by JA Huss
She swallows hard and nods. And then she takes the dress from my hand, disappears inside, and closes the door with a soft click.
I grab the bag of food and walk across the street and up the path that leads to the apartments where I’ve been living for the past few months. Madrid is just pulling up in the parking lot with the car we hired. I walk towards her and hand her the bag of Indian food just as she steps out of the car.
“We’ve got it wired,” she says, taking the food and inhaling the aroma of her favorite Indian dish. She walks off to her own car, sighing a little as she peeks into the bag and says, “Yum.”
I go upstairs and change into my black Armani wool suit paired with a crisp white shirt and a dark-gray striped tie. I comb my dark-blond hair back and then put on a pair of cufflinks that will catch Sasha’s eye.
It’s been a long while since I’ve been interested in a girl. And even though I know I’m not supposed to be interested in Sasha Cherlin… I am.
I’m interested. And that kiss on the stairs at her school was just a tease.
I need more from her. It kills me to have to dangle Nick Tate in front of her face to get it. But I’m a man who gets what I want, no matter what it takes.
Chapter Ten - Sasha
I walk over to the couch and take a seat near the lamp. My eyes never leave the image of Nick in my hand. He looks like my Nick from years gone by, except he has a tattoo on his upper arm. He’s wearing a white t-shirt that hugs the well-defined muscles of his chest in a way that leaves little to the imagination. My heart is suddenly heavy with sadness.
I stare into his brown eyes. I can’t see them well—the picture is mostly of his upper body, with the frayed edge of some faded jeans giving me a hint of his waist. But I don’t need to see them in this picture to imagine them.
But dear God, I want more.
My eyes wander to the front door, beyond which is an evening with Jax. Going out with him tonight is not a big deal. Not when I can get more images of Nick and answers to my questions about what he’s been doing. I’ve imagined all kinds of scenarios after he went off with Matias, the drug lord from Honduras who traded the lives of me, James, and Harper for Nick.
He traded himself so we could get away and start a new life far removed from the people who raised us into killers.
So he said, anyway.
I think he did it to get away from me. I’ve always felt that way. He never wanted me to be his promise. He never wanted me. He only wanted to use me.
I don’t want that to be true. I want to see him again. I want him to see the woman I became and fall to his knees with regrets. Profess his love. Apologize and beg me to forgive him.
Such a stupid childhood dream.
I set the photograph down on the end table and stand up to get the dress and take it upstairs. I hang the garment bag on the hook in my bathroom and unzip it.
Inside is a red cocktail gown with a low-cut front and two slits that ride so high up on my thighs, my underwear might show if I take long steps.
Jesus Christ. This is what I’ve been reduced to? Playing dress-up fantasy girl to an FBI agent just to satisfy my twisted curiosity for a man who rejected me a decade ago?
I plop down into the hard wooden chair in front of my makeup vanity. When I moved in here I furnished this upstairs bedroom the way I had always imagined as a child. A four-poster bed made out of dark hardwood. A gauzy white netting draped over each post to create an intimate experience. The linens are top quality—Egyptian cotton sheets and a white cotton duvet filled with a plush down comforter. More pillows than one person has a right to own propped up against the headboard. The vanity table is also dark wood, with a matching chair. And the mirror is lit from a dramatic chandelier from above and small side lamps on either side.
Too bad I’ve had zero occasions to use it. I have not been out on any dates since I moved in and I can’t fall asleep up here without tossing and turning all night worried about the escape route.
But that dream—the one where I fit in, where I was normal and had lots of chatty girlfriends and more men interested in me than I had days in the week… yeah. That never happened.
My closets are filled with dresses and shoes so high I would fall and break my ankle if I ever wore them. The en suite bathroom is like a spa. Completely remodeled, like the kitchen downstairs. I imagined dinner parties with dozens of guests and stimulating conversation about my interests.
How delusional was I?
I look at myself in the mirror and take it all in. I am not ugly. I’ve always been on the cute side, even as a gangly kid with braces. My eyes are a pretty blue and my hair is still dark blonde. I don’t even have to dye it to keep that color. It has strands of light blonde that mimic an expensive trip to the salon.
But the hanging strands along the side of my face are the perfect frame for what I see in the mirror. Sadness.
“God, you are so dramatic, Sasha.”
My hair is still slightly wet and has a bit of a wave that will certainly frizz if I don’t dry it right now. I open a drawer in the vanity and take out the hairdryer and turn it on. The heat feels good now that it’s night and a chill has taken over my house.
How did my reality get so far away from the fantasy I had imagined? Maybe a night out with a handsome man would do me good? Even if I’m not gonna fall for his charm, he could be fun. I mean, I realize he only wants to use me to get at Nick. But if I want to use him to get a chance at Nick too, then where’s the harm of enjoying myself tonight?
I could do worse than Jax. Have done worse, in fact. I’ve dated mostly studious men. Men who mimic my ambitions. Men who like to talk instead of act. Men who are boring.
