“Yes, you’re our daughter, what’s wrong with us wanting to take you out to dinner?” Her father lifted his bushy brows, but she sensed something else lurking under the surface.
“You’ve never taken me out to dinner, so what’s going on?”
Her mother’s pale cheeks flushed ever so slightly and she fidgeted with her pearls again, “Well dear, we want to take you out. Your sister’s practically unreachable and…well…” Her mother looked to her father for help, but he held his silence.
Whitney understood her mother’s implication, no need for clarification. They’d come to town hoping to take out Melissa, not her.
It always came back to Melissa with them.
She could save every starving child on this entire planet, but it would not win her an Edgar award, so it didn’t matter to them. Why did she keep getting her hopes up?
Whitney shoved her chin into the air as high as she could keep it, fighting to hide her disappointment as she pushed past her parents. “Sorry, like I said, I already have plans with someone who actually wants to go out with me.”
If they said anything else behind her, she didn’t hear it. She raced blindly from the office into her car in the covered parking lot. But the smooth leather interior lacked its usual comfort. The confines of the car felt tight and constricting, like there wasn’t enough oxygen inside. She opened the door, put her feet on the pavement and hung her head, sucking in the huge gulps of fresh air. Why did she still let herself care about her robotic parents? She should’ve learned her lesson years ago. They didn’t have room in their lives for someone like her.
One day, she’d have her own daughter, and no matter how smart or round or whatever she was, Whitney would make sure she knew how much her mother loved her.
Sucking in a final deep breath, Whitney pulled her limbs back into the car and shut the door. She pushed the start button for her Mercedes and wrapped her fingers around the steering wheel, staring at the empty concrete wall in front of her.
10 o’clock—Black Velvet
“Would you stop doing that?” Izzy took a long draw of her margarita, giggling, and facing the bar behind Whitney.
“Doing what?” Whitney asked innocently as she leaned an elbow against the bar and intentionally pushed her other hip out provocatively. Hungry for…something, she’d put on the same dark blue dress she’d worn the night she’d landed the senator—classic-cut, skintight, and with a short hemline.
“That. The poor fellow behind you is about to drop his whiskey.”
Whitney turned, located the man in question and offered him a sideways smile. He turned red and dropped his gaze to her feet. “There’s nothing wrong with looking.”
The whiskey guy stammered out an excuse and fled.
“Poor boy,” Izzy took another long gulp of her drink.
Whitney cradled her martini, still nearly full, and surveyed the room. Half the men in here were viable options. Virtually all of them were still in their suits and ties, their hair brushed and oiled, and lowball whiskeys in their hands.
All of them eyed her with interest.
And yet not a single man in this bar held an actual aura of strength. She needed someone who would present a challenge, someone who wouldn’t jump every time she snapped her fingers and have everything she wanted. She took a tiny sip of her martini, wishing some tall, dark and handsome stranger would come striding through the door.
What was wrong with her? Normally she’d be wrapping some hot VP around her little finger, tonight she just lacked the desire. Why did her parents always do this to her? She couldn’t even work up the energy to finish her martini. Even the senator exuded more authority than these wimps.
“Oo, I call dibs on that one.” Izzy played with her teased blonde mop, half pulled back, while staring directly past Whitney’s shoulder.
Curious to see who’d caught her friend’s attention, she glanced over her shoulder. No one in particular stood out. “Which one?”
“Lonesome Dove, two tables back, looks like he needs cheering up.”
The man in question was tracing the rim of his glass, staring down into its contents without blinking. He had chestnut brown hair, and instead of a suit, he was dressed business casual in a baby blue button-up and khakis.
“Not bad, what’s your plan?”
“Watch and learn from a pro.” Izzy slapped some cash on the bar for her drink, adjusted her top—down two inches lower—and swiped on a fresh coat of lip gloss. “See you at work in the morning?”
Izzy sauntered right up to the guy and whispered something in his ear. Thirty seconds later, Lonesome Dove lifted his finger, signaling for his ticket. Izzy cast a wink over her shoulder as she left the bar with the guy’s arm around her waist.
“Holy crap.” Stunned, Whitney cradled her forgotten drink, staring at the now-closed doors. What the hell had Izzy said to him? Lost without her BFF, Whitney leaned against the bar and took a measured sip. She’d planned on flying solo…later. Not right after ordering her first drink.
At least one of them was getting laid. Black Velvet was only living up to half its name. After a quick glance around the bar, her eye found a table full of women. They looked about as welcoming as dull guillotines. One of the women shot her a catty glance and rolled her eyes.
Time to go. The night was a bust, which was no surprise after the confrontation with her parents. They always did this to her.
Whitney left some cash on the bar, lifted her chin and strode to the door, pulling out the small key fob for the Mercedes.
She froze as soon as she stepped outside.
The small parking spot she’d been lucky enough to squeeze into earlier was now empty. And the parking meter was still running. Had someone stolen her car? No way. Not in this part of town. Maybe she just parked it somewhere else and…
And what? There were no other red Mercedes Roadsters in sight. Hoping to hear the distant beep, beep, Whitney hit the unlock button on her key fob. When that didn’t work, she hit the alarm key. The only sound that greeted her was of other cars passing by.
