching down slowly, and a minute later I see Bee’s face peeping out, a long line of blood trickling from her temple down to her chin and onto her neck.

  That one glance is all I need to release the tight band of tension in my gut, and I laugh, a manic-sounding shriek that scares the daylights out of me. It’s one thing to accept death and all of the regrets that come along with it, but it’s quite another to be so actively playing a part in it, forcing my murderer to go psycho on me in an attempt to save another.

  “I didn’t ruin you, you piece of shit! You mentally and physically abused the woman who loved you. You made her feel worthless and ugly and took delight in it. You were fired for sexually harassing female colleagues and for just being a generally pathetic excuse for a human being!”

  “Shut up!” he yells, backhanding me with the gun so hard my head snaps back and
starts spinning. “That English prick blackballed me. I’m the man I am now because of you.”

  “You’re not a man,” I wheeze, blinking rapidly to clear my vision. “Vincent and my daddy are men. They cherish the love of their women. They would never hurt those they love. I feel sorry for you, Eric. You threw away something good because you’re too immature to be happy with what you have.”

  That really pisses him off, like majorly, and he grabs my hair, shoving his face into mine.

  “I’m not gonna kill you, Sissy. No, what I’m going to do with a stuck up little bitch like you will make you wish you’d never opened your filthy mouth. And I’m really going to enjoy it,” he says, his voice becoming a sing song of eerie delight.

  My head is throbbing so badly I can’t follow his movements that well, but I notice two things. One, the front door is slightly ajar—thank you, Jesus—which must mean Bee got out safely. Two, Eric has put the gun down on the little side table beside the sofa and is coming my way holding what I recognize as the butcher’s knife from my kitchen.

  “No…”

  There are a lot of ways to kill a person, and me being me, I’ve broken down the ways to die in a morbid little list of least favorite to somewhat bearable.

  Number one on my list of ‘please don’t let me die like this’ is definitely death by knife. Hands down. I’d rather be gut shot than stabbed or sliced to death, and since Bee, Eric, and myself played this game a couple of years ago, he knows that I am deathly afraid of knives.

  “I’m gonna ruin that pretty little smile of yours and make you so ugly no man will ever look at you again.”

  “Get away from me!” I yell when he grabs my hair and wrenches my head back at a painful angle.

  The knife whispers over my cheek, a teasing caress that makes my skin crawl and pale.

  “Please. Please don’t do this. I don’t deserve this,” I sob, crying now. “You’re not this guy.”

  That’s such a lie. Obviously Eric is the guy; he’s just been hiding the maniac for years and no one knew it.