by A. Zavarelli
“You should know there’s a bounty on her head,” he says.
“Where is she?”
He reaches down and pulls a file out of the bag he carried in here with him, tossing it into my lap when he stands.
“I was a SEAL first and foremost,” he tells me. “Turns out, I can still swim a good fifty meters.”
He leaves me with that puzzle and the information he’s compiled and then he walks out the door. It takes me a few minutes to realize exactly what the fuck I’m looking at.
It’s Royce’s ugly mug.
One of the five.
The leader, and her tormentor. Her obsessive stalker that I never fucking knew she had. I would kill him myself if the fucker wasn’t already dead.
The official report states that he drowned when his car plunged into the Charles River. Witnesses reported that the car was driving recklessly and well over the speed limit when the tragedy occurred, and further tests indicated that he had been drinking.
There are also statements by some of his colleagues who report that he had been acting erratically as of late.
And I have to hand it to the fucker, Booker is solid.
A man of honor.
He did this. A fucking fed.
And that isn’t all.
He’s given me a treasure map.
Details about the private jet that Quinn uses to fly around the globe. Bank account names and numbers.
There’s an itinerary, and invitations to a party two nights from now.
Which doesn’t leave me a lot of time.
I pick up my phone and video call Alexei. His wife Talia answers and says he’s been expecting me.
“Well?” he asks when she gives him the phone.
“I need another favor.”
Thirty-Five
Scarlett
Sink or swim, baby.
Booker is back, keys jingling in his pocket.
“What now?” I grumble.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just checking in on you.”
“Everything’s peachy here. Just the way that prison should be.”
He nods and I gesture to the kitchen.
“Carl’s in there, probably eating another goddamn sandwich, if you’re looking for him.”
“The bureau says we can’t spare any more federal resources,” he tells me. “So you are officially free to go.”
“Giving me early release, huh? I knew there was overcrowding in prisons, but not safe houses too.”
“I think you’ll be more comfortable at Rory’s,” he says.
“Rory?”
“He’s waiting outside for you.”
“Are you fucking with me?” I ask, because I don’t believe it. “Is it really Royce out there and this was the plan all along?”
“I’m not fucking with you,” he says.
But still.
It doesn’t make any sense.
Why would Rory come for me after what I did to him?
“I told him the truth,” Booker admits. “Since I figured you would have trouble doing that yourself.”
“And he’s… not mad?”
Booker shrugs. “I don’t know. That’s for you two to figure out.”
I give him an awkward pat on the shoulder.
“You know, you aren’t so bad, Booker. For a fed.”
He smiles.
“You aren’t so bad either. For a hooker.”
I flip him off and my hand is on the door already when he asks the thing I knew he would.
“If you see her…”
“Sell her out?” I turn back and shake my head. “Let’s not get carried away.”
“I’m not looking to hurt her. I just want to help.”
“My god,” I groan. “There are two of you. What is it with you guys trying to save women? Maybe Storm doesn’t want to be saved.”
He’s quiet. And sad like a puppy, so I give him a bone.
“I’ll talk to her about it,” I say. “But I’m not playing any tricks. And for the record, I’m not a rat. The people who end up on the streets have had a rough enough go of it already without me screwing them over.”
“I know that,” he says. “And thank you. All I’m asking is for you to talk to her.”
He scrambles to give me a card before I leave, and I take it.
“See ya around,” he says.
“Yeah,” I agree.
But we both know it isn’t true.
Rory’s car is parked outside, just like Booker said. He rolls down the window and doesn’t even look at me. He just gives me a command.
“Get in.”
I’d tell him to fuck off for taking that tone with me if I didn’t think I deserved it. So I get in. And he speeds off.
I wait until we hit the interstate.
“Rory…”
He glances at me across the car, and he’s still angry with me.
“Later.”
That’s all he says.
The rest of the ride is silent until we get back to his place.
I’m happy to see that Whiskey is still as cat like as ever. Lounging in a brand-new bed that wasn’t there when I left.
He licks his paw and gives me a cursory glance before he goes back to cleaning himself.
“He missed you,” Rory says.
“I missed him too,” I whisper, fully aware that neither of us is talking about the goddamned cat.
I want him to grab me and boss me around. I want him to say mean things and fight with me so we can really make up. I want him to hate fuck me and punish me, so I can punish him too.
For believing the bullshit I put him through.
But he does none of those things.
“There’s something on the table for you,” he tells me.
Then he disappears down the hall and leaves me to it.
It’s a death certificate.
For Royce motherfucking Carrington.
My fingers stab into the paperwork as I yank it closer, ensuring that my eyes are not deceiving me. But no, they are not.
He is dead, and he didn’t even suffer.
Drowning.
