Tinged (The Electric Tunnel Book 3)

by Rachel Blaufeld

  “Sammy,” she said under her breath.

  “What did you just say?” He locked in on her face and stared her down. When she only shook her head again, he demanded, “Speak up, Lynx.”

  “Sammy. I need to find her.”

  “What the fuck? Why?” He cocked his head to the side and waited for an answer.

  “She’s my sister. Half sister. My dad had her a long time ago, about the same time as me, with his other woman.”

  Dane blew out a long breath. “This is an interesting twist. Fuck!” He banged his head into the headrest. “How didn’t anyone figure this shit out?” he muttered, then mumbled a few other swear words to himself.

  “She wrote to me in Miami and then showed up at my door one day, telling me about a sheik who wanted her to come live with him. He wanted her to be his sexual servant, harem girl, whatever, in exchange for lots of money and a life of luxury. She was afraid because he’d met her through some pimp in Arizona . . . I guess selling ourselves is in our blood, same profession and all that. Anyway, she wanted to know if I thought this shit was legit. I don’t know why she trusted me.”

  Lynx took a long breath. “Then poof, she disappeared. When Bruno mentioned he had this connection, I jumped on it. Jesus, why am I telling you all this like you’re some white knight? For all I know, you’re playing me too.”

  She sealed her mouth tight and refused to say any more. This guy made one mention of Carson, and she started running off at the mouth.

  “You have to go now, Lynx, and I’ll tell you this. I have Sammy or Samara, so you’re in luck.”

  “What?”

  “Go! I’ll have to fill you in later. I need to go back and get your lover’s friend so I can live to tell you. Go to Carson. Tell him Landon sent you.”

  THAT NIGHT, they left the Middle East on an unrecorded flight to Grand Cayman Island, where they planned to get on another plane to Florida. The two women sat across from each other bundled in blankets, staring into space.

  Quiet reigned the entire flight. No one asked any questions of the women or demanded any answers. Carson messaged people from his phone upon landing in the islands. Dane—who revealed his real name was Landon—typed on his phone too.

  All this time, Lynx and Marta remained perfectly mute.

  Lynx wanted to see her sister, but she didn’t want to see Mike. She also wondered what the hell Marta was doing involved in this . . . and why did she stick her neck out for her? People didn’t do that for Lynx.

  Or did they?

  God, it was complicated. Here she was on a flight back to the States with Carson Graham—the former FBI agent who was married to Natalie’s husband’s best friend, the former stripper Sienna Flower—to supposedly be greeted by her very own ex-lover, the man who held her heart.

  Big Mike Wind.

  Michael.

  Six months later

  LYNX CLOSED her eyes as she bent over into downward dog. Breathing in through her nose and then exhaling, she tuned out everything but the instructor leading the class, calling out poses, encouraging them to breathe and clear their minds. For seventy-five minutes, her mind enjoyed a respite from the nonstop chatter and self-berating that was all her own doing. Through the entire series of balancing poses, Lynx freed herself from thinking about Michael and how she’d mucked up both his life and hers.

  Mostly his.

  In the final pose, she lay like a corpse and enjoyed her last few moments of solitude. As soon as the instructor released them, reality smacked her square in the chest.

  Literally. As she stood to fold up her mat, someone bumped into her.

  “Excuse me,” a peppy, light, and airy feminine voice said in her ear.

  Lynx turned toward the woman who had run into her.

  Marta. The other woman.

  But she really wasn’t the other woman because Lynx had left, vanished. It was Lynx who had decided to up and run to a dangerous foreign land under self-deprecating pretenses, looking for her own bounty—her sister. In doing so, she’d ruined her life, as well as Dane’s—or Landon’s, or whoever the hell he was. And she’d destroyed Mike and Marta’s chances too.

  Marta could have made Mike happy. They could have had a life. Probably a good one.

  Of course, Marta had fallen hard for Mike. Who wouldn’t? Except he’d been stuck on her—Lynx.

  “No worries,” Lynx muttered and continued to gather up her yoga props.

