Inevitable Detour (Inevitability Book 1)

by S. R. Grey

  Okay, so obviously dangerous is not nearly a strong enough adjective to describe what Farren has experienced.

  He appears to lose himself in thought, so I prompt, “Rick was on your team or whatever all the time, then?”

  “Not all the time,” he clarifies, sighing. “But often, yes.”

  “And you still work together in the private sector?”

  “Yes.”

  I want to get back to the special ops stuff, ask Farren what kinds of things he and Rick have had to do. I’m curious about all they’ve seen, which I imagine is a lot. But I know enough about Special Forces to know Farren probably isn’t allowed to divulge too much, particularly regarding the specifics of where he’s been or the things he’s done. Still, I long to learn more about this man I’m traveling with, especially in regard to the life he’s lived thus far. Farren is not just mysterious; he’s fascinating. I can’t imagine the things he’s seen and done...in the distant past and in the not-so-distant past.

  And that brings me back to the here and now, with the same damn questions. What is it that Farren currently does for a living that has resulted in Haven’s abduction? I’m sure the two are connected. But how is he connected to Eric and Vincent? It’s all potentially disturbing, but I comfort myself with the possibility I may learn more when I meet his friend Rick.

  A little while later, on the top floor of a downtown St. Louis high-rise, I do, indeed, meet Rick Martinez. He’s a very good-looking man, almost as attractive as Farren. When the two men greet each other in the dimly lit, mahogany-paneled lobby of the restaurant we’re to eat in, they display an easy camaraderie. It’s clear they trust one another quite a bit.

  Before Farren introduces us, I take the opportunity to look Rick over. I peg him to be about thirty. His hair is jet black and slightly longish in the back, the strands brushing at the collar of his expensive-looking suit jacket. Rick is exotic looking, with high cheekbones, olive skin, and almond-colored eyes. The dude is smooth, too. He takes my hand and brushes his lips over my knuckles when Farren finally introduces us.

  Farren immediately shoots his friend a back-off look that even I pick up on. Rick straightens and drops my hand. An awkward moment ensues, until a young hostess with fiery red hair and very red high heels arrives to seat us.

  As she leads us to a booth in a back corner, I hear Rick murmur to Farren, “I’m sorry, friend. I didn’t realize she was yours.”

  Yours? I roll my eyes. But, truthfully, a tiny part of me wants to belong to Farren Shaw. Oh, who am I kidding? Pretty much all of me is on board with that idea.

  As the food is served and the meal progresses, Rick remains cordial, but there’s no more flirting from him. Clearly, Farren is in charge. And Farren has laid down the rules. But, I have to wonder, what exactly is Farren in charge of? What kind of operation are he and Rick involved in nowadays? And how would men like Eric and Vincent fit into the equation, since surely they do. I mean, Farren knew who they were when I first mentioned their names. Even though he has yet to confirm or deny it, I feel sure I’m right. So does that mean Rick is acquainted with Eric and Vincent, too? Did they all work together on something in the past? Maybe they were in the military together? Were Eric and Vincent special ops, too? Did something go wrong somewhere? Was Haven taken in some sort of retaliatory move?

  My mind is whirling as I come up with question after question. Farren and Rick, meanwhile, fall into a discussion of the “old days.” I take note that though we’re supposedly meeting with Rick to discuss Haven, there’s not been one mention of her.

  At least, not in front of me, I think. There was a point when I excused myself to the ladies’ room. Perhaps they discussed her then.

  The two men continue to reminisce, and I decide to take an active part in the discussion. They’re discussing a special-ops mission they were once a part of. Rick mentions something about rebel forces, and Farren says, “Fuck, man, that was some crazy shit.”

  “Sure was,” Rick agrees. “We lit that camp up, Shaw. Remember that?”

  Farren nods and takes a drink from his glass of red wine.

  Rick continues, “Central Command never expected us to have the balls to destroy every cache of weapons.” He laughs, takes a sip of his own red wine, and then adds, “Of course, you take the credit for that. Damn, those were good times.”

  “The best,” Farren agrees, raising his glass.

