by S. R. Grey
When I dare to take a peek up at him, he arches one brow questioningly. “How this is supposed to work?”
“Like,” I begin my explanation, taking a step back, “if we were to sleep together. I don’t know—”
“Shh…” He touches my mouth tenderly, cutting me off. “You don’t have to explain anything, sweetheart.” Gently, he urges me back into his arms, and I nestle into his strong hold.
“No sex tonight, then,” I joke, my cheek pressed against his smooth-textured suit jacket.
Farren chuckles lightly and says, “No sex tonight, Essa.”
Music is still playing in the background, and he starts to move my body with his. “Will you still dance with me, though?” he asks.
I sway with him as I say, “I can do that.”
“Good. I like dancing with you,” he murmurs into my hair.
“I like dancing with you, too,” I whisper back.
All the hard ridges of his body are pressed to my soft parts. He feels so good. As we move together, I relax into him, let him lead. For as much as I want Farren—and, God, I do want him at some point—sleeping together this quickly wouldn’t be a good idea. I like him entirely too much, and I don’t want to end up crushed.
But if things go in the direction I hope for, I sense a man like Farren would be careful with my heart.
I sigh and hope that someday Farren Shaw might actually want my heart.
The next day, after we check out of the Union Station Hotel, Farren and I head straight to the parking garage. There’s an ease between us as we walk in relative silence. Farren appears lost in thought, but I’m okay with that. I’m busy scanning the area, trying to recall where we parked the white sedan when we returned last night. I swear it was on the second level, third row from the ramp, but I don’t see it anywhere.
“Oh my God, Farren,” I exclaim, stopping and pivoting left and right. “I think someone stole our car.”
Farren doesn’t say a thing, and when I glance over at him, he’s trying not to crack up.
“What?” I say. “What’s so funny?”
“Our car wasn’t stolen,” he replies as he composes himself.
He motions for me to follow him as he walks to a parking space a few yards away. Stopping in front of a black luxury SUV, he says, “We’re switching to this.”
My eyes slide from Farren—dressed today in black jeans and a snug black tee that accentuates his muscular build—to the sleek vehicle he’s referring to.
“Oh, wow, nice,” I say, nodding approvingly. “This is definitely a step up.”
“Better than the family sedan?” he asks lightly, his tone jovial and teasing.
“Much.”
Farren grins flirtatiously, making my heart skip a beat. But then he turns away to pop open the back lift gate. He lifts up the cover to the cargo space inside, and I get a good view.
“Holy crap,” I blurt out. “That’s a lot of weapons you have in there.”
The cargo space is filled with automatic rifles, handguns, and other weaponry I’ve never seen before. I assume the vehicle switch is compliments of Farren’s friend Rick, but I also now have a strong suspicion that the arsenal has been with us from the start. No wonder Farren was always making sure he was the one placing our suitcases in the trunk. He’s been hiding this cache of weapons all along. Well, I guess we passed some point of no return last night. Farren must trust me now, enough to let me in on his former secret.
“Now you know why we’ve been driving and not flying,” he says, closing the back of the SUV.
“Makes total sense to me now,” I concur, nodding.
I guess he’s surprised by my easy acceptance. He laughs and motions for me to get in the vehicle. “Come on, Essa. Let’s get rolling.”
Truthfully, I’m relieved we’re armed to the teeth. Not that I have a clue on how to handle any of the firearms. But with his extensive military background, I’m sure Farren does.
We grab a quick breakfast before we leave St. Louis. And then, for the first hour or so on the road, I doze. When I wake from my impromptu nap, I realize I have no idea where we are heading. I never bothered to ask.
“Hey,” I say, stretching and yawning, “where are we going?”
Farren glances over at me, his gaze lowering briefly to my snowy-white lace crop top. The bottom hem is curled up higher than it should be, thus exposing a fair amount of skin between the bottom of the shirt and the top of my low-cut jeans.