And I guess I’m boring too. I haven’t put on makeup in months. Not since a small dinner party my mentor put on to welcome a new student to her lab last August. And I haven’t made any attempts to find new friends. I had friends at my undergrad school. Not close friends. Not friends I’d ever tell the Story of Sasha to. But they were fun—in a serious sort of way. The School of Mines is for serious people. But I’m a serious person too. Right?
I sigh and turn off the blow dryer. Hair that was flying in all directions settles next to my face and falls flat again.
I need a change. I need more out of this life than what I’ve been settling for and the only way to get more is to put myself out there.
So Jax.
Maybe he’s the first step?
I don’t have to like him to use him for practice. Won’t, in fact, like him. Ever. He’s not my type at all. Because behind that badge that screams up-and-up there’s a rule-breaker. I just know it. I’ve gone out of my way to avoid men like him. I’m a by-the-book kind of girl and he looks like a throw-the-book-away kind of guy.
Not my kind of guy.
Not after what happened two years ago.
But I don’t want to think about that right now. I can’t go back to that night when I was taken and held hostage. That experience changed me. Being held against my will was something I never want to repeat. Ever. And even though it could’ve been a whole lot worse than it was, even though I could’ve been raped instead of almost raped, and even though the only person who died in that event was the bad guy who deserved it—I still feel like Garrett is coming back. Like I’m waiting for him. Like he might be reanimated from the dead for the sole purpose of hurting me and the people I love.
I have issues, I admit, taking my makeup out of the drawer and laying it down on the table top before me, lining it up in order of use. I have trust issues. Love issues. Reality issues.
“Well, Sasha,” I say out loud. “This is your reality. You have no present and no future because you live in the past. And if you ruin your life because you’re stuck in the past, it’s your own damn fault for giving up.”
Those words startle me.
Have I given up? Is that why Professor Brown accused me of not being invested in the program?
Am I invested in the program?
I
certainly don’t want to be an anthropologist. I guess she can see that I lack the enthusiasm for her field of study. And why should she keep me on if I’m not invested? I’m her legacy. All her grad students are her legacy. If I won’t go on to make a name for myself in her field, why should she invest in me now?
She was right to ask me to think about leaving. And maybe one day I’ll figure all this out. Maybe one day I’ll know what I want and how to get there without pretending to be someone I’m not. And maybe I will return to this university and finish what I started.
But I don’t think so.
I think being asked to reflect on my future was a warning shot in the chest that life is about to change. Some sort of catalyst that will propel me towards my true purpose.
Or maybe this rejection will send me spiraling down into a black abyss of self-loathing and discontent?
But if it does, it will be a hell of my own making. Because I have the means right now, tonight—this moment, actually—to start a new life. To find the answers I crave and get them from the man who left me ten years ago.
I need Nick. And maybe we’re not soulmates. Maybe that promise was empty and he always knew that. But if so, then why is he looking for me? Why seek me out after all these years?
I need Nick.
And my path to Nick—my path to my future—lies through Jax.
So I look at the line of cosmetics on my vanity and start my transformation. Concealer first. Then powder, eyeshadow, brows, liner, mascara, and finally lipstick. I put on the mask.
My reflection in the mirror is not me.
And that’s OK.
I’m tired of being me.
I get up and walk to the dress. I could wear my own dress. I have so many nice things in my closet. But why? Why be me when I can be her? The woman I always dreamed I’d turn into? Why not let Jax help me make this change tonight?
I slip the dress on, tame my hair with a brush, and then slide my feet into the shoes that came in the bag.
I’m done being Sasha Aston. She’s boring and sad. She’s scared and confused.
But Sasha Cherlin was none of those things. Sasha Cherlin was strong, and brave, and filled with life.
I want to live again.
Chapter Eleven - Sasha
When I’m ready I walk downstairs to the security room and unlock the door using the keypad attached to the wall. This is my safe room where I can check surveillance cameras placed in strategic locations on the property. I have most of the rooms wired with cameras too, just as a precaution.
I live by the Boy Scout motto.
I scan all the cameras, just like I do every morning and every evening, then check the computer attached to the cameras for any flagged moments. There are none—I would get a text message on my phone telling me if there were—but I’m overly paranoid these days. It’s possible my messaging system could be offline. And I have several levels of suspicious programmed into the alerts. I don’t get bothered with people who walk down the alley and don’t linger, but I look at them anyway when I have time.
There aren’t any to look at in the back. But Jax and I come up on a screen at the front door when he walked me home. I have a sensor on an anklet I wear at all times. It’s a tracker and ID code and it sends my GPS location to this computer every thirty minutes and logs me in and out of my house automatically as I enter and exit.
Just in case.
I didn’t tell Merc about this. Or my dad, for that matter. They don’t need to know that I’m so worried about this stuff. It would only upset them. Especially Merc, since he feels responsible for what happened to me two years ago.
A feeling of dread washes over me as that moment flashes into my head and then my stomach churns, making me feel sick.
All my life I was the one in control. The girl who knew things. The girl with skills.
But that day I was abducted by a crazy man and held hostage for two days was an awakening that changed my life.