  The two friends toast, and I cut in. “Where did all this happen?”

  Not surprisingly, I’m met with stony silence. I stare down at my plate, wishing I had a daring tale of my own to contribute. But what story am I going to tell these two seen-it-all, done-it-all men? Should I share with them how I rebelled and chose five wrong answers on a final last week?

  I don’t think so.

  As I stare down at my barely touched filet mignon, Farren takes notice that I haven’t eaten much.

  “Are you not hungry, Essa?” he inquires.

  Rick glances over at my plate but quickly resumes eating his own meal. In fact, he becomes lost in his meal, allowing Farren to address me semi-privately. The dynamic feels so different here, much more so than when Farren and I are alone. Again, it is crystal clear from the way Rick continues to concede to his friend that Farren is the alpha male.

  I’m not immune to Farren’s power, either. I’m not all that hungry, yet I find myself responding demurely, “No, I am hungry” as I take a small bite.

  I’ve been attracted to Farren from the start, but now every feminine part of me wants him. He is gorgeous, in command, powerful, and possibly a little dangerous to be around. What’s not to like? This is the kind of attraction I’ve always read about, what I dreamed of and hoped to someday find. And here it is, right in front of me. No wonder college boys always left me cold. All this time I just didn’t realize that what I needed was a man like Farren in my life.

  Or maybe I knew it all along. After all, I have been crushing on the guy for a long-ass time. So, yeah, Farren Shaw can woo me any day of the week.

  But is Farren wooing me?

  Maybe, I think as his gaze slides to and catches mine. He smiles charmingly, and I smile back. Yeah, maybe Farren wants me as much as I want him. Of course, I’m not dangerous, though he may very well turn out to be.

  Does that bother me?

  Farren shoots me a searing look that makes me feel like prey caught in a lion’s sight. Not like Eric’s cold look to Haven. This is more about heat and raw lust, something mutual. I go with it, concluding danger associated with Farren doesn’t bother me one bit.

  In fact, if Farren longs to catch me, I can’t wait to be caught.

  When the meal ends, Rick announces that he has to leave. Farren and I are left alone at the table. I have the impression from the pleased look on his handsome face that Farren planned for the evening to go this way.

  “Your friend seems very nice,” I say, suppressing a smile.

  “I’m glad you and Rick hit it off,” he replies, a smile of his own barely contained.

  I blow out a breath as I lean back in my chair. “So, Farren, what do we do now?”

  Scooting his chair a little closer, he purrs, “I don’t know, Essa. You tell me.”

  His words are not just words. Delivered so confidently, in such a masculine voice, his words seduce. Quickly, I gulp down what’s left of my red wine. When I’m finished, I murmur, “Oh, I don’t know. Whatever you want to do is fine with me.”

  Farren chuckles, scoots away slightly, and pours what remains in the bottle into my empty glass. He then asks, “What would you like to do, Essa? After all, the night is young.”

  “And so are we,” I quip, clinking my glass to his before he has the chance to lift it to his full lips.

  Farren chuckles, drinks his wine. I think he’s amused I’m more than a tad tipsy and uttering silly quips.

  But I suddenly have an idea. “I know,” I say excitedly. “We should go to a place where we can dance.”

  “Like to a club?�
� he asks.

  “I wasn’t really thinking that,” I reply.

  My first thought of a dance with Farren is something romantic, like a slow dance. Not dancing at some rowdy club.

  Feeling bold, I say, “I’d prefer to go someplace where it would just be you and me.”

  Farren is quiet for what feels like forever, and I start to think maybe I’ve been too bold, assumed too much. Maybe a club is more to his liking. But, to my delight, a sly smile spreads across his face.

  He stands. “Come on,” he says, offering his hand. “I have an idea.”

  Walking away from the table with me at his side, Farren flags down our waitress. She hurries over. When she reaches us, he whispers something to her. She nods and points to a darkened stairwell in the corner of the restaurant. Farren slips her a few bills before leading me, his hand cupping my elbow, to the stairwell.

