by G. K. Parks
“No, I think we’re done here.” I glared at Mark, my voice venomous.
“Alex,” Mark sounded apologetic, “I’m sorry, it’s just–”
“I’m not feeling well. Coming out tonight was a bad idea. I’ll just grab a cab and head home.” I stood up, and the room spun uncontrollably. I reached for the bar, but Martin snaked his arm around my waist, steadying me.
“Easy.” His grip loosened as I took a couple deep breaths and the room stopped moving. “I’ll take you home.” He got up from the bar as I freed myself from his grasp.
“It’s okay. I can manage.”
“I’ll take you home,” he repeated more forcefully. He shot a glance at Mark as I made my way to the front door.
“Keep an eye on her,” Mark said, and Martin trailed me out of the bar.
“Are you okay?” Martin asked as I teetered on the sidewalk. Not waiting for an answer, he wrapped his arm around my shoulders while we waited for Marcal to bring the car around.
“Long day. Long flight. Drinking wasn’t a smart decision.” I looked up at him. He had seen my wrists and chest but had yet to mention either. “Thank you.” He opened the door, and I got into the car.
“When was the last time you had anything to eat?” He gently brushed my hair from my face, trying to determine why I was the color of a sheet.
“Um, good question.” I frowned, unable to recall. “Yesterday, I think.”
“Crash dieting is never a good idea,” he joked. “How does Chinese sound? We can split some takeout. You did agree to dinner.”
“Okay.” I was just relieved to be away from Mark and his annoying insistence on continuing an absolutely pointless conversation. Finding some relief in the cold glass of the window, I studied Martin as he called in our order.
When he was done, he put the phone away and looked at me. “I did miss you. How was Paris?”
“Awful. French toast and French fries may never be eaten again because it was just that horrible.”
“I’m sorry.”
I was mesmerized by those gorgeous green eyes. The eyes I thought I would never see again. God, what the hell was wrong with me.
“How was the flight?” he asked.
“Dammit. Thanks for that, too. It was so much better than commercial.”
“Told you.” His eyes focused on the burns on my chest, but he kept his mouth shut. His driver pulled to a stop in front of my building, and Martin came around and opened my door. I climbed the stairs slowly under Martin’s watchful gaze.
“Why didn’t you have your business dinner tonight?” I poured myself a glass of water and some scotch for Martin. He took the glasses and carried them to the coffee table in front of the couch.
“Luc and Vivi wanted a chance to get settled at the hotel to combat the jetlag.” He took a sip. It wasn’t the fifty-year-old Macallan he was used to, but he didn’t complain.
“I know that feeling.” Although, my exhaustion was linked to days of not sleeping or not sleeping enough. I slumped against the arm of the couch, resisting the urge to crumple completely into the sofa cushions. Sitting sideways, I pulled my knees to my chest and faced him. “I ruined your evening.”
“You didn’t. We’re having dinner, which is all I want.” He looked unsure of what to say since he was on his best behavior. “What was all that about with Mark?”
“Long story, but the short version is he wants me to go back to work.”
Martin pressed his lips together, lost slightly in thought. “Back to the OIO?” I nodded and sighed. “But you don’t want to?”
“I can’t,” I replied quietly. Luckily, I was saved by the doorbell. “Who is it?” I didn’t want to get up and look through the peephole, find my handgun, and then answer the door. Asking seemed simpler.
“Chinese delivery,” a man called.
Martin put his hand on my knee. “I got it.” He paid the man and took the box of Chinese takeout. “Where should I put this?”
“Coffee table.” An insane amount of food poked out of the box. “How much did you order? Are we having a party?”
“I wasn’t sure what you like,” he rationalized, handing me a pair of chopsticks. He opened each of the boxes, announcing the contents as he went. I selected the carton of orange chicken, and we ate in silence.
Despite the fact I hadn’t eaten since yesterday, I wasn’t hungry. Maybe I was too tired to eat. Picking individual grains of rice out of the carton with my chopsticks, I flexed my wrist to see which tendons ached the most. Martin was curiously observing this when the phone rang.