Never before had I felt so vulnerable. Never before had I felt so helpless. I was a child assassin. I killed several people over the course of my short career. Grown men and one teenage girl. I can still hear the gunfire as I took out those men when they came to kill me on my grandparents’ ranch. I can still feel the cold knife handle in my palm when I threw it, striking that girl’s throat and ending her life in a horrifying way. Choking on her own blood.
I don’t regret any of that. Not one moment.
But my badass confidence did nothing for me the night that bastard Garrett drugged me and took me as his prisoner. He threatened me with rape. Had started taking off my clothes, even. Only some predetermined alert that beeped on his phone stopped him.
Luck. The fact that he never got his chance to take me like that, it was all luck.
I don’t like luck. You can’t depend on luck.
I like cameras, and guns placed all over the house. And martial arts training. I’ve had a trainer for years. Long before all that Garrett stuff happened. But it was only to keep my skills up.
It wasn’t enough.
It will never be enough to just prepare. I have to embrace the coming confrontation as inevitable. Only that acceptance gets me through the panic and paranoia. Only that silences the nagging voice in my head that says, This isn’t over, Sasha. Not by a long shot.
Will it ever be over? Will I ever put the Company behind me and have a normal life?
An alert beeps on the screen. A black car has pulled into my driveway. The door opens and Jax gets out wearing a long black pea coat that gives me a peek of the dark suit it’s covering up. He checks his watch, then pushes the door closed before striding up the walkway to the porch like a man who owns the world.
I wish I had his confidence.
The doorbell rings, so I exit the security room and close the door behind me. I take a deep breath as I walk to the front of the house, and then pause for a moment before pulling the door open.
“Miss Cherlin,” he says in that deep throaty growl. “You look lovely.” He smiles at me, and God, what a smile. The dimple that reminds me a little bit of Ford. The confidence that reminds me of James. And the air of danger that reminds me of Merc. “You take my breath away.”
God, what a player. “Please call me Miss Aston if you want to be formal. I left Sasha Cherlin behind a decade ago.”
“May I come in?” he asks, ignoring my request and reaching for the security screen. It locks automatically through a mechanism on the anklet when I step into the house, so he doesn’t get far. And his fruitless tug on the door makes me smile for some reason. But he recovers from that little surprise and shoots me a smile that is alarmingly disarming. “Or have you changed your mind?”
He backs away. Just a small step, but my heart flutters when I think he might take his invitation back. “No,” I say calmly. His eyes brighten, as if he was the one who was worried we would not have our date tonight. But I’m dressed. And I answered the door. So he must know I’d come. “I didn’t change my mind. I take a lot of precautions, that’s all.”
He nods. And it’s not a nod that makes fun of me for being so careful, but one of understanding. “You don’t have to worry about that stuff as long as I’m with you, Miss Aston. You’re safe with me.”
His use of my new name makes me blush for some reason. He didn’t acknowledge my request, but he did honor it. And that eases my discomfort about what I’m doing just a little bit. Plus, he basically offered himself up as my protector with that statement.
I have never wanted or needed a protector. I’ve only ever had partners. James, Harper, and Merc. Ford became my de facto protector when he adopted me, I guess. But he’s not a physical fighter. His brand of protection is more along the lines of highly trained attack dogs, military-grade security systems, and hacking skills.
Jax’s offer comes off more threatening. Not like Merc, who can send grown men running with a glare. Or James, who you never see coming, because he doesn’t make threats, he just makes good on them.
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No, it comes off like a man with authority.
“Thank you,” I say as I unlock the outer door, intending on walking out on the porch.
But Jax has the security door firmly in his grasp and he takes a step forward, like he wants to come inside. “You need a coat, Miss Aston. A cold front has moved in.”
I panic for a moment, wondering if I want him in my house. But he takes away my choice when his imposing body blocks the doorway, and I have to step back to allow this move.
“Do you have one? Or should I find one for you?”
“A coat?” I laugh off the way he just intimidated me into letting him inside and turn away, heading towards the coat closet. “Of course I have coats.” I open the door and take one off the hanger that will go with the formal dress. I don’t think I have ever worn it, so I check the sleeve for a tag, and then let out a breath of relief that I don’t have to rip it off in front of him and let him in on the fact that I never have an occasion to wear something so fancy.
Jax takes it from my hands, his body behind me, so very close to my own. So close I can feel his warm breath as he leans down and whispers, “Let me help you with that.”
I swallow and slip my arms into the satin interior of a long black wool coat with silver fox lining the collar and cuffs, before turning round to face him.
“Are you nervous?” he asks.
“No,” I lie. This makes him smile and I have to wonder what kind of training he’s had. Merc was astute in reading me. He’s trained to look at body language and expressions. He can tell a lot by the color of my face or the way I hold my shoulders. And Jax was trained by the FBI. He could have these skills, since Merc got them when he was in the Army.
“I like this,” Jax says, eyeing my dress and coat appreciatively. His fingertips come up next to my cheek and plunge into the soft, thick fur. “It’s real,” he says, looking at the fur for a moment before dragging a heated stare up to my eyes. “I’m a little surprised such an educated girl would wear real fur.”