Zero Hour

by Megan Erickson

  Wren was fascinated by Roarke. The more walls he threw up, the more she wanted to tear them down. She’d never been successful though. No matter how often she’d tried to tag along with Erick and Roarke and Flynn, no matter how many questions she asked, eager to talk tech with them, they never welcomed her into their inner circle.

  Why had she let herself believe Roarke would treat her any differently than he had in the past? She’d changed, but he didn’t know that. The vision in her head of Roarke’s face lighting up—did Roarke’s face even move like that?—was such a dumb fantasy.

  She passed a slow-moving minivan and kicked up the speed on the open highway. Her hair whipped around her neck from under her helmet. She squeezed her thighs around the bike, loving the feel of the machine under her.

  She was angry at herself for getting hung up on this. She wasn’t back in DC to connect with Roarke; she’d returned for the mission. Her own personal one of revenge, and one for Flynn. Every time she thought about the younger Brennan, her heart broke all over again. She wasn’t sure there was a person on the planet who hadn’t liked him. Where Roarke dealt with their difficult home life by retreating inward, Flynn sought attention elsewhere. When Flynn died, Erick had been devastated. She’d never seen him so distraught. After she found out who was responsible, she knew it was time to make her move. For Flynn—and for her friend Fiona, who’d also suffered at the hands of the Saltner family.

  By the time Wren was speeding down I-270 into the city, it was closing on 1:00 a.m., and she was too amped for sleep. Roarke didn’t think she could hack it? That she needed to be preserved like a fucking artifact? She’d show him.

  She managed to find a street parking space outside Alpha and parked her bike. She didn’t have time to slather herself in makeup cover-up so she left her jacket on but unzipped it. Underneath, she wore a tight tank top, and she adjusted herself so the girls looked extra perky. She peered into the side mirror to add another coat of red lipstick and headed to the front entrance of the club.

  She’d been back in DC for a week, and she’d spent much of that time digging up info on Darren Saltner. He owned Alpha—a dance club in the U Street Corridor—and was often seen there, as well as in the local gossip rags. What Erick and Roarke didn’t know was that Wren had her own reasons for investigating the younger Saltner. One night in college, Wren had gone out to a party with her roommate, Fiona. Back then, Fiona had been sweet and shy, her long hair always pulled into a knot on her head, held up with chewed pencils. But what happened to them that night had changed both of their lives, Fiona’s even more than Wren’s. It’d taken Wren years, but she’d followed the digital trail as far as she could, seeking those responsible for preying on young women like them. And that trail led Wren to Darren Saltner.

  Wren and Fiona had spent every day since that night looking over their shoulders, and it was about time Wren put an end to that. She felt responsible for that night, and despite her mission, she knew nothing—even revenge—would ease the guilt. She’d learned to live with it.

  Wren looked different now than she had back in college, especially with her hair. To Darren, she was just another Asian girl. She’d caught his eye on her second night in Alpha and played hard to get. She hadn’t intended for him to notice her that fast. Now was the time to take this to another level.

  She smiled at the bouncer and flashed her ID. He gave her a look like he recognized her, but she was pretty sure they were all told to look bored and scary, so he didn’t say anything and waved her inside.

  As soon as she opened the door, the bass vibrated her bones while the humid heat of a couple hundred bodies writhing on the dance floor nearly suffocated her. She scanned the floor and the upper balcony and sure enough, there was Darren, leaning over the railing, his eyes on the women in skintight clothes below. He wore his typical uniform of dark slacks and a black button-down dress shirt with slicked-back blond hair. He got his style from the House of Patrick Bateman. She hoped he didn’t have a chainsaw in his penthouse, too.

  Rolling her shoulders to loosen up, she made her way onto the dance floor. The good thing about her hair was that it caught the lights from the DJ booth as they panned over the crowd. All she needed was for Darren to notice her, and she knew he’d ask her to come up to see him.

