Storm

by Jo Raven

  To take me home. Fuck.

  I wonder if Rook heard the news and will come visit. The idea is both exciting and alarming. Rook can be one scary motherfucker when he’s in a bad mood, and my vanishing act is sure to have pissed him off.

  Meet my friends: Hawk, sarcasm incarnate, and Rook, the eternal grump.

  I relinquish my hold on Raylin when the attendant comes in with our clothes. Black pressed pants, shirt, and jacket for me, and a gray dress for Raylin. She also brings shoes, coats and even generic underwear.

  The attendant hangs the clothes on a hook and turns to help Raylin undress.

  Raylin takes a step back, and I get between them. “We’re fine, Sondra. Go ahead and check if the car is here.”

  Raylin grabs the dress, then glances up at me, slender dark brows knitted. I’m not sure she’s enraged about the conservative gray knee-length dress or just shocked.

  “I didn’t ask for anything specific,” I say, wincing inwardly at the pants, jacket, and white shirt. I ignore the tie as I start undressing. “They brought what they thought we might want.”

  She nods, and her silence is yet another sign she’s not dealing with this so well. Dammit. I need to get her alone with me again, work her over until she relaxes and tells me what’s on her mind.

  That requires putting on clothes and get into that car.

  A glance at my phone make me wince again. I put it on silent during the flight, and I only have, like, thirty missed calls and countless text messages to wade through. Everyone, from the company Board of Directors to the cleaning lady needs to talk to me and have my signature on something. I hope I can put off meeting with the lawyers until tomorrow, at least.

  My heart is hammering with adrenaline. What I want to do right now is run, let it out of my system. Or swim. That might do the trick. Do some laps in the pool.

  I’m falling back into my old habits and barely noticing. Back into my old life, though my apartment where we’ll be heading in a minute came to me only after my uncle died. But this… this lack of worry about where everything comes from, transport, money, food, this lack of effort on my part for most things people have to fight for is like slipping into my discarded skin and becoming that guy again.

  That guy, that snake, lurking in the Garden of Good and Evil, and knowing the truth has never been a blessing. At least, not to me.

  ***

  The white limo drives us to the city center. The short drive there is spent in silence. Raylin keeps tugging on the hem of her dress. She kicked off her shoes the moment we stepped into the car. She looks different, in that dress, and yet the same. Just as sexy, and the cut clings to her curves, making my mouth water.

  Shit, I wish the building had a helipad like the one where my uncle used to live, but I couldn’t do it after he died and I came back. Couldn’t live in his apartment or the family home. No way.

  My leg throbs in rhythm to the pounding in my head. I watch the city roll by through the tinted windows, and I’m so sure something else will happen on the way—another accident, like a car crashing into us, bullets slamming through us, a bomb going off and tearing us to pieces—that I start when Raylin puts a hand on my thigh.

  “We stopped,” she says. “Where are we?”

  I blink, and sure enough we have arrived. The building soars up into the sky, sparkling in the midday sun, a tower of glass and polished steel.

  “We’re home,” I say, the word meaningless to me, but at least we made it here. So far so good.

  Paranoid, my mind accuses, and I hear Hawk’s voice like an echo behind it. Paranoid. When will you accept the fact nobody’s after you?

  The doorman gets my door, and I squint into the daylight. I climb out and quickly round the limo to open Raylin’s door myself. She gives me her hand and I pull her out, put an arm around her, keeping her close to me as we hurry to the entrance.

  Could it be all in my head? Could he be right? I guess everyone thinks his luck is worse than that of others, when in fact we’re all struggling to keep our heads above the water. Fact is, tragedy can strike just about anyone, rich or poor, ugly or beautiful. I should know.

  Only problem is, I don’t really believe in luck. I believe in consequences. You lie in the bed you made for yourself, that’s what I believe. No matter how my parents’ death fucked me up, how it tore me apart, I’m pretty sure they brought it on themselves. Karma, man. It’s a bitch.

  As for my uncle, I think he tread waters too deep to keep his footing.