  “Where are we going?” I ask as we begin to ascend a dark and narrow set of steps.

  Farren is behind me, hands on either side of my waist, keeping me moving. He’s also keeping me from tumbling backward since my heels are quite high.

  When we reach the top, I come to a halt. “There’s a door in our way,” I so eloquently observe, nodding to what appears to be a very heavy steel door.

  Farren leans into me and, while trying to contain his laugher, whispers, “Why don’t you just open it, Essa.”

  I rock back into his solid chest, shivering in the best way possible. He breathes out heavily, like our closeness affects him, too. Warm breaths caress my neck, sending tendrils of my upswept do into a wispy dance. Slowly, Farren reaches around me, his arm almost brushing my breast. He grasps the handle and swings open the heavy steel door with ease.

  And there before us lies sparkling downtown St. Louis in full nighttime glory.

  “Oh, this is beautiful, Farren,” I gush, enraptured.

  I like leaning back against Farren, but the cityscape is calling to me, urging me to step out onto the expansive rooftop and take in all the twinkling downtown lights. It’s a lovely summer-like evening, and a warm breeze blows as I walk across the rooftop, stopping at the edge. I’m not great with heights, but thankfully there’s a high, sturdy railing to hold on to. Placing my hands on cool metal, I turn my head, expecting to see Farren right there beside me, enjoying the magnificent view.

  But he’s not anywhere nearby.

  “Farren…?”

  I glance back to the stairwell. He’s still standing by the door. He’s not alone. He’s speaking to the waitress he flagged down before we started up to the roof. She’s nodding and handing Farren a just-uncorked bottle of red, along with two wineglasses. When he catches me watching the exchange, he shoos the waitress away and strides over to me.

  Along the inside perimeter of the rooftop, there’s a brick ledge. I sit down carefully, straighten my classy black dress, and cross my legs.

  Farren stops and stands in front of me. Glancing up at his handsome face, I whisper, “Hey.”

  “Hey back at you,” he says, just as softly.

  As he balances the two glasses from the waitress in one hand, he uses his free hand to pour a bit of wine into each glass. When both glasses are half full, he hands me one.

  “Thank you,” I murmur, taking the glass.

  He touches his glass to mine, and I ask, “What are you doing?”

  He stills, his wineglass pressed to mine. “I’m in the process of proposing a toast, Essalin.”

  Laughing, I say, “I figured that part out. But what are we toasting to?”

  Emerald eyes, dark in the low light, meet mine. “How about we toast to making wishes come true?”

  Before I can ask what that means, he clinks his glass to mine. He takes a drink, as do I. Suddenly, as if on cue, soft music begins to play in the background. When I look up at Farren, he’s smiling.

  “I wanted to dance,” I murmur, amazed that he set something up like this so quickly after hearing how I wished to spend the rest of our night.

  “And it’s just you and me,” he says. “As you requested.”

  He takes the glass from my hand and, along with his, sets it on the ledge. For the third time in one night, Farren offers me his hand. “Would you like to dance, Essalin?”

  “I would,” I reply.

  My heart is racing. I can’t stop smiling. Smiling, smiling, I feel such happiness right now. They say people in dire circumstances grow close quickly. Maybe that is what’s been happening between me and Farren. I feel a powerful connection with him. And I can’t say it’s entirely surprising. Our love for Haven provided us with an immediate reason to bond. And then spending time together, retracing her steps, trying to save her, has only strengthened that connection. Farren and I have a shared goal—we both want Haven back.

  But there’s no denying there’s something more intense developing between us.

  The careful way in which Farren holds me as we begin to dance to a slow song—like I’m fragile and he’s the only one equipped to care for me—strengthens my suspicion that he’s falling for me too, in some way.

  I relax into him, trusting him. Our bodies sway to melodic lyrics that speak of the beauty of having someone to lean on when times get tough. How fitting. As the song continues, I feel Farren’s gaze on me. Glancing up, I find his emerald eyes burning with strong desire and need, assuring me that I am not the only one feeling this heady attraction.

