Savage

by Krista Holt

  “By all means, enlighten her,” Nic’s abrasive voice cuts in from behind me, his hand claiming my hip.

  DeLuca’s face turns into a sneer. “Perhaps that is another story for another time.” Concern for me flashes in his eyes. “I should probably tend to the ambassador.”

  “That would be an excellent idea,” Nic replies. “You’re excused.”

  “Best of luck, Miss Cooper. You’re going to need it.” He walks away, blending into the crowd.

  I don’t turn around, but Nic moves closer, pressing his chest into my back. “I’m not fond of people revealing secrets that aren’t theirs to tell, Reagan,” he growls in my ear.

  “I know. You prefer to keep everything a secret.” I face him, refusing to wilt under his dark stare. “Why did he call you that? Savage?”

  His jaw clenches, tightening the muscles of his unshaved throat. “It’s a bastardized translation of my last name. It’s become a nickname over the years.”

  “Was that so hard?”

  “I didn’t turn it into a confession,” he replies. “You did, by asking someone other than me.”

  “You would have brushed it off.”

  “Maybe I was waiting for the right time to tell you.”

  I’m not sure, but I get the sense that he’s talking about more than just his nickname. “And how long do I have to wait?”

  He drags me into a deserted corner. Irritation washes over his face, narrowing his gaze. “You’re really trying my patience tonight.”

  “Back at you, Savage.”

  “Don’t call me that. Ever.”

  My lips open to say it again, when he takes his hand from my waist, capturing my jaw. “Don’t.”

  I jerk my head back. “I’ve had enough of being ordered around for the evening.” I try to move away, but he grabs my wrist, halting me.

  “Let me go.”

  His dark eyes are trained on me, unwavering.

  “Let. Go,” I demand, louder this time, and the couple next to us turns around.

  He drops my hand instantly. “Don’t forget what I told you.”

  “Don’t make me chase you, Reagan. I will if I need to.” The words flow back to me, like I’m hearing them for the first time. But, I don’t care. I turn around anyway, dodging couples in my path, weaving my way to . . . anywhere, really. Anywhere I can breathe.

  I turn down a hall, picking up my pace. My heels hit the marble flooring harder. Every clap of my shoe on the stone takes me farther away from him. Spotting a sign for a women’s restroom, I duck inside and push the door closed.

  The lighting buzzes softly as I take a deep breath. I need to come up with a way out of here. One that doesn’t involve running into him. One that—

  The door swings open, and I catch his thunderous expression in the mirror’s reflection.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  He scowls at me before he flips the lock and stalks toward me. I take several steps back until my back hits the wall. He plants his hands on either side of me, and leans forward.

  “Why? Why do you always do this?” His voice is low, dark, and rough. “Why do you insist on running away from me? I will always chase you.”

  The dim florescent lighting casts a shadow over part of his face, making his promise seem anything but loving. My body shutters as a chill sweeps over me.

  His eyes slowly drag across my shoulders and back to my face, taking in the bumps now dotting my flesh. And then, he moves back, putting some space between us.

  “Let’s get to the root of this mood swing, shall we?” His hand agitatedly yanks his bowtie loose. “What do you want to know?”

  “Why doesn’t he like you?”

  “He doesn’t like my family. We’ve had disagreements over the years, and my father isn’t one to forgive easily.” He shrugs. “So, DeLuca doesn’t like me. I’ll live. The question is why does it bother you?”

  “Because I think you’re lying to me about something.” He pulls the tie from around his neck and wads it up in his hand. “I’m getting really tired of this cloak and dagger bullshit, Nic.”

  He tenses. I know he must be as tired of having this conversation as I am. It’s happened several times over the past few weeks, even the last few days. He’s not telling me everything, and I’m done waiting for an answer.

  His mouth opens. “I don’t—”

  “Lie to me, I know,” I cut him off. “But you aren’t exactly being up front with me, are you?

  “Just tru—”

  “Trust you,” I cut him off again. “Just trust you. You say that all the time. But, trust only goes so far.”

  “I’d like you to stop interrupting me,” he growls.

  “Then come up with some new platitudes,” I snap. “You’re getting a lot of use out of the old ones.”

  “What happened to calling a truce? I thought we agreed to one night.”

  “Because I can’t stop it,” I shout. “I can’t stop the questions that plague me every time your phone rings, every time you disappear for hours or days. I can’t silence them. I thought I could, but I can’t. I need to know. I have to know.”

  He stares at me, silent, breaking the lifeline I’m offering him piece by piece as each second passes. “I can’t tell you,” he finally says.

  I press shaky hands against the skirt of my dress. “I guess that’s it then.”

  “Reagan.”

  “Don’t say my name. Don’t.” I reach for the door. “I’m leaving.”

  “Stop this.” He grabs my wrist.

  “No.” I jerk my arm free. “I want you to remember this. This moment. When I gave you one last chance to tell me the truth. I want you to think about all the possibilities that could have been if you’d just confessed, because you aren’t giving me any other choice here.”

  His brow furrows. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that anything that happens after this moment, you brought on yourself.”