Getting up, I grabbed the cordless phone from the charger and glanced at the caller ID. It had a French country code. “Sorry,” I muttered, answering.
“Alex?” It was Ryan. “How was your flight? Did you get home safely?”
“It was fine.” I sat back down on the couch while Martin cleared the table and placed the leftovers in my refrigerator. He wanted to give me some privacy. “Did we get Abelard?”
“Not yet. We have his photo posted at the airports and train stations. His passport has been added to the watchlist. He’s not going anywhere. We will find him.”
Bad news, that’s just great, I thought. I picked up the pillow, placed it flat on the couch cushion, and laid against it. “Any leads?” Under normal conditions, I would be pacing, but right now, I wasn’t much for moving.
“We’re working on it.”
“Was he tipped off? Is that how we missed him? Please don’t tell me there’s a leak.”
“I don’t think so. After Tuesday night, he’s being careful.”
“Can’t imagine why. It’s not like he tortured a police informant.” Something clattered in the kitchen, and I remembered Martin was still in earshot.
“We should have moved in sooner,” Ryan said, angry about the way things had gone.
“It’s not your fault. It’s his, so just make sure you get the bastard. Keep me updated.”
“I will.”
“Hey, Ryan, be careful. Abelard is a crazy, dangerous son of a bitch. It’s not a good mix.” My voice reflected worry, and Martin came over to the couch and studied me. His brow furrowed. I gave him a small smile for reassurance.
“I’ll talk to you later.” Ryan disconnected, and I put the phone on the table and sunk into the pillow.
“Goddammit.” I slapped my palm against the cushion.
“What’s wrong?” Martin asked.
Realizing I was taking up the entirety of the couch, I sat up and moved the pillow out of the way. Immediately, he sat down, grabbed the pillow and placed it on his lap, before gently pulling me back down. One of his hands stroked my hair while he wrapped the other around my torso. Feeling at ease for the first time in days, I shut my eyes and felt my rigid posture relax.
“A sick, sadistic son of a bitch got away, again.” I opened my eyes and looked up at him. He was staring at my wrist, resting over his arm. Why didn’t I bandage everything before going out tonight?
“Did he kill Jean-Pierre?”
“I guess it’s time to catch you up. Jean-Pierre’s not dead. I wish he was dead. Probably wouldn’t have minded killing him myself.” I hoped I was only over-embellishing. “No, instead he betrayed everything and everyone.”
“Did he do this to you?” Martin’s jaw muscles clenched, and it was time we talked about the elephant in the room. He gently lifted my hand in his and brushed his thumb ever so slightly over my scraped knuckles.
“No. Not directly.” I paused, considering what to say. “We don’t need to talk about this.”
“Okay.” He studied my face. “But you know, I am a good listener. World class, in fact. In case you ever want to talk about anything, I’m around.”
My lips curled at the corners. “World class, really?”
“Close enough. You should know. Didn’t you call a few nights ago, just to talk?” My face fell as I remembered the pre-op jitters and the feeling of impending doom. Why didn’t I listen to my instincts more car
efully? I should have noticed the inconsistency with the VHS delivery. “Alex?” He realized he said something wrong.
“The night I called you, it was the day before this happened. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t pinpoint it. I just needed to hear your voice.” I swallowed uncomfortably. “The next day, I was grabbed off the street and held in a warehouse for almost six hours.” I felt unsteady. Even though I was prone, the room wobbled. “I didn’t know if I was going to get out of there.” He tensed beneath me and lifted my hand in his, trying to gain insight from my injuries. “That was a combination of fighting with Ryan, the cop who just called, and some thugs in a warehouse.” Martin’s touch was gentle as it slowly moved to my wrist, careful not to touch any of my injured flesh. Instead, he rotated my arm, watching the rope burns and cut marks circle my wrist like a macabre bracelet. “I was hung by my wrists.” I swallowed. Mark better be happy I was talking to someone.
