Come Back to Me_A Brother's Best Friend Romance

by Vivien Vale

  I shake my head. Fucking idiots.

  The bartender hands me my drink as I turn my attention back to the bar in front of me.

  I take the first sip. The alcohol burns down my throat. A warmth settles in my stomach.

  All the conversation around me remains to be a constant buzz, like a radio static searching for a clear signal. That is, until one word breaks through the buzz as if the radio has finally found a clear station.

  “…heiress.”

  I find the man who spoke the word and tune in to his conversation.

  “I’m getting out of this shithole boys. That’s the truth. My pockets will be filled to the brim once I get my cut of a soon-to-be big score. Some heiress princess who’s had a spoon in her mouth all her damn life is about to get a rude slap of reality when she becomes a pawn to get money from mommy and daddy. No doubt they’ll be desperate to save their daughter.” The man gives a sinister laugh.

  With each word, my anger rises, and it feeds the violent monster inside me that has stayed dormant since I left the CIA.

  In a blink of an eye, I fly towards the man, grab him by the back of his neck, and slam his face into the bar top.

  He releases a scream.

  What a damn pussy.

  I hold him bent over, with his face crushed to the bar.

  Bringing my mouth close to his ear, I growl.

  He goes still as a statue.

  “You’re going to tell me about this fucking score with a heiress princess you’re bragging about like a dumbass. I suggest you don’t try to fight me to get free or lie to me. If you do, you’re going to feel a whole level of pain you didn’t realize you could experience. Understand?”

  Of course, the man decides he doesn’t understand. The next moment, he’s trying with all his might to gain the upper hand in breaking free from the hold I have him in.

  Like I said: dumbass.

  I take his left arm, twisting it behind his back to utilize as leverage, while I fist his hair with my other hand and lift his head up to slam back into the bar.

  This time, I make sure his nose hits the surface square on, breaking it in the process. Blood sprays all over his face and the bar.

  The patrons stare at us, but only those in close proximity and then only with mild interest. Some look as if they want to step in to help their friend, but my show of brutality has made them think twice.

  “Are you done?” I ask the man.

  “Fuck you!”

  “Wrong answer, fucker.”

  I lift the man up, slam him on the floor, press one knee into his chest, just enough to make it uncomfortable to breathe. And then I press one gun under his chin, with the other pointed at the man to the right who started to move towards us.

  “I really wouldn’t try to help your friend at the moment. I’m pissed as hell, and my trigger finger is itching to put a bullet in anyone stupid enough to interfere.”

  I stare at him, waiting for an acknowledgment that he’s going to take the smart road and do as I say.

  He nods.

  I turn back to the asshole pinned under me, still making sure I keep his friend in my line of sight out the corner of my eye.

  “Now,” I tell the asshole. “Tell me everything about this plan starting from how she was tracked down.”

  He doesn’t speak until I whack him in the nose with the butt of my gun before placing it back under his chin.

  Once he stops screaming like a little bitch, I tell him, “Start talking. Now!”

  “The boss suspected she was some important rich girl he could swindle money from somehow,” he spits out. “So he had the bitch attacked by a mugger. The mugger was all an act to slip a tracker on her clothing.”

  “The boss has tracked her to some village where he plans to send a big group of mercenaries and poachers to kidnap her,” he continues. “Then, he’s going to ransom her to her family.”

  It takes everything for me not to pull the trigger of the gun I have pressed under his chin.

  The asshole goes pale when he feels the gun twitch against his sweating skin.

  “What’s the girl’s name?” I manage to say.

  I’m so fucking livid right now. I’m ninety-nine percent sure I know who he’s talking about, but I have to make absolute sure.

  “Johansen. Adelaide Johansen.”

  My anger breaks my control. I roar and clock the asshole in the head hard enough to knock him out and leave a nasty gash in his head.

  I stand up and face his group of friends. My face must be a sight of pure anger at the moment, because they all step back in fear so fast, a few trip over their feet and fall to the floor.

  None of them look like they are going to try me in a fight.

  Good.

  I stomp out of the water hole.

  I need to get back to Adelaide, I decide. Hopefully I’m not too late.

  I look around for any mode of transportation. I don’t even fucking care if I have to steal something.

  A motorbike is sitting ten feet down the road from where I stand. That will do.

  A perk of working for a government agency is that you learn how to hot-wire anything.

  The motorbike groans to life. It’s not in the best shape, but it’ll get me to where I need to go, and that’s all that matters.

  Soon, I’m racing down the road headed back to the village and the woman I was running away from an hour ago.

  I’m coming for you, Adelaide. If those bastards have touched a hair on your head, I swear to God they will pay.

  I rev the motorbike to go faster. Wind and water whips me in the face as I move closer and closer to the woman I love and am determined to protect. No matter what.

  Adelaide

  I lie awake on my cot, sleepless.

  I’m thinking of Ford, and my heart aches.

  Where are you now, Ford?

  Does he miss me at all, or has he cut me out of his memory already?

  Another adventure over and done with on his way to more…whatever it is that he’s doing with his life.