I straighten my clothes, and Farren turns his focus back to the highway. “New Mexico,” he answers at last. “But first we’re stopping in Oklahoma City.”
“Oh, okay.” I pause and then tentatively ask, “Did Rick have news on Haven? Is she in Oklahoma? Or is she in New Mexico?”
After dancing half the night away on the restaurant rooftop, Farren and I returned to the hotel. We were both exhausted, and following a chaste kiss on my cheek, we bid each other goodnights and went to our rooms. I never had the chance to ask him what new things Rick has uncovered.
But I find out now.
“Yeah, Rick had intel,” Farren says, frowning. Since I suspect it was not good news, I place my hand on his squared shoulder.
Sighing, he continues, “Haven’s car was found abandoned in Oklahoma City.”
I gasp, but Farren ignores me and keeps talking, almost like he has to or he may lose it.
“All indications are that Haven is still alive.” He pauses, and then says, “Thank God.” A beat passes, and he adds, “Despite the stop in Oklahoma, she’ll be taken to New Mexico.”
“How do you know?” I interject.
“I just know.”
“I’ve sent Rick there ahead of us,” he continues. “He’s able to fly, since, as you saw,”—he jerks his chin to the back of the SUV—“I’m holding the bulk of the weapons. We’ll head to New Mexico soon, Essa, but first I want to make sure it was Haven’s car that was dumped.”
I have a million questions, and I begin to rattle them off. “Farren, why would Eric and Vincent abandon Haven’s car all these days later?”
Silence.
“And how do you and Rick know this stuff?”
Silence.
I falter momentarily, unnerved. I’m sure Farren expects me to be flummoxed by his lack of responses. But, no, I forge on.
“How does all this tie into you, anyway? Like I said before, I know Haven was taken due to something related to your mysterious job. And I know you told me not to ask questions, but, please, please, Farren, tell me something. This is hard for me, too.”
I choke up, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. After a beat, he says, “I know, Essa. And I’m sorry. What do you want to know? Ask me, and I’ll try to give you what I can.”
Finally, some answers.
I take a deep breath and begin with, “Do you know Eric and Vincent?”
“Yes.”
My heart stutters. “Are those their real names?” I whisper.
Farren chuckles, but it’s not because any of this is funny. “Surprisingly, yes, those are their real names.” And then he qualifies, “Actually I should say those are the names I’ve always known them by. It’s anyone’s guess as to what their real names are. They’ve probably been through so many aliases they’ve forgotten what their given names are.”
Okay, that’s disturbing. “So,” I venture, “how do you know them?”
“That,” he says, shooting me a look of warning, “I can’t tell you.”
I accept that, since he’s otherwise being forthcoming. I quickly move on to something different.
“Okay, what about Haven’s car? Why did Eric and Vincent keep it for so many days if they planned on dumping it from the beginning?”
“To keep up appearances, initially,” Farren says. “In case the authorities would have taken more of an interest. It’s the same reason why they used Haven’s credit cards for gas and hotel stays.”
“To make it look like she was traveling of her own volition?”
“So,” I continue, “they stopped using her cards when it became clear nobody was looking for her?”
Farren shoots me a meaningful sidelong glance. “Except we’ve been looking for her, haven’t we, Essa?”
“Oh-h-h,” I say, catching on. “Eric and Vincent have always wanted you to know they took her. That’s why they continued to use her credit card. So you would see all the charges.”
He responds tightly, “Yes.”
“I was right all along then,” I exclaim. “You are somehow involved.”
No response.
“What about your friend Rick? Is he involved in this, too? He has to be; he knows too much.”
No response, which I take as a confirmation.
“Is he definitely someone we can trust?” I ask gently.
That sure gets a response.
“Rick is one of the good guys, Essalin,” Farren replies vehemently. “I assure you he can be trusted completely.”
I breathe out a sigh of relief. Thank God, since Rick is the one who will reach New Mexico—where Haven might be—first.