Someone had stolen her car. Anger blasted through her chest. She snatched her phone out of her purse, googled the police phone number and called, hands trembling as she held the phone to her ear. When the deputy answered, Whitney said, “My car has been stolen.”
“Calm down, ma’am,” the deputy replied.
Whitney gnashed her teeth together. Wasn’t she allowed to be a little emotional in this situation? “I’d like to report a stolen vehicle,” she said in the calmest, measured voice possible, which—at the moment—probably came out sounding strangled.
“License plate number.”
License plate? “Who the hell knows their license plate number?”
The deputy let out a long sigh. “You’d be surprised. How about we start with your name.”
“Whitney Averton.”
“Miss Averton, could you give me the make and model of your car?”
The deputy’s obviously irritated tone dug its claws into her nerves. She was the victim here, not the other way around. “Mercedes Roadster, red, SL class.”
The deputy didn’t answer, but the distinct sound of keys clacking in the background assured her the woman was still on the line. Clutching the phone to her ear and standing in the crowded street, Whitney looked around wildly. Had anyone here witnessed the theft?
“I’m sorry Miss Averton, but we’re not showing any such vehicle registered to your name.”
Ice shot down her spine and she started to tremble. “Maybe you misspelled my name?”
The deputy quickly fired off the correct spelling of Whitney’s name, address, and date of birth.
“And you’re not showing the registration for my Mercedes?”
“Have you been drinking, ma’am?”
“What?!” It came out as more of a shriek than she’d intended, but she couldn’t help it. “No, why aren’t you trying to help me? My car has been stolen.”
“Look, Mi
ss Averton, the last car we have registered to your name is a Pontiac GT, 2000 model. You should know the fines for prank calling the sheriff’s office exceed $5000.”
“This isn’t a prank call!”
“Ma’am,” the deputy let out a long sigh again. It was the kind of sigh that said she was reaching the end of her patience for dealing with crazies. “Perhaps there’s another name it’s registered under? Your father?”
Ding. Ding. Ding. Of course, it wouldn’t be under her name. But then, that meant it was under Cory’s. Could she tell the deputy? Or was that limited under her NDA? Shit. Surely there was some kind of emergency clause in their contract. “Cory Keeling.”
More keys clacking. More barely audible sighs.
The door clanged open behind her, and a group of very well-dressed men came stumbling out. They’d obviously over imbibed. She sidestepped them, not wanting to get freight lined, and completely ignored the long appreciative glances they cast her way. “Well?”
Her toes were starting to ache in these damn high heels and the outside D.C. air wasn’t exactly pleasant. She detected a hint of exhaust mixed in with the humidity. Two men all but fell into a silver Lexus a few spots down and slowly eased out. The long dark streets stretched out behind them.
“Ma’am, are you referring to a Sen. Cory Keeling?”
“Of course, ma’am,” she drew out the word ma’am in response to all the other ma’ams the deputy had thrown her way, “who else would I be referring to?”
“Hold please.” The woman didn’t even give her a chance to respond. The phone line filled up with smooth jazz. The music was probably intended to soothe people’s frayed nerves, but it was certainly not doing the trick for her.
Clutching the phone against her ear, Whitney paced up and down the sidewalk in front of the bar. What the hell was going on?
Was she even supposed to tell them the senator had given her the car? Their contract required her to remain completely silent about the relationship in all ways shapes and forms. She wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. And she never had before, but this was an emergency…wasn’t it?
Panic threaded through her, and she almost hung up the phone, but another voice came over the line. A man.
“Is this Miss Whitney Averton?”
“It is. And may I ask who I’m speaking with now?”
“This is Sgt. Peter Thomas. I understand you claim you have a car that has been stolen. And that this car is not registered to you but Senator Cory Keeling?”
She picked up the pace, her heels clacking in the night air. Despite a lingering sense of foreboding, she said, “Yes, just like I told the woman before you.”
“You see ma’am, I know Senator Cory Keeling personally. He attends our wounded policeman fundraiser every year. I’ve met his entire family. He is the biggest donor to our entire police force. I don’t seem to recall ever meeting a Whitney Averton.” The sergeant’s voice dropped as he said the last few words, making a silent threat.
She stopped pacing. The foreboding feeling spread throughout her body, and gooseflesh popped up on her arms and legs. This had been a mistake.
Cory was their biggest donor. Their biggest supporter. She was his dirty secret, which meant she was supposed to keep her mouth shut.
The Sgt. continued just as darkly, “We go to church with them every Sunday. My wife teaches women’s Bible study with Mrs. Keeling. Anyone trying to harm his family will be investigated to the fullest extent of the law.”
Oh, shit. Whitney hung up and stood there motionless for a moment, staring down the bustling street, feeling completely alone. Her heart thundered in her chest and her legs quaked. She should never have called the cops. She should’ve called the senator. With trembling fingers, she quickly tapped the senator’s name on her phone and held it to her ear. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
Several rings sounded before the line cut off. She yanked the phone away from her face and stared fiercely at the screen. He’d declined her call.