  The rain is drumming on the roof of my hut.

  Oliver is no replacement for Ford.

  Not that I’d ever dream of doing the things I’ve done with Ford with Oliver!

  But simply as a guard and human being, he lacks the attentiveness, foresight, and kindness Ford has.

  And the dark past, I assume.

  Oliver stirs at the entrance to the hut, and I see his shape enter silently.

  He quickly strides over to my cot.

  Not seeing I’m awake in the dark, he shakes my shoulder.

  “What?” I mumble.

  “Something’s wrong,” he whispers. “I’ve heard someone approach the village, I think. I’ll go investigate. Stay inside, wait for my signal.”

  He moves back to the entrance and peers down the road between the huts.

  Then he ducks out into the rain, moving along close to the wall of the hut.

  I jump out of bed and quietly dig through my things.

  Ford has left me a gun.

  Just in case, he said, ever so thoughtful.

  Ever so pessimistic and paranoid, I thought then. But little did I know how soon I’d need the gun.

  There it is.

  The metal feels cold and foreign in my hand, but I grip the handle tightly. I take off the safety and place my finger on the trigger guard, just like he’s shown me.

  I tiptoe over to the entrance and take position next to it on the inside.

  Oliver has a signal, so anyone else stepping through without it, I need to…shoot?

  I really hope it doesn’t come to that.

  I listen intently out into the rain.

  Of course, they’ve come at night, under cover of the rain. The torrential downpour leaves zero visibility and surrounds the village like a curtain.

  Whoever’s out there could approach in total stealth.

  I pray Oliver will be back and give the all-clear. But with each passing second, my heart sinks mo
re and I suspect something’s up.

  Are those boots in the mud I hear outside?

  It’s hard to tell in the rain.

  There’s the sound of running footfalls in the muck close-by, and then a scuffle.

  Then I hear the thud of a blow connecting.

  Something heavy hits the ground, a knocked-out body splashing in the mud.

  I tighten my grip on the gun and press my back against the wall. My heart is pounding in my chest and my blood rushes in my ears, drowning out the rain.

  How does Ford do it? This suspense alone scares me more than anything.

  The barrel of an assault rifle pokes through the door opening.

  I hold my breath.

  Then the shape of a man inches forward.

  I hesitate a split-second, but spring into action.

  I quickly reach out and press the muzzle of the gun against his neck.

  “Don’t move,” I hiss, “or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

  My voice wavers, but I hold the gun firmly.

  His eyes are wide, as he moves them sideways to stare at me.

  “I mean it,” I say. “Put down your weapon. Slowly.”

  He unslings the rifle, and lowers it to the ground without taking his eyes off me.

  I push him with the gun, and he raises his hands over his head.

  He’s young. A local who’s been hired as a mercenary, desperately making a living on poaching and odd jobs thrown to him.

  But how did they find me here? Why are they coming for me now?

  I place my arm around him like the street mugger did with me, still pointing the gun at his neck.

  “I won’t hurt you if you do as I say,” I try to reassure him.

  He nods.

  I make him turn around and we step into the entrance of the hut.

  From the street, a half dozen rifles are pointed at us.

  “I have your friend here!” I shout, my voice breaking.

  The men in the street take a step back, but their rifles are still pointed at us.

  More poachers, from the looks of them.

  I order my hostage to step into the street with me and survey the scene.

  More men come running, some in khakis, some in old army fatigues. The whole village appears to be swarming with a wild bunch of these outlaws.

  They’re driving out the villagers from their homes, rounding them up. Looking for me, I assume.

  “Boss!” one of the men near us shouts. “Come here, we’ve found her!”

  “Great,” an oddly familiar voice sounds from further away, “Have you subdued her?”

  A man in camouflage pants is striding down the street towards us. He clicks his tongue in mock amusement as he takes in the scene outside my hut.

  Undeterred by my gun, he walks towards me, his hands on his hips, elbows at his sides.

  I recognize his face.

  He stops short a few feet away.

  It’s Demetri Bordeaux.

  “You!” I spit.

  “Adelaide,” he says, his voice all oily.

  “Whatever you want,” I shout, “you won’t get it!”

  I press the gun harder against the young man.

  Demetri raises his hands.

  “Let’s all be reasonable,” he says. “You’re reasonable, aren’t you, Adelaide?”

  I don’t like the sound of his voice.

  “You’ll come with us of your own accord,” he continues.

  “Like hell I will!” I scream at him.

  “Then you leave us no choice but to kill off the people of this village, one by one.”

  He slowly steps towards me, enunciating each smarmy oozing word.

  “We’ll start with the women and children.”

  He forms a gun with the thumb and index finger of his right hand, pointing it towards the square where the villagers are gathered.

  He sights in, then pulls the trigger, raising his forearm as if from recoil.

  “Bang, bang,” he says, “until you change your mind.”

  On his signal, his men fire a couple of rounds from their assault rifles into the air.

  The frightened children cry out and the women scream in fear, some falling to their knees, wringing their hands and pleading with the gang of poachers.