  “Oh. Hey, Lynx. I didn’t know you went here,” Marta said in a friendly tone. Of course, the one woman who was forced to have her heart broken because of Lynx was the nicest person ever.

  “Yeah, I got a membership a few weeks ago.” Lynx frowned, already reconsidering the one-year membership Asher had given her.

  “Nice. I hear you’re back in school.”

  Fucking Mike. Could he just forget her or something?

  Trying not to roll her eyes, Lynx said, “Taking a few summer classes and seeing how I like it.”

  Marta smiled at her. “Asher’s here for a few days. He told me you went back to school. I thought that was awesome. I should do that too.”

  Lynx was wrong. It hadn’t been Mike who’d told Marta, but Asher. Maybe Mike had moved on?

  When she’d come back, Asher had been in Miami, pacing like a lunatic, waiting for her and Marta to arrive safely. Lynx had never been super close with him, but since he’d married Natalie—the one person Lynx really adored—she couldn’t help but gravitate to the generous yet gruff man.

  He’d held her while she cried.

  He’d rented her an apartment . . . big enough for her sister too.

  He’d given her computer work she could do at home, and set her up with tuition for school.

  He’d gone home and sent Natalie to stay for a few days. Nat had set Lynx up with a therapist, who she quit immediately.

  Asher was determined to get Lynx’s life back on track, even when she wasn’t so sure if that could be done.

  “Oh, that’s nice. I mean, that Asher’s here, but if you want to go back to school, that’s nice too. I guess Asher’s keeping up with the hotel project?” Lynx stumbled over her words, unsure if she should be standing here talking to this woman.

  Lynx didn’t have to feign interest in Asher. After all that he had done for her, she was invested in the strip-club owner with a heart of gold. Or platinum.

  But Marta?

  “Yeah. It’s going pretty well. Ahead of schedule. Anyway, he said you’re thinking of going back to school for a degree in business. Sweet!”

  Christ on a cracker, this Marta is too nice for her own good.

  What was it to her? Why did she care?

  Lynx nodded. “Yeah, maybe. I’ll see what happens. How about you? How are you doing?” She could at least try to be nice—this chick had put her life on the line for her.

  Marta reached out and ran her palm down the length of Lynx’s arm and back up again, leaving it on her shoulder. With their skin together, they could pass for sisters. It made sense why Mike gravitated toward her, but their personalities were polar opposites. For every ounce of Marta’s optimism, Lynx oozed buckets of pessimism.

  “I’m good, really. I was only in that sick place for a minute, but you? You lived there a long time. A year, right? Sometimes, late at night, I worry about you.”

  Really?

  Lynx stepped back, granting herself some much-needed personal space and freeing her arm as she went on the defensive. She’d made a choice and now she was moving on—or so she convinced herself. There was no reason for her to keep reliving her choices, yet she did.

  “It was my choice. My doing.”

  Marta cocked her slight hip to the side, the bone protruding through her hot pink yoga pants, her messy bun flopping to the opposite side. “You should come down to the club, have a cocktail or something.”

  “I’m really trying to get my shit together, but thanks for the offer.”

  “Shit, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just I had to go ba
ck to work . . . I didn’t mean you.”

  Lynx frowned. The conversation was getting increasingly more disjointed.

  “It’s cool, Marta. Let it go, okay? I gotta go. See you around.”

  Lynx tossed her yoga block and water bottle into her bag and headed toward the door.

  “He’s not doing so well, you know,” Marta called after her. “Puts on a good face and all that, but he’s a wreck. If you could just let him see you, see you’re doing okay . . . please, Lynx? Let him cast his eyes on you.”

  Why, oh why, does she have to be so nice?

  Lynx didn’t answer or even bother turning around. If there was one person she didn’t want to see, it was Mike.

  She was dirty, tainted goods, not deserving of all the beauty that man brought with him.

  Why couldn’t he watch Marta dance and fall for her all over again?

  SAMARA WAS on the love seat when Lynx arrived home from yoga, her legs tossed over the armrest, her hands moving briskly across her drawing pad.