“Wait, what?” His face contorted as he tried to make sense of my words and the picture I was painting for him.
“Tied up and hung from a hook. In case you ever wondered, rope is an incredibly unpleasant object.”
His jaw clenched, but he remained silent as his eyes bore into the depths of inhumanity. After carefully releasing my arm, his hand worked its way up to my shoulder and traced the slice along my clavicle.
“Dagger.” Part of me was back in the warehouse, experiencing the terror all over again. “The guy who grabbed me liked his toys but thought going a bit old school with a blade might make more of an impact.”
Martin’s hand stopped moving, and I looked up to see anger and sorrow in his eyes. The things I said were unfathomable to him. His life was business and cocktail parties, a place where maids and chauffeurs catered to his every whim.
“How? Why?” He didn’t understand. He couldn’t comprehend, and I never wanted him to.
“It’s okay.” My voice was barely above a whisper. Nodding, I gave him unspoken permission. He hesitated before drawing an outline around my burnt and blistered flesh with his fingers. I locked on to his eyes, afraid if I shut mine, I’d open them to find myself back in that warehouse, having never left. Maybe I should stop now. I didn’t need to revisit the warehouse, and he didn’t need any more details. Too much had already been said, but I couldn’t stop myself. It would never be over if I didn’t finish the story and file it away. “Electric shock by something resembling a cattle prod. He wanted information, and in a few more seconds, I would have told him anything. Done anything.” I inhaled sharply and shut my eyes tightly, forcing the panic away.
“Alex,” his voice was saving me from that place, “you can stop. I don’t…you don’t need to…”
“I wanted to die.” This was the first time I verbalized it, but it was the truth. “I screamed myself hoarse, hoping my heart would stop. I just wanted it to stop.” He stopped circling the burn pattern and wrapped his arm around me again, his grip tight against my side, firmly keeping me in the present. “I just wanted it to be over.”
Martin was afraid to move for fear of hurting me. His face dropped, and his features darkened. I said too much, and I moved my hand to rest on top of his forearm, hoping we could both find some solace.
“But you’re okay?” he asked. His voice sounded harsh against the silence.
“Just a little worse for wear.” I tried to smile since I was safe at home.
“Really?” The green irises bore into me, searching for something to grasp on to.
“Exhausted and dehydrated, but fine other than the occasional room spins.” Self-preservation reigned supreme, and my ingrained gallows humor kicked in. “My muscles are a bit achy from hanging around and all the electric shock therapy, though.” I chuckled. My defenses were working again. “Nothing major.”
He took a deep breath and stopped playing with my hair long enough to swallow the rest of his scotch. “I’m glad you’re home and you’re safe.” He watched me, as if I were a porcelain doll teetering on the edge of a shelf.
Well, since we’re being sappy and dramatic, might as well kill two birds with one stone, I reasoned. “For now. Martin, this is where I live. These things keep happening. In the unlikely event I lose my mind and go back to work with Mark, these types of things could be in my future or worse.” I looked at him sadly. “Hell, even if I don’t go back to the OIO, trouble follows me around. I’m a jinx.”
“You’re not a jinx.”
“Regardless,” I took a breath, steeling my nerves, “this is why you should run for the door and never look back.” The protest formed on his lips, but I pushed on. “But I’m tired. Exhausted, actually.” I graced him with a brief smile. “I’m tired of fighting you on this. If you insist on becoming involved with me, at least now you have all the facts. You have my recommendation to leave and not look back but whatever. You like your unilateral decision-making skills, so have at it.”
“Okay.” Not quite the response I expected. I wondered when he’d head for the nearest exit, but his arm remained around me. My eyes closed, and I knew falling asleep right now wouldn’t earn me any hostess of the year awards. “We’ll take things slow,” he said at last. I turned my head and looked up at him. “We can re-evaluate when and if the time comes.” He leaned down and kissed me compassionately. It wasn’t sexy or impulsive or any of the things our kiss in the hotel hallway had been. He was scared, and I was to blame. “Just so you know,” he whispered, “I’ve been waiting to do that all night.”