When Farren falls silent once again, I ask, “What’s wrong? What aren’t you telling me?”
“I’m just surprised you’re out of questions.”
“Why?” I whisper, dread creeping up my spine. “What should I be asking?”
“Aren’t you wondering which one I am, Essa?”
“What do you mean?”
“Aren’t you wondering if I am one of the good guys or if I’m one of the bad?”
I can’t tell if Farren is messing with me or not. I shrug and, with a touch of humor, say lightly, “Guess I’ll find out.”
But there’s not an ounce of humor in Farren’s voice when he replies. “Yeah, I guess you will.”
Not surprisingly, there’s an odd vibe in the SUV for the next hour. The rain that starts to fall doesn’t help lift the mood. Farren remains quiet. Contemplative, I assume. I mostly read, happy that I picked up a paperback at our last stop for gas.
Eventually the rain stops. The sun comes out, and, to my relief, the tension lifts right along with the bad weather. Despite his cryptic words, I just can’t think of Farren as a bad guy. From everything Haven has told me, he’s always been good. He was a good student, a good son. And he’s still an amazing brother to her. Farren was a kid who was forced by circumstances to become a man early—after his father left the family abruptly and especially after his mother died. Since then, from what I’ve observed, he’s done everything possible to take care of the only real family he has left—Haven.
But there’s still a question I can’t ignore: What has Farren been involved in recently? What is he involved in now? Something illegal, I have to assume, based on how secretive he is whenever the subject comes up. Those huge sums of money he pulls down certainly make things look even more suspicious.
Contemplating all of this, I sigh. Farren looks over, his expression giving away his curiosity. But before he can ask what I’m sighing about, I lower my paperback and say, “I’m tired of reading.”
“Okay,” he says slowly. “Are you hungry?”
I nod once. “It has been a while since we’ve eaten.”
“Say no more,” Farren says brightly.
It’s obvious he’s trying to make up for the last hour of silence and the uncomfortable vibes in the car. He takes the next exit we come to, and we find a sandwich shop just down the road. Farren orders a massive deli sandwich, roast beef and cheese on pumpernickel bread, with just about every topping and condiment available.
While the lady behind the counter works on Farren’s masterpiece, I tell the girl taking orders that I’ll have the same. “Just no mustard,” I add.
Farren snickers under his breath, and I say, “What? I’m hungry, okay?”
“That’s fine, Essa. I’ll just be surprised if you can finish it.”
Ten minutes later, we’re back in the SUV, eating our massive sandwiches. And sure enough, Farren’s supposition comes to pass.
I lower my sandwich to the wrapper in my lap and mutter, “Ugh, I’m done. It’s delicious, but I can’t eat another bite.”
Farren glances over at my half-eaten roast beef and cheese. He laughs and offers to finish it for me. He sure has a hearty appetite, I think as I hand him the rest of my sandwich. I have to wonder if all his appetites are this hearty.
The flush on my face must clue him in as to where my thoughts are drifting, for he asks all too knowingly, “What are you thinking about, Essalin?”
“Oh, nothing,” I fib. Clearing my throat, I add, “Let’s talk about something, though.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, hesitantly. “What do you want to talk about?”
I shrug. “Oh, I don’t know. Anything, really.”
Farren finishes the sandwich I couldn’t eat, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and then suggests, “Why don’t you tell me how you met my sister?”
“She never told you?” I know Farren and Haven share a lot, so this is a surprise.
“Well, she did tell me she met you at freshman orientation.”
I nod. “Yeah, that’s right.”
Farren gathers our food wrappers and napkins and stuffs them in the bag everything came in. His attention returns to me when he’s finished.
“Okay, so you met at freshman orientation,” he says. “That doesn’t explain one bit how you and she became such good friends.”
“Are you asking if there was, like, a defining moment or something?”