  She was making slow progress in healing like Lynx, but better.

  Apparently, life on the other side of the fence hadn’t been as great as Lynx had always believed. While Lynx nursed daddy issues her whole life, Samara had dealt with self-esteem blows. One after the other, their dad had thrown emotional punches.

  Samara has evil eyes. She needs more curves. She’ll never make a man happy. She’s a stupid white girl in a black woman’s body.

  Lynx learned of all this after the two had been rescued. Landon had dropped Samara off with Lynx after picking her up from spending time with a friend of his.

  Apparently, Samara had been pretty hopped up on pills toward the end of her stay with Zayid, a fringe benefit of blowing your security detail on the side, so she’d spent some time drying out once they made it back to the States. Going above and beyond, Landon had set her up with a friend of his—a woman named Mariah—who helped get Samara somewhat straight.

  Mariah had comforted Samara, but she craved family, something she’d never had. Shacking up with Lynx had been a dream come true for her.

  It was mutual. It was all Lynx had ever dreamed of too . . .

  THE NIGHT she’d arrived, Samara had come clean, explaining how their dad had been just another prick in a long lineup of pricks they’d come to know. She told Lynx about all the awful things he used to say.

  “I wish I would’ve looked for you sooner. When my mom told me, I was mad for so long,” Lynx had muttered into Samara’s shoulder as the two embraced on the couch.

  Too many tears were shed that evening, but it had to be done.

  “I’m sorry,” Lynx told her sister. “I was jealous. You had our dad and I didn’t. My mom told me your name, Samara Bennett, and I couldn’t help but dream about the man with the last name Bennett.”

  “You didn’t know,” Samara whispered back, sliding Lynx’s braids out of her face.

  “But I could’ve been there sooner. I could’ve told Mike or Carson or someone. I didn’t.”

  “How did you finally find out where I was? I thought I was completely under the radar.”

  Lynx stared at the floor, embarrassed to admit the truth. “I knew a guy, a client, who was a DEA agent. One night after we were finished, I mentioned finding you to him. The next time I saw him, he gave me the name of your old pimp. From what I gathered, he sold some info to the Feds, and in his statement, he mentioned getting a pretty penny for an introduction to you.”

  Samara shook her head. “I can’t believe it. Stew was always a creep.”

  “Lucky for you that Stew told someone. That must be where Landon got his tip from.”

  “I’ll have to ask him one day. We haven’t really talked about it.”

  “You only have to talk about what you want.”

  “I know. So, after the agent told you, what did you do?”

  “I started sniffing around about getting over there . . . with the sheik. Mike was antsy for me to get out of the trade, but I was in too deep. It wasn’t fair to him, but I couldn’t leave my inner circle. Then it was blind luck when Bruno mentioned his contact.”

  “Thank you, Lynx. Thank you for risking everything for me. Thank you a million times.”

  The pair had ended back up in an embrace, crying it all out, hugging each other and never wanting to let go.

  “Now I have a sister,” Lynx had whispered.

  “Me too,” Samara had whispered back.

  “HOW WAS class?” Samara asked now, stretched out with a cranberry-colored chenille blanket tossed over her legs, and the news on.

  Watching the news had become somewhat of an obsession for her. She was paranoid someone was coming to get her or war was starting . . . or any number of crazy scenarios. Her therapist told her to stop, and advised Lynx to ignore her conspiracy theories when she picked up Samara one day. At least Samara still went to the shrink, unlike her. Apparently, once Sammy felt safe again, the doctor had said, her fears would begin to dissipate.

  “Eh, Marta goes to that gym. I should’ve known when Ash gave us the membership . . . probably all the girls at the club belong there. But since I’ve been going early in the morning, I’ve missed them.”

  Lynx sat opposite Samara in a taupe chair, her legs tucked under her, and pulled her hair out from the bun. With her braids falling down her back, she blew out a breath. “She all but begged me to see Mike. Said he’s doing bad.”