  She liked the song that was playing, some Rihanna remix, so she threw her hands in the air and wriggled her ass against some bro with a thick chain around his neck and a goatee. He was into it, and his breath smelled like whiskey, so she kept her inhales to a minimum until she was lightheaded.

  It wasn’t long before a hand wrapped around her waist, and she was drawn into a wall of human flesh. A deep voice said in her ear, “Saltner would like to buy you a drink on the VIP floor.”

  Bingo. She knew Darren’s ego would want a second chance to impress her. She peered up at the bouncer and batted her lashes. “Oh, really? I was about to go home, I think. I’m not sure…” She let her voice trail off as she nibbled her lip.

  The man’s eyes dropped to her mouth. “Just for a half hour.”

  She made a big show of thinking it over and even glanced up to see Darren watching them. Finally she sighed and wrung her hands. “Um, okay. I guess so.”

  The bouncer was probably three hundred pounds, so they cut through the crowd with ease and made their way over to the wide staircase that led to the second floor. Another bouncer unhooked a rope blocking their way to let them through. With each footstep, the dread in her stomach grew. She had to keep her wits about her, so she decided two things. No drinking. No moving to a second location.

  Fuck, she sounded like she was preventing a kidnapping.

  She took a deep breath and straightened her back. She could do this. Darren Saltner was just a club owner who was involved in an underground sex ring along with his dad, Arden, who committed hush-hush murder.

  No biggie.

  The music wasn’t as loud on the second floor. The bodyguard led her over to a couch in the shape of a crescent, occupied by about half a dozen people, and flanked by two guys who looked way more important than just bouncers. They wore suits, and she would have bet a hundred bucks they had concealed guns. Bodyguards, maybe? That was a red fucking flag. What club owner needed bodyguards? Darren sat in the middle of the couch watching her approach. He patted the empty space next to him, which would sandwich her between him and a woman who was half sitting in the lap of a man wearing jeans and a visible gun holster.

  Stupendous.

  “Lacy, right?” Darren asked, smiling his perfectly straight, white smile.

  Lacy Kim was an alias she’d had for years. On paper, Lacy was a single woman who came into money after her wealthy grandparents died. She’d recently moved to DC and had a nice apartment on U Street. Wren, however, had an apartment in Northwest DC.

  She nodded as she slid into the seat next to him. He handed her a highball glass with a clear liquid inside with a lime. “Mojito?”

  Yeah, sure, whatever. She placed her lips on the small black straw and pretended to drink. When she leaned forward to place the glass down on the table in front of them, her hair brushed his arm. He lifted a hand, running the ends between two fingers. “I thought this was a wig when I first saw you, but it’s real, isn’t it?”

  Why were they talking about her hair? “It’s real. Just dyed.”

  He smiled again, and her skin crawled. “I’ve been looking for you since last time you were here, when we got cut short.”

  She’d made an excuse that she had to leave, and he’d bought it. So now he was letting her off the hook for that excuse and was giving her a second chance not to bail. “Yeah, sorry. I’ve been busy.” She swallowed because the next words were not easily forthcoming. “I’m so glad you sent your man down for me. I was hoping I’d see you again.”

  His hand dropped from her hair to rest on her knee. The heat seared through her fishnets to settle on her skin like a brand. He squeezed, and she forced down the bile.

  “Is that r
ight?” he asked.

  She blinked, working hard to play the ingenue. “Of course. Me catching the eye of the owner of this awesome club? I’m honored.”

  He studied her. “You didn’t seem all that flattered last time.”

  Shit, shit. “I know, I’m sorry. I was having a bad night. Remember? My cat wasn’t feeling well.” Honestly, she’d blamed her mood on a nonexistent cat. She was an awful person.

  “Oh, that’s right. How is she?”

  Wren’s heart was pounding so loud that she was surprised he couldn’t hear it. “He.” She smiled, knowing he was trying to catch her in a lie. “My cat is a he, remember?”

  His smile grew bigger, and he laughed. “Right! He. How could I forget?”