  The side of Farren’s mouth curves up slightly when he sees his emotions reflected in my eyes. Quietly, he implores, “Essa, what are you doing to me?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

  I lower my chin and lean forward to place my cheek against his solid shoulder. Farren’s fingers wind through my hair, loosening the strands. Pins fall to the ground haphazardly, but I don’t care. When my hair tumbles to my shoulders, I lean back, my gaze questioning.

  Farren just smiles and shrugs lightly. “I like it better this way,” he says.

  I nod once, and our eyes remain locked as Farren continues to comb through my hair with his fingers. He uses one hand at first, then both. His ministrations are gentle. I like it. I like the possessiveness in his touch. I like the familiarity. And I like that Farren seems to intuitively know how to touch me.

  It makes me want him more than ever.

  I lower my gaze to his lips, full and moist from the wine. With a confidence I never felt before, I stand on my tiptoes and lean closer to him. I tilt my head slightly in what I hope is viewed as an invitation.

  Farren responds immediately. His grasp in my hair tightens and he urges my head back. Lowering his lips to my neck, his tongue darts out to taste my skin. “Delicious,” he says.

  I shudder in the best kind of way and murmur, “Farren.”

  With his hands remaining in my hair and my head still tilted back, he kisses me everywhere…down my neck, across my shoulder blade, back up to my jaw. “Oh,” I gasp.

  His lips are everywhere but where I want them most—on mine.

  I slide my hands up his solid and wide back. I caress the softness at the nape of his neck. And then my hands are in his hair. So silky and soft, just how I imagined it would be. When I pull at the ends of his hair gingerly, Farren groans huskily.

  His lips capture mine, at last, and he kisses me hard. This is heaven, a dance of lips and tongues. Farren tastes like red wine and man, and I become drunk of him.

  He presses his body into mine when I moan, and I am made fully aware that his kisses aren’t the only thing that’s hard. As his arousal continues to deliciously press into my abdomen, I kiss him like crazy.

  Soon, we’re practically bruising one another as our hands and mouths express all of this pent-up want and need.

  I let out a light moan, and, between kisses, Farren says, “Tell me what you want. Say it to me.”

  “I want,” I breathe out a stuttered breath. “I want…”

  I don’t know what I want, not exactly. My body wants Farren, more than I’ve ever wanted any
one, but my inexperienced self urges me to slow down.

  “Essalin?” Farren pulls back slightly, his eyes boring into mine, searching for a go-ahead or a denial.

  What will it be?

  “I’ll do anything you want,” I blurt out. “I don’t know how great I’ll be, but I want to be with you. I’ll try to please you.”

  I sound like what I am—a mostly inexperienced young woman who doesn’t know what she’s getting into. Understanding dawns in Farren’s eyes. His hold on my hair loosens, and though one hand remains wrapped loosely in the long tresses, his other hand skims down to the small of my back.

  “Essa…” He exhales loudly. “Look, we don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

  “But I am ready,” I insist. “I want to be with you.”

  Farren eyes me skeptically. “You really think you’re ready for what this is leading to? You really think you’re ready for me?”

  Holy hell, I don’t know. What I do know is that the starry-eyed girl part of me wants to believe if we become intimate it will lead to something more. But the practical woman side of me knows this might only be about sex. Mind-blowing, amazing sex I’d surely never forget, but sex for sex’s sake, nonetheless.

  And the problem with that is that I want more. I don’t want a sex-only thing with Farren. Even so, I’m torn. I don’t know how to proceed.

  I try to look away, but Farren’s hand goes to my cheek. I have no choice but to meet his gaze when he urges me to.

  Quietly, I say, “I’m just not all that experienced, Farren.”

  His brows shoot up, and I quickly amend, “I don’t mean I’m a virgin…if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  The look on his face tells me that’s precisely what he’s thinking.

  I want to be forthcoming, so I admit, “I’ve only had sex one time, though.”

  “Essa…” Farren says on a sigh.

  I close my eyes and say, “I guess I’m just confused. I don’t really know how this is supposed to work.” Oh, what am I babbling about?

  Farren says nothing.