  We enter the elevator, and I insert my key to start it. The doors close and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  Yeah, karma. And as for myself… No clue. Guess I must have been an asshole in a past life. A real first-class motherfucker.

  “You okay, Storm?” Her voice is a silver thread in the maze of my thoughts, and I follow it to find her staring up at me with those big eyes that look right into my soul.

  “I should be the one asking you this. This is my life, and I’ve dragged you into it. I’m sorry.”

  “You mean after I dragged you into a shoot-out with the Chinese mafia.” Her brows draw together. “You almost got killed because of me.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “Are you apologizing for saving my life? For flying me away in your private jet and taking me to your home?” She tsks. “How awful of you. You should be on your knees.”

  “Dammit, Ray.” It takes me a second or two, because she looks so solemn, and then I crack up. “If you want me on my knees, I’ll do it.” My laughter fades at the mental image. “Yeah, I’ll get down, but I’ll have you naked and wet for me, first. And then I’ll make you come so hard you won’t know what hit you.”

  She starts and opens her mouth, her eyes wide and a flush rising to her cheeks—but then the elevator dings and slows to a stop.

  Twenty-third floor. The penthouse.

  The doors slide open with a whisper, but she doesn’t move, still staring at me. So I put my hand on the small of her back and give her a tiny shove.

  “Welcome to my world, Ray.”

  Don’t let it scare you away.

  RAYLIN

  I walk into his apartment and try to keep my jaw from hitting the floor. Yeah, he’s a millionaire, I got it, okay? Heard it the first time. Been in the jet and the limo, but holy crap Batman…

  Knowing and seeing it for yourself is never the same thing, is it?

  Pretending nothing’s out of the ordinary, that I see pads like this one every other day, I wander through the huge open-plan living room and kitchen which opens to a terrace. There’s a lit-up pool I can see through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors. The furniture is black leather and metal, one wall taken by a huge bookcase filled with books, messily arranged in rows and piles. A charcoal rug covers the floor.

  “It’s… nice,” I whisper, my voice cracking. Dammit. I clear my throat. “Cozy.”

  Storm grins and shakes his head.

  Okay, so it’s not exactly cozy, but it’s not cold, either. It’s very obviously a guy’s pad, and it has Storm’s touch. Probably. What with the leather and metal and all.

  Not that I’d know what his style is. I barely know the guy, and the thought is almost enough to make me panic again.

  Almost.

  But I won’t. I was serious before. He helped me, saved my life, protected me when he had no obligation and no reason to do so. I owe him, and I trust him. He has no need of me. Doesn’t need to help me. And with his looks and money, he could get any girl he wanted, if it’s sex he’s after. God knows he’d get a better deal.

  It’s enough. More than enough for now. I’m exhausted. I may sleep for a few days, if he lets me. He has security, right? Bodyguards, too, I’m guessing. Should be safe for a while.

  Take what you can get today, Ray. You’re overthinking this. Stop it. It never helps.

  I open the sliding door and step outside, onto the terrace. The pool reminds me of the mansion on the beach, and the scent of the sea is here, too, thoug
h it’s colder. I shiver as I cross the terrace, walking alongside the pool to reach the rail, and I tell myself it’s from the cool wind whipping back my hair.

  Okay, so I’m still in shock, even if things make more sense now—like how at ease he seemed in that mansion. His mansion. Correction, one of his mansions. He probably has several scattered around the country. Hell, around the world.

  Scratch staying calm. How am I supposed to wrap my head around this? My hands tighten over the rail. It’s steel and glass, like the building. Cold. Perfect. Expensive.

  Storm says he trusts me. Says I saved him from himself. Whatever that means.

  A millionaire who thinks someone’s after him and the daughter of an alcoholic conman wanted by the Chinese mafia. Sounds like a bad joke. I’d laugh out loud if I wasn’t pretty sure he told me the truth. He was right when he said he never lied to me. He didn’t.

  But I’m also pretty sure he didn’t tell me everything. Still hasn’t.

  Then again, neither have I. Trust is something you dole out in