  She shrugged and pretended to take another sip of her drink as his hand slid higher up her leg.

  She had to ball her fists so she didn’t shove his hands off her. She looked away, pretending to get caught up in the music. A woman was sitting at the end of the couch watching her carefully, and Wren smiled at her. She returned it tightly. Okay then, guess Wren wasn’t making best friends here.

  The two beside her were going to town on each other. The man’s hand was up the brunette’s skirt, and based on the sounds coming out of her mouth, Wren was pretty sure he wasn’t just grabbing a nice handful of ass.

  She eyed Darren’s hand on her leg and hoped it didn’t go much higher. He was talking to a man beside him now, and she shimmied a little dance to get closer to hear what they were saying.

  “—taken care of,” the other man said.

  “I’m not interested in getting involved in his business,” Darren said, flicking his wrist out to check the time on his gold wristwatch. “I only care about him fucking up and me getting blowback.”

  “There’ll be none, sir.”

  Darren nodded, and he changed the subject to something boring about the club’s upcoming renovations. She didn’t give a fuck about the renovations, but she could have used a little more of that previous conversation. What was taken care of?

  She wished she could drink, but no way in hell did she trust Darren not to slip something in it. As Darren’s hand on her thigh grew heavier, and his one finger slipped under her skirt, the first niggle of fear began to seep into her brain. She had a couple of exit strategies, but all would involve potentially damaging her reputation with Darren. That wasn’t something she wanted to risk. Not when she was pretty damn sure that previous conversation was about Flynn and Darren’s father’s business.

  Darren turned to her, his grin taking on a predatory leer. His hand slid under her skirt, and she sucked in a breath. He tugged slightly, urging her to spread her legs, and she counted to ten before glancing around and giving off a nervous laugh. “Darren, not here.”

  He tilted his head. “Ah, so you want privacy then?”

  Wait, no. That was not her intended consequence. “I’m not sure about tonight.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Why’s that?”

  She pursed her lips. “I require a little wining and dining.”

  Darren threw back his head and laughed. His hand left her thigh, and she breathed a sigh of relief until his arm snaked around her waist, and he tugged her to his chest. She braced herself with her hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes, her skin crawling, her heart pounding, as she lay sprawled over him. “What makes you think you’re so special that I’ll take that much time on you?”

  She licked her lips, and his gaze dropped. “I don’t know. You’re the one who called me up here and haven’t stopped touching me the entire time.”

  His breath coasted over her face. He smelled like whiskey and cologne, and she was going to have to take five showers to get the scent of him out of her hair after this. His hand slipped under her skirt and cupped one cheek of her ass. He squeezed, his lips tilting into a smirk. Ugh, she was going to throw up.

  Remember Flynn and Fiona. Remember revenge.

  “Mr. Saltner.” One of the bodyguard-looking men on the edge of the couch interrupted them. “So sorry, but we seem to have a security issue we need you to take a look at.”

  Darren didn’t take his eyes off her the whole time the man was speaking. He heaved a sigh and gently placed her back on the couch. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “Call me about that wining and dining,” he said. “Or I’ll find you.”

  She plucked the card from his fingers, feeling like she’d dodged a bullet. “Okay.”

  He nodded. “Have a good night, Lacy.”

  “You too.”

  He stood up and followed the man in the suit off the floor and down a hallway, to what she assumed was an office.

  She slipped the card into her pocket, then got the hell out of there as fast as she could.

  She burst through the front doors and walked to her bike with her head down, eager to get home and wash off this entire day. She hopped on her bike and was at her apartment complex in fifteen minutes—Wren’s apartment. Her alias Lacy had an apartment as well. She’d set up the second apartment shortly after moving to town, knowing she’d need to be prepared once she made contact with Darren.

  Wren parked and grabbed her helmet, then retrieved her Sig Sauer P220 from the pocket on her bike. She holstered it at her back and rummaged in her jacket pocket for her keys as she made her way to the sidewalk.