Her anxiety was starting to turn into panic. What the hell was going on? She quickly typed out a text: Car’s been stolen. Need your help.
She clutched the phone so tightly her fingers started going numb, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the screen.
Come on, come on… Right now, she’d even take his creepy bodyguard.
The senator always replied to her messages—unless he was in a meeting or with his wife. She checked the time. 11 p.m. Shit. He definitely wasn’t in a meeting right now.
Whitney stared at her phone screen so long it started to blur. He wasn’t going to respond.
She didn’t know what to do. The cops weren’t going to help. She couldn’t call Izzy and interrupt her late-night booty call. She sure as hell couldn’t call her worthless parents. They’d never interrupt their beauty sleep for her.
Quit whining and DO something.
Whitney shook her head. She had survived most of her life on her own. Why did she need anyone’s help now? This could all wait until tomorrow. The senator would laugh off her worry, and then he’d sic that bad ass Reinhardt on whatever poor bastard had stolen her car.
She took a deep breath and slowly let it out, some of that panic that had wound up inside her easing. All she needed right now was an Uber, a long, hot bath and a very, very large shot of the single-malt whiskey she kept hidden in the cabinet for just such an occasion.
She hit the request and a car arrived thirty minutes later, leaving her to sink against the wall and wait. She slid into the back seat and closed her eyes for the ride home. She got to her apartment building, inserted the key into the elevator, and gratefully stepped into it. As soon as the doors slid shut behind her, she slipped out of her heels and leaned back against the wall, staring at her reflection in the polished interior with a sideways smile.
Everything would be better in the morning. She should’ve known this day was doomed to failure the moment her mother and father popped their heads into her office. They were always a black cloud in her life.
Tired but mostly calm, Whitney straightened from the wall as the elevator doors dinged, signaling it had reached her penthouse. She could practically hear her claw foot bathtub singing her name. Whitney stepped into the darkened entryway. “Lights on.”
Light poured across utter destruction. Her heart kickboxed her lungs and she stumbled back. Her couch lay on its back. The expensive vase in her entry way shattered.
Fear took a fierce hold on her throat and choked off her air. She took another step backward and slapped the elevator button. Someone had destroyed her apartment.
And they might still be in here.
She was beyond trembling now, her body in full freak-out mode. With eyes glued wide open, she scoured her surroundings, clutching her purse like a weapon, praying some serial killer wouldn’t come running at her with his knife raised.
Where was her cat, Tiger?
The door dinged. She fell through the open doors and frantically punched the button to close doors. “Tiger,” she whispered, unable to get enough air behind her voice for it to carry.
Please, please shut. “Tiger,” she said with more force.
He didn’t come. The doors slid shut, and she slid to the floor, heart thundering in her ears.
What do I do? I can’t call the police.
Her NDA with the senator precluded even the law. A fact her useless call to the cops earlier had brought into stark reminder. Hand trembling, she dialed Senator Keeling. His phone rang and rang with no answer. She tried again. And again.
When the elevator opened on the lobby floor, she was forced to stand and walk out like nothing had happened. The bell clerk studiously kept his gaze focused on the monitors and she stumbled to the women’s bathroom.
She held her phone, staring at the screen and praying for inspiration. Who could she call for help?
5
“Can’t you sit still?”
Hicks shifted and the white paper lining the medical bench beneath him crinkled. D
r. Melissa Averton glared up at him over her thick plastic glasses. He offered her an apologetic grin. “I did sit still the first time, and the second time and the third time…”
He let his words trail off, allowing her to finish his sentence for him mentally.
She frowned and glanced over her shoulder at the clock on the wall. “Shoot, Hicks, I didn’t realize it was so late. You need to get some rest.” For Dr. Averton, “shoot” was probably some terrible obscenity, but it ranked about a one in ten on his scale. She straightened, lifting her needle away from the IV PICC she’d set up in his arm.
He had no intention of stopping her. They needed her genius mind to keep working—their lives very literally depended on it. “You and I both know I don’t need much sleep. I’d rather finish this tonight.”
And it was true, he didn’t require much rest. An endless supply of energy continuously regenerated by his DNA, which gave him the strength to stay awake three times longer than an average person. After volunteering for Project Mayhem, a once-certified, now-rogue operation under the control of the traitorous Gen. Rainier, Hicks had come out…changed. Not in any physically noticeable way, other than that he’d lost any excess body fat and packed on even more muscle.
No, the biggest difference was in his senses, which were honed into frighteningly high definition, and in his energy level.
Dr. Averton let out a long sigh, and he suddenly noticed the lines of fatigue and shadows hollowing out her cheeks. “I don’t think I’m the one that needs to rest, Doc,” he said kindly.
The first time he’d seen her, she’d had a broken arm and a few cracked ribs. The good old general had tried to take her out. The men of Mayhem must’ve had some luck left, because he hadn’t succeeded. Melissa was the only person who could save Hicks and his fellow guinea pig soldiers. The only one who could crack the code and make more of the serum that had made them this way. Because the changes were permanent—their very DNA had been recoded—but they’d die without continued injections of the serum. Melissa’s ultimate goal was to ensure they no longer needed it.
Mayhem's Desire: Operation Mayhem Page 4