He fucking drowned in a watery tomb in the Charles River.
What the actual hell?
It doesn’t make sense.
I read it, over and over again.
And then it hits me.
Water.
It if walks like a SEAL, and talks like a SEAL, then it’s probably a goddamn SEAL.
This has Booker written all over it.
He did this.
This is why he let me go. Because he knew he couldn’t get Alexander through the proper channels without him likely harming me or anybody else first.
So he resorted to his own form of vigilante justice.
And goddamnit, I am not even angry about it.
I lean back in my chair and try to process the feelings that I do have.
In the movies, it’s always simple. The calm after the storm is always peaceful. Characters trotting off into the sunset and regaining control over their lives.
But my storm isn’t over yet.
Quinn and Duke are still out there, along with the legion of men they probably have on my trail. There will be no peace in my life until they are gone too.
Rory’s eyes are on me when I close the file, and I don’t know how long he’s been there, watching me.
I am tired.
I am worn and battered and a little bruised. But with him by my side, I can go the distance. I can finish this fight.
He crosses his arms and leans into the wall beside him.
“We do this together,” he says.
He knows me well.
He knows that I can’t give it up and I won’t let him do it for me.
“Yes,” I answer.
“They have a million-dollar bounty on your head.”
He doesn’t need to tell me what that means. A million dollars is a lot of money to some people, even though it’s nothing to them.
That sort of money will
draw an army. The low-level street thugs and elite hitmen alike. Money is money.
“They probably have a whole load of security too,” I say.
Rory nods.
He’s done the research already. And when he tosses some invitations onto the kitchen table, he’s got a plan in place too.
The white cardstock is covered in gold scrawl, detailing the Gatsby themed event.
In New York.
“Quinn and Duke will be there tomorrow night,” Rory says. “Their private jet is scheduled to leave after the party, so we only have a small window.”
“Okay.”
“This is how it’s going to be,” he tells me. “You do what the fuck I say, when I say it. Do ye understand me, Scarlett?”
He’s all business right now, and he’s never looked so serious… or so hot. He’s done fucking around. He’s going to tell me how it is, and I’m going to like it or leave it.
I like this alpha male in him, issuing his omega orders.
“What happens if I disobey you?” I tease. “You going to give me a taste of my own medicine?”
His eyes flash and he wants to punish me already, but he doesn’t.
“Just behave for once in your life,” he says. “I don’t need any more shite from you.”
The teasing game is over and his words sting, but I don’t show it.
“Got any friends as batshit crazy as you are?” he asks.
“How many do I need?”
“Just one.”
There’s only one face that comes to mind, but that means I’ll have to track her down. Tonight.
“I have someone. But I’ll need to find her first.”
“Aye,” he says. “Well we better get to it then.”
Thirty-Six
Scarlett
What a fool I was not to tear my heart out on the day when I resolved to avenge myself- Alexandre Dumas
It’s no small wonder that Booker hasn’t been able to locate Storm himself.
If I hadn’t already seen her in the flesh, I’d think she didn’t even exist.
We asked around the usual sources- people who are always good for giving me the information I need- and they didn’t know jack about her.
Which leaves us with good old fashioned detective work. Trawling through bars and hotels and clubs and anywhere else I think she might be.
It’s after midnight, and these heels are hot but uncomfortable, and Rory’s acting like he hasn’t noticed them at all.
All I want to do is curl up in his bed. To feel him against me again. To breathe him in and have his whispered words.
I want him to make me crazy promises all over again.
But we’re still a long way off from that.
When I look at him right now, I’m not sure if we’ll ever get back to that place again.
He can barely look at me.
I touch his arm, and he glances down at me.
“Kiss me,” I tell him.
He’s going to say no, so I make up a whole thing.
“If she’s here, then she’ll see it, and she’ll want to take you away. She likes to play with my toys.”
He grabs my wrist, and his grip is hard and unforgiving.
“I’m not a goddamn toy, Scarlett. And I’m not kissing you either.”
“Fine,” I pout. “Then I guess we’ll be here all night.”
Only we aren’t.
Because there she is.
Across the room, in the shadows, seeking out her next prey. Tonight, she’s wearing a blue wig and horn-rimmed glasses while she sucks on a lollipop.
She is not lacking for victims, and I need to do this fast.
I move towards her, and she glances in my direction. And smirks.
Rory follows after me, and she doesn’t seem to mind my tag-along.
I don’t know Storm well. But I know she’s like me. She doesn’t want long drawn out explanations, and she’s short on time and patience.
“I need your help,” I tell her.
She smiles at me, like she was expecting me to say something like that, before she tilts her head to the side and examines Rory.
“What’s in it for me?”