  “You monster!” I shout, my voice overwhelmed with anger. “Let them go!”

  Demetri turns to me.

  “We will, if you cooperate. Now, Adelaide,” he says, “your choice. Which one will it be?”

  “You will not get away with this!” I scream.

  He grins, baring his teeth.

  “Give me the gun, and no one will be hurt, including you. Provided your family meets my demands. They’ll find them very…reasonable. A cool billion dollars—for your life.”

  He chuckles.

  I’ve come to love this village, and not only do I care for my patients, but all the people here are dear to me. I have to think of them first and do what’s best for them.

  I can’t risk their lives. I have to give in to his demands.

  Defeated, I let go of the young man in my clutch and engage the gun’s safety, handing it to Demetri.

  “I will go with you,” I say. “Just leave the villagers in peace.”

  “Excellent,” he says triumphantly. “Tie her up.”

  Two men jump forward and wrestle my arms behind my back. They tighten zip-ties around my wrists, so my hands are bound.

  “And you,” Demetri yells at the man I overpowered, “How come you let a woman disarm you? Loser!”

  He pistol-whips the guy, sending him tumbling for a few feet.

  I wonder if he and Ford are really two of a kind, and how much of a dark past they share.

  Demetri loves violence, and seems capable of any evil. I have a different image of Ford, even though he was ruthless with the street mugger.

  Ford could have turned this situation around.

  But he’s not here, because he only thought of himself.

  The kidnappers march me through the village. I can see now that they have the entire village surrounded with their jeeps.

  Oliver never stood a chance.

  As we pass the square with the villagers, an old woman tries to run forward.

  “Daktari!” she shouts in panic.

  I recognize her as a former patient of mine.

  One of the poachers steps in and butts her with his rifle, knocking her to the ground.

  I’m horrified and wince in pain. “Stop!”

  “Stand back,” I shout at the villagers in Swahili, “and they won’t harm you.”

  “Yote yatakuwa sawa,” I add, mumbling.

  Everything will be alright.

  Only I hardly believe it myself.

  I spot Oliver on the back of one of the jeeps, his hands tied like mine with a sack over his head.

  They throw me into the back of truck, and I get one last look at the village and its frightened people staring after us.

  Then a sack is placed over my own head, and everything goes dark.

  As the truck jerks forward and starts rolling, I notice the rain has stopped.

  But under the cover over my head, hot tears are streaming down my cheeks.

  Ford

  Me—and my life—isn’t for everyone.

  I understand that fact and have accepted it.

  The CIA is a perfect example—it’s not a job anyone can handle, let alone a job that anyone can just get.

  It’s for the few and far between.

  But this is not me boasting, I’m not saying I’m special or anything. I became an agent because I’m fucked up enough to agree to such a life.

  So why would I expect someone else to do the same? To willingly sign up for that life when theirs has been nothing but charmed?

  It doesn’t make sense to me.

  Like all the other agents, I was willing and able to live a life of solitude. Away from everyone, so that I could avoid getting hurt—again and again—while also trying to avoi
d hurting others, the latter being the most important.

  And that comes from experience.

  People have pasts—that’s to be expected—but mine is an outlier, one of the most extreme. I’ve done and seen things that no man should.

  It’s been scarring, and those scars run deep.

  I know that I’m not easy, and that my baggage—or whatever the fuck it’s called, is fucking heavy.

  It’s a goddamn hard pill to swallow, and I know I’ve swallowed a shit ton.

  But how can I tell her not to accept that—when I have?

  She is more than capable and strong enough.

  And who the hell am I to decide who she loves?

  I’ll never understand how she fell for me, although our connection is overwhelmingly powerful, but I can’t stop her from loving me.

  Hell, I don’t want to.

  And I need to just fucking accept it—accept her love and take it for what it is—the most precious gift she could ever give me.

  But in return, I vow to protect her and be the man she can always rely on, regardless of whatever shit is thrown our way, and that we might throw at each other.

  I will always be there for her.

  Though it’ll be scary, and I’m sure it’ll be hard, I’ve never been more certain that she needs me, like I need her.

  I get that I’m coming to this realization rather late, and I admit it, I’m an asshole for that.

  But I can be the bigger man and go back to her with a tail between my legs, asking her for her forgiveness and for her love.

  I need to be by her side as her shield, her fighter, and her lover.

  Adrenaline fills me, and my heart pounds out of my chest as I make my way back to her.

  But as I approach the village, anxiety replaces my exhilaration.

  I immediately feel the tension and turmoil of the village—something’s not right.

  It’s eerily quiet, though I hear faint sobs echoing through the dewy, humid air.

  The cries get louder as I get closer, and a woman screams, making me all the more vigilant.

  I jump off the motorbike, too anxious to wait, and sprint towards the village.

  Fuck.

  Adelaide.

  My mind focuses solely on her, and her well-being.

  Where is she? Is she ok?

  Running straight to her hut, I pass a crowd of the local women, hugging each other, praying and sobbing. Most of the children clutch on to their mothers, standing outside of their huts. All of them look as if they’ve seen the face of death and lived to remember it.