  A sound echoed off the brick building and shoved all her instincts into overdrive. She darted to the side, withdrawing her gun in a quick motion and leveling it on the source of the sound. The figure leaned forward, and she froze when she met the gaze of Roarke Brennan.

  He stood with his arms crossed over his chest. And he didn’t look happy. At all. “Put the gun down, little bird.”

  Well, now she was just embarrassed. With a frustrated grunt, she shoved the gun into her waistband and tried to act like nothing had happened. She cocked out a hip and waved. “Hey Roarke.”

  He didn’t speak for a long moment. “Darren Saltner is the thirty-five-year-old owner of Alpha who is just as bad as his father and is less good at hiding it.”

  She swallowed.

  Roarke wasn’t finished. “He’s been known to funnel drug sales through his club, and several women have brought sexual assault charges against him, only to drop them. And that’s just the tip of the shit sandwich of things he’s involved in.”

  She knew all of this. “Look—”

  “And after I told you to stay out of it, you drive back down here and go right to his club and cozy up to him? Seriously, Wren?”

  “Were you following me?”

  “Yes, I sure the hell was!”

  She scowled. “That’s rude.”

  “I don’t give a fuck,” he shot back. “I am rude. And I can’t believe you put yourself in that situation—”

  “I didn’t take the drink he offered me.”

  Roarke threw up his hands and turned his back on her, walking a few steps away before stopping abruptly and turning. “You didn’t take a drink from him. God, Wren, I—”

  “I got out of there fine!”

  Roarke stared at her incredulously. “Sure you did, because I raised an alarm on their security system so you could escape.”

  She forced down the growl that was roaring up her throat. Of course he interfered. “I’m not an idiot, Roarke!” She surged toward him. “I researched him, I know what he does and who he is. Tonight he mentioned something to his bodyguards that made me think he knows what his father is doing. And I intend to find out more.”

  “I can’t let you do this,” he gritted out. “You’re not prepared for this kind of work.”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing for the last ten years?”

  For the first time, uncertainty crossed his face. “You went to college, then you traveled.”

  “I traveled,” she said slowly. “I sure did.” She took another step closer, even though she knew what she said next was going to piss him the hell off. “I traveled all over as a for-hire hacker. And ever
ything I know, I learned from Dade Kelly.”

  Roarke didn’t move, didn’t blink. He went full wax sculpture on her for about ten seconds before his lips parted. “What? Erick said you were writing freelance for magazines and other publications. I saw the articles.”

  “Yep, I did do that, but that wasn’t all I was doing.” She spent her college years doing what she was told, becoming editor in chief of the school newspaper and everything. In her spare time, she was with a group of amateur hackers on campus, learning everything she could after what happened to her and Fiona. When she graduated, she tracked down Erick, Roarke, and Flynn, only to have Dade make her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

  Roarke didn’t seem to know what to do with this information. “Jesus Christ.”

  She pulled Darren’s card out of her pocket. “So anyway, I got his number, and I’m supposed to call him for a date. With your approval or not, I’m doing it.”

  “What if Darren knows nothing?”

  “I think he knows a lot. But even if he doesn’t, what’s the harm?”

  “What’s the harm? You wrapped up in that parasite!”

  “I can disappear,” she said quickly. “I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again.”

  Roarke rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, his mouth twisted into a grimace. “Fuck.”

  She took a step toward him, softening her voice. She didn’t want to argue with him. She was on his side. “I’m doing this for Flynn.” He didn’t need to know about her other plan yet. He’d be even less likely to say yes if he knew.

  At the sound of his brother’s name, Roarke’s shoulders slumped, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he ran a palm over his face. “I don’t like this.”

  “I don’t like any of this either.”

  Roarke studied her for a long time. “I guess I don’t really know you, do I?”

  She shrugged. “You knew me at one time, I guess. And I’m still Wren. I’m just…grown up.”

  She didn’t miss the way his gaze coasted down her body. His hazel eyes bored into her as he took a step closer. The air between them was charged, and a bead of sweat trickled down her back.