“You get to fuck up a couple of rich guys,” I offer. “But we’re not talking catch and release this time.”
She’s still looking at Rory- still sucking on her lollipop- and it’s pissing me the fuck off now.
“How about you let me play with this toy?” she asks.
“How about I shove that goddamn sucker down your throat until you choke on it?”
Rory wraps his palm around the nape of my neck. A possessive gesture, and also a calming one. He wants me to be cool, and this is his way of telling me Storm is not a threat.
This toy is always going to be mine, and I’m not willing to share him. Not anymore. Not ever.
“I guess I can help you,” Storm says with a dainty shrug of her shoulder. “Not like I have anything better to do.”
“Tomorrow afternoon.” I slip her the card for the hotel room. “Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she says, eyeing Rory again.
She licks her lips and smiles, tossing him a wink. And it hits me, what she’s trying to do.
She’s testing him.
To see if he’s a cheater.
Like the men she destroys.
“He’s not,” I answer her unspoken question.
She looks at me and smiles again.
“I like to make up my own mind about that.”
Thirty-Seven
Rory
I bring Scarlett home and tell her I have some work to do.
She doesn’t argue because she’s tired.
Defeated.
I question again if this is the right thing. Allowing her to do this.
But when I see her studying the file again at the kitchen table, I know that it is.
Scarlett will never be able to move forward with her life until she feels safe. Words mean nothing to her.
I could make her all the promises in the world about how well I am going to take care of her, but she needs to feel it herself.
She needs to feel like she did it herself.
And until then, she is trapped in the headspace of her past.
When she falls asleep on the couch, I move her into my bed. As her head lulls against my chest on the walk down the hallway, she curls her fingers into my shirt and breathes me in.
“Mine,” she murmurs in her sleep.
It’s a hot knife to my chest.
I want Scarlett, still.
I love Scarlett, more than anything.
But I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to trust her.
I don’t know if she’ll ever be free from her past and ready to live in the present with me.
So when I lay her down and cover her over, I don’t join her. And until I know what tomorrow brings, I can’t let myself go there.
Not now.
And maybe not ever again.
“I got you something.”
Scarlett takes the box from my hands and opens the top, revealing the crimson dress inside. Her fingers move over the material, and she blinks up at me.
“Wow, Ace. You did good.”
“The devil should wear red,” I answer.
She smiles, and her fingers move over the intricate beading and layers of material.
“Very Gatsby-esque.”
“That’s the idea.”
She unzips her other dress and pulls it off her shoulders, letting it pool on the floor below her. She’s all black lace and legs and tits and ass, and I’m hard as fuck watching her shimmy into the new one I bought her.
She struggles with the crossing straps on the back and gestures for me.
“Can you help?”
“Aye.”
I fix it for her and zip her up.
And then, to keep myself focused on the task at hand, I get straight down to business. I retrieve the case that came with it, and I swear Scarlett gets excite
d even looking at it.
She knows it’s too big to be jewelry inside, it could only be weapons. And I would bet all the money in my bank account that my little hellraiser has some wet panties right about now.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Patience.”
I spin her around and open the case, retrieving the two black knives first. And then delicately, I trace the material around the base of her neck with the tips before I find the hidden sheaths beneath the straps of the dress.
When they are secured, Scarlett spins around to have a look in the mirror, reaching her arms back to test them out herself.
“Now this is my kind of dress,” she says, with nothing less than awe in her voice.
“It’s one of a kind,” I tell her. “Made just for you, Bonnie.”
She walks back towards me, and her eyes are hungry. When she reaches for me, I trap her wrists and plant her arse in the chair instead.
“I’m not done yet.”
I kneel down next to her this time, retrieving the lace thigh holster I ordered for her too. I slide it up over her delicate ankle and calf, my fingers brushing along her skin as I go. When my hand disappears beneath the material of her dress, she shivers and I clamp my fingers down around her flesh.
Her eyes lock onto mine, pleading for more.
My other hand moves up beneath the dress, securely lodging the small pistol inside.
She releases a breath then, and so do I.
But it’s not over yet.
I know what my little hellraiser really likes to play with. So I secure another sheath on her opposite thigh, made for her brand new stiletto knife. Just as sexy and dangerous as Scarlett herself.
“I don’t think you’ve given me enough weapons,” she laughs.
“Aye,” I agree. “I’ve got a couple more.”
I show her the matching stiletto heels. Aptly named after the very same dagger that rests aside the soft, warm skin of her creamy thigh.
They are silver with black decorative spikes.
But Scarlett, being the curious kitten that she is, knows better. When she reaches out to touch one with her finger, I try to stop her, but it’s too late.
She pricks herself, and crimson oozes from the end of her finger as she pulls it away.