“You need to work on your material. It’s old and tired, just like me.” Letting out a sigh of relief, I turned toward the television and grabbed the remote off the table. “Sorry, I’m not very entertaining at the moment.” I handed him the remote. “Don’t feel obligated to stay and keep me company. I’m perfectly content turning in early.”
“Nonsense.” He flipped on the TV and channel surfed. “Get some rest. I’ll get out of here when I’m ready.”
Closing my eyes, I laced my fingers over his while he continued to absently play with my hair.
The pillow moved upward slightly, and then it gently eased back into place. Whatever was causing the room to spin was starting to get on my nerves.
“Alex.” Martin’s voice was barely above a whisper. I opened my eyes to find him standing above me. “I’m sorry to wake you, but I didn’t want to frighten you.”
I didn’t know how long I had been asleep, but I assumed he was on his way out. Muttering something unintelligible, I shut my eyes. He cradled me against his chest and lifted me off the couch.
“You’re going to hurt your shoulder,” I mumbled as he carried me into my room and laid me gently on the bed.
He pulled the blanket over me and kissed my forehead. “I’ll be on the couch, if you need anything.”
I was asleep before he made it to the door.
Twenty-five
There was little recollection from the night before. Everything blended into a colorful blur as I opened my eyes and turned my head toward the intrusive sound. The phone was ringing. I leaned toward my nightstand and squinted at the caller ID. It was Mark. I ignored it and reached for the glass of water instead.
“Ow.” My shoulders and back protested. Not moving for an extended amount of time made my sore muscles stiffen into uncomfortable knots. Giving up on the water, I rolled over on my stomach and buried my head in the pillow as I waited for the ringing to cease.
“Alex?” Martin’s voice permeated through my sleep-filled brain. “Are you okay?”
Being too tired to open my eyes or roll over to face the door, I couldn’t be sure if he was standing in my bedroom or if I was dreaming. The mattress dipped down as he sat on the edge of the bed, indicating he probably wasn’t a figment of my unconscious psyche.
“Sore back,” I mumbled, nestling further into the bedding.
Without another word, he swept my hair to the side. His feather-light touch began at my shoulders and slowly and gently continued down my spine. I was on the cusp of oblivion wh
en his hands reached the juncture underneath my shoulder blade and along my ribcage. I let out a whimper, and my body involuntarily drew itself into a ball as his slight touch hit a particularly tender spot. Instantly, he withdrew his hands, uttering countless apologies. If I wasn’t so close to sleep, I would have said something, but instead, I let his words turn into white noise as I drifted off.
What must have been hours later, I surfaced from under the covers. Sleep had done wonders. My body was no longer sore, and the room had stopped spinning. Sitting up in bed, I could see Martin at my kitchen table, surrounded by a sea of paperwork. He stayed the night to take care of me, which was not the way I wanted things to begin between the two of us.
I grabbed some clothing and went into the bathroom. As I showered and dressed my wounds, I regretted everything I said to him last night. He shouldn’t be aware of the things I experienced. After all, he had gone through quite enough in the last year as it was. This was exactly why we were always cautioned not to do anything life changing after traumatic situations. Assessing myself in the mirror, I knew things were going to get awkward.
When I opened the bathroom door, I found him cooking breakfast. “Good morning,” he greeted. A cup of coffee waited for me on the counter. Martin had turned into a man-servant overnight. I sat down on one of the stools and watched him suspiciously. He looked like hell, and I imagined he hadn’t slept at all last night.
“Were you wearing that yesterday?” I was out of it but not that out of it.
“No, I went home this morning and changed, got some paperwork to review, and went to the grocery store. The only thing you had in your fridge was the leftover Chinese and a bottle of mustard.”
I was positively baffled by everything he had just said. “Then why are you here?” I probably sounded ungrateful in my confusion, but he was used to my rough edges. “You went home.”