  Samara clicked off the TV. “Yeah, Landon said he heard the same from Carson.”

  “What? How often do you talk with Landon?”

  “He calls me sometimes. To catch up.”

  Lynx thought that was definitely interesting, but didn’t push. He’d certainly looked a lot different the last time she saw him. His black hair had grown out into a short buzz, and he’d not been wearing his frown. In fact, he’d even smiled a little, his teeth white and straight.

  “I’m going to shower, and then do you want to take a walk on the beach?”

  “Yep. I’m off today, but tomorrow, I have a double. Sunday, gotta love drunk men and their football.”

  Samara was bartending at a chic steak place, making serious bank on tips. Over the last few months, she’d developed a following who came in during her shift.

  “Give me ten.”

  Lynx hit the shower, hurrying because for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to think about seeing Michael.

  Visions from the night she got off the plane bombarded her. In her mind’s eye, she saw him standing there, his jeans stretched on his wide thighs, his track jacket zipped up tight, and basketball shoes only partly laced on his feet as he waited for her.

  She’d ignored him, brushing by him and heading into Asher’s open arms—a man she barely knew in comparison.

  THE CLUB was packed. It was New Designer Fashion Week or some shit in Miami, and we were definitely feeling the surge . . . in a good fucking way.

  Sampson held the back door open for me; he’d driven me over to the hotel and waited while I checked on the day’s progress. Place was almost done. Once we’d leveled the lot, shit went up quick with Asher paying top dollar.

  “I’m going to check on the front, and then see what Staci needs, okay, boss?”

  I nodded, and Sampson split off down the hallway while I went to my office. I wasn’t needed on the floor at all. Staci had the place running tight. Last month, Playboy called to interview her. She was officially the youngest woman to run a gentleman’s club. It didn’t hurt she had Asher and Lila backing her, but still . . . I couldn’t help but be proud.

  Speaking of pride, my dad was right proud of me. In a few months, I was going to follow in his footsteps and be a hotelier.

  With no one or nobody waiting for me at home.

  Congratulations, Michael Anthony Wind! Not even a college graduate and a rich motherfucker, a soon-to-be hotel proprietor and heir to the Wind hotel fortune. Hell, heir to your mother’s family money too. You’re one fucking amazing guy.

 
Asher had told me to be patient and happiness would come to me. What the hell did he know about doing that? He’d blasted into Natalie’s life and never left after he found out her kid was his. He was no Oprah.

  Seated behind my desk at the Wave, I checked the monitors. Every couch and seat was full. I caught Sampson chasing Staci around the floor until his palm met her lower back.

  “Fuck,” I grumbled to myself. Those two were involved . . . I fucking knew it. I’d thought it for some time.

  Oh well, she needed a big man at her side. At six five and three hundred pounds of muscle, Sampson wasn’t going to let anyone get in her way. So, there you have it. The strip club owner marries the bouncer, or some shit like that.

  Hey, I was a bouncer for the last decade or more. Yeah, now I owned the joint and was building a hotel, but I’d always be a protector at heart. I’d wormed my way in with Asher years ago, showed up on the Tunnel’s doorstep, and now fucking look at me.

  Only thing missing was my lady, who wouldn’t only not look at me, she wouldn’t give me the time of day.

  I got that she’d been through hell, slept with a bunch of johns and had been Girl Number One to some freaking rich-ass sheik. I still wanted her, no matter how broken she was. I’d put her back together, stitch her up inside and out, and love her until she was whole.

  Didn’t she get that?

  Yep, it was that time of day when the melancholy took over . . . another thing Asher warned me about. He’d fished me out of the bottom of a bottle many a time; now he didn’t want me deep diving into Jack anymore.

  I pulled a bottle out of my drawer and grabbed the shot glass from the corner of my desk. I tossed back two shots of my main man and leaned back in my chair. I’d let my hair grow long again, so I shoved it out of my eyes and squeezed them tight.

  Behind my eyelids, there she was . . . Lynx. Pretty, serene, her braids let down, her eyes sparkling. She was smiling at me.