  The space between his brows pinches as he stares at me, exhaling slowly. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Tell me one thing that’s true. Just one thing.”

  “I love you. That’s the truth.”

  I stare at him, hoping for more, something substantial. Anything. I don’t get it. “That’s not enough.” I try to open the door again, my back to him, but his hand lands on it with enough force to slam it shut.

  “What part of me telling you that I love you makes you want to leave?”

  “Those are just words.” I yank on the door handle. It doesn’t budge. “I can’t trust someone whose words don’t match their actions. And yours don’t, they haven’t for a long time.” I tug at the handle again; it opens a little and then slams closed. “Please let me go.” I train my eyes on the door, refusing to look at him.

  “I don’t know what else to give you,” he says softly, his hand dropping from the door.

  I pull it open. “I didn’t ask you for anything other than the truth.”

  My steps take me back down the hallway, looking for the nearest exit.

  “I’ll take you home,” he says from behind me.

  “No. I mean it, Nic. Don’t you dare follow me.”

  He reaches out to grab hold of me, but he stops himself, letting his hands fall back to his sides. “Sweetheart.”

  “Don’t.”

  I walk away, stopping only once to make sure he isn’t trailing behind me. I weave through happy couples sipping on expensive liquor. They’re all so blissfully hopeful that I want to scream.

  I’m almost to the door when the countdown commences. For them, it’s a countdown to a New Year with new beginnings. New opportunities. To me, it’s like they’re counting down to the end of us. To the end of everything.

  Shouts of “Happy New Year!” echo in my ears as I step into the cold. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

  It must only look bleak to me.

  CHAPTER 33

  Nic

  I don’t know what to do abou
t Reagan.

  She’s back at work today, but she’s been ignoring me since our fight. She hasn’t returned my calls or texts. I call, she hits ignore. I text, she doesn’t respond.

  So this is how it feels . . .

  She’s always been the communicator. Always wanting me to open up, talk to her, and now, she’s gone silent. I’m not sure she hears me when I’m talking to her, or understands me. Like the other night, I thought I was spelling things out, I told her I loved her, and all she responded with was simmering rage. Betrayal. Anger so fierce, I wanted to take a step back. What I don’t understand is why?

  It’s like she’s pulling back, protecting herself. Waiting for . . . something. But what?

  My phone rings. It’s not her, but I answer it anyway. “Yeah?”

  “Nic. It’s Arnoldo.” The congressman.

  “Yeah, Arnoldo. What can I do for you?”

  “I have news.”

  “What?” My hand grips my forehead, rubbing my temples.

  “The committee has pulled together a list of names. They’re beginning the subpoena process in an hour.”

  I sit up a little straighter. “Who’s on it?”

  “That’s just it, I don’t know . . .”

  “What do you mean you don’t know? Are you not on the committee?”

  “I-I am. Yes. But Cameron is insisting that the list is kept quiet.”

  “Which means?”

  “No one but him and maybe a few people on his staff know. I can’t get you names. I tried, but he’s worried about it getting into the wrong hands.”

  Not a completely unwarranted concern, obviously. “That’s all?”

  “Yes, that’s everything.”

  “If that changes, I want to know.”

  “Of course.” He hangs up quickly.

  This isn’t good.

  * * *

  I shout her name the second she exits the Rayburn Building, steeling myself for her glare. She spots me and then looks around before marching across the street toward me.

  “You have a lot of nerve, you know that?”

  “I do.”

  “What are you doing here?” She crosses her arms over her chest.

  “You won’t call me back.”

  “Most people would interpret that as sign to leave the other person alone.”

  I shrug. “What can I say? I’m a little dense.”

  “A statement I can believe.” She continues to glare at me. “You need to go, Nic.”

  “That’s not going to work for me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re pissed; I get it. There’s a valid point behind all this . . . anger. But,” I pause, watching her, “I love you, and I’m not letting you cut me off over something this trivial.”

  “It’s hardly trivial.”

  “But it is.” I take a step toward her. “So, you don’t know everything about me. I don’t know everything about you. We’ll figure it out.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “What’s it going to take to put this behind us?” I hurl the words at her, letting my frustration with her, with this situation, rise to the surface. “I honestly don’t know what to do with you. I make a concession, and you throw it back in my face. Tell me what you want!”

  “A concession means nothing when you have no intention of keeping it.”

  “Give me a break here. Cut me some slack.” I close the distance between us, towering over her.

  “That’s just it.” She leans into me, unafraid. Her voice is harsh and her gaze scathing. “I’ve cut you enough slack to hang myself with. This will only end badly.”

  My jaw clenches at her words. “Reagan, this is what you do, you run. Every time. It has to stop being all or nothing. Stay with me. Let me tell you what I can, as I can. Stop running. Stay and fight with me.”

  She wavers, just for a moment. Her mouth opens and closes as she searches for the words and fails to find them. So I do what I always do, what I’m trained to do, exploit vulnerability.

  “Let me take you to dinner. We can talk through this there.”

  Her eyes dart around us nervously. “Fine.”

  I guide her to the car. She buckles her seatbelt, and I drive to a place off the beaten path, quiet and intimate.

  “So, I heard some chatter today about your boss?’’ I try to distract her from our fight.

  “Oh?” She keeps staring out the window, her back to me as much as it can be with the seatbelt pressing against her chest.

  “Something about narrowing a list of names down to a whistleblower.”

  “Really?”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Why would you care about something like that?” She shifts even farther away from me.

  “You might be surprised.”

  She pauses. “I would be, given what that list pertains to.”

  “That sounds salacious. And who doesn’t enjoy a good piece of drama?” I shove open my door and climb out of the car.

  “And that’s all it is? Gossip?” She gets out, glaring at me over the roof of the car.

  “I don’t want to fight with you.” I sigh. “It’s an innocent question.”

  Her eyes narrow, studying me. “Fine.”

  It’s in the way she says it though, that tells me it anything but fine. She’s still angry, and so am I.

  We enter and wait for the hostess to seat us somewhere in the back of the restaurant. I order us some wine. When our food arrives, I eat mine while Reagan picks at hers.

  “Where were you last week?” She stares at me from across the table.

  I take another bite of the steak on my plate. “Right before Christmas?”

  “Yes.”

  New York, but that doesn’t explain . . .”Why do you want to know?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I was home. Now, eat.”

  “In New York?” Her fork remains on the table.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I needed to do something for my father.”

  “You? There wasn’t someone else to do that?”

  “No. There wasn’t. Why are you asking me about this now?”

  She shrugs as the waitress comes by to check on the meal. “Can I get you anything else?”

  I’m about to order some tiramisu, which I know Reagan likes, when she speaks up. “Just the check, please.”

  Huh. I guess we’re leaving.

  “Oh, okay. I’ll be right back.” The waitress leaves just as quickly as she appeared.

  “We’re leaving?” I push my plate away from me, no longer hungry.

  “I am.”

  My back hits the chair as I study her. “What the hell just happened?”

  “Nothing. We came; you ate. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

  “What I wanted was for you to get over this.”

  “And I wanted to be left alone for a while. I guess neither of us is getting what they want.”

  I take the black booklet from the waitress and slap some bills in it, probably tipping her more than the meal cost. “I don’t understand where we went wrong.”

  She gets up as I slide out of the booth, and I almost miss her reply. “You should have never come back.”

  My hand catches her elbow, hurrying us outside. “Don’t say that.”

  She pulls away, shaking her head. “This has to be over, Nic. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t.”

  “I’m telling you, don’t do this. Not now.”

  “When would be a better time?” she asks, tone vicious. “After you break my heart a few more times? When you disappear for the fourth and fifth time, only to reappear with some shitty explanation?” She looks at me, tears in her eyes. “What happens when one time you just don’t come back? What happens to me then?”

  “That’s not going to happen. I promise.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she shouts, the words echoing in the semi-empty parking lot. “I can’t do this anymore. I have to
do what’s best for me.”

  “What about us?”

  “There is no us, not anymore.”

  I feel that in my bones. It ages me. Her hand swipes at the corner of her eye, and I finally realize how fragile she is. She is bound to fall apart if one more thing fractures. She’s barely holding it together, and that’s on me. She wasn’t like that when I found her as a blissful, innocent college student.

  “I’m trying to fix it,” I utter.

  “You’re trying to fix something that doesn’t exist anymore. Don’t you see that?”

  “Reagan, please.” My hand catches her elbow again.

  “All the pleases in the world don’t fix this, Nic.”

  I pull her into my arms, tucking her head under my chin, like I used to. Trying to rekindle something that’s dying before my eyes. She stiffens in my embrace, refusing to yield even an inch.

  “This can’t be it. Not now, not after everything,” I whisper, more to myself than to her. Even admitting that this might be the end burns. I thought if I could be here, with her, if I could show up enough, she’d forgive me. It didn’t work.

  We stand beside the car, not moving. I hold onto her, but she hasn’t touched me. She’s already let me go.

  “Reagan . . .” And then my damn phone rings.

  She rips herself away from me and jerks open the car door. Slamming it closed, she cuts herself off from me. And it shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.

  The phone rings again, uncaring of my misery. I tap the screen and press it to my ear. “What?”

  “Nicola,” my father responds. “What’s going on with the committee?”

  I glance at Reagan and then move away from the car, not wanting her to overhear. “They sent out subpoenas today. Arnoldo doesn’t know who is getting them though. The Chairman’s keeping the list quiet.”

  “And?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Work harder. Aren’t you using that girl?”

  “Yeah.” I look back at the car, straining to see Reagan’s outline in the dark. “But I’m not sure she knows anything.”

  “There’s a time to be gentle and a time to be harsh, and we’re all out of gentle. You know how to make people talk. Do it. I don’t care how messy it gets. Hurt her if you have to. Kill her if you must. Either way, get me some damn answers.”

  “I understand,” I reply, despite the fact that my stomach is somewhere around my feet. He hangs up, and the hand holding my phone drops to my side.