I’ve posed my question slowly, tentatively, because there absolutely was a defining moment in my friendship with Haven. But it’s not an easy story to tell.
Farren reads things so well that I can’t fool him. He settles back in his seat and says, “There was a defining moment, wasn’t there?”
“Yes,” I admit, frowning.
Farren has unknowingly touched on an experience from freshman year that I’d rather forget. But, for as much as I try to avoid recalling that fateful Halloween night, I find I now want to share it with this man. And I should. It’s a story of how his sister saved my ass.
I take a deep breath, exhale, and begin…
“After Haven and I hit it off at that early orientation, which was held when we were still seniors in high school, we kept in touch. We talked and texted all the time throughout that summer. Fall of freshman year we picked right back up where we’d left off. We’d arranged to share the same dorm room, and we hung out all the time. People sometimes questioned how we could be friends. I mean, after all, Haven was so much more popular than me. But you know how she is. She made sure I never felt left out.”
“She’s always been like that,” Farren says quietly.
I glance over at him. His head is leaned back on the headrest, and he looks sad. A part of me longs to comfort him, but I know he wants to hear this story.
I continue, “Well, anyway, she got invited to a lot of parties, like the very best of the best. She invited me often, and sometimes I tagged along, but other times I chose to stay back in the dorms and study. Halloween that year, though, there was one party everyone wanted to go to. It was an annual event, held every October thirty-first at some rich student’s parents’ house. It was kind of legendary. You had to go at least once. Anyway, the kid was a senior that year, so it was going to be my first and only chance to go.”
“And you wanted to go?” Farren inquires.
“Yeah, to that party, yes. I very much wanted to go to that one.”
When I fall silent, lost in the memory for a minute, Farren prompts, “So you and Haven went to the party?”
“We did. And it was a costume party, of course, with it being Halloween and all.”
“Costume party, huh?”
Farren appears curious, and I figure he’s about to ask about my costume. Oh no.
I try to divert him by saying, “So, Haven went as a Sex Kitten—”
“I don’t even want to know what that costume enta
iled,” Farren interrupts. He rolls his eyes.
I laugh, and recalling Haven’s barely there black bustier, red micro-mini, and five-inch stiletto heels, I agree, “Yeah, you probably don’t.”
Shaking his head, he says, “So, what did you go as?”
I knew he was going to ask. Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Something stupid.”
“Come on,” he says. “It can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, it is.”
“What was it?” he asks, trying again.
“Don’t laugh.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“Essa, just tell me.”
I scrunch my eyes shut and blurt out, “I went as New Moon Bella.”
“Who?” he asks, completely baffled. “What the hell is a New Moon Bella?”
I am not about to go into a long, detailed explanation. If he missed that phenomenon, there’s no sense in trying to explain.
So I just say, “She was a character from a popular series of books that were being made into movies at the time.”
“Okay.”
Before he starts digging for more detail, I hurry the story along. “The costumes aren’t important, anyway.” I wave my hand. “So, we went to the party. But somehow Haven and I got separated. I was kind of wandering around when this cute guy asked me if I needed a drink.”
I pause, remembering my naïveté back then. “I’d heard of date-rape drugs, of course,” I say softly. “But I never thought someone would actually slip me one.”
Farren reaches over and touches my jean-clad knee. “Essa…”
“Nothing happened,” I say in a rush. “I mean, not really.”
I’m visibly shaken, even two and a half years later, and Farren says, “Essa, you don’t have to say anything more.”
“But I want to. I have to.” My eyes find his. “I want you to know.”
“Okay.” He nods in a way that lets me know he understands that sharing this story—with him—is important to me.
“Sometime later,” I go on, “I woke up in a bedroom of the house. I was on a bed. I knew then that I’d been drugged. My head felt so heavy, and everything was out of focus. Anyway, the cute guy was with me. He didn’t look so cute anymore, though. He was on the bed next to me, already undressed. And he was in the process of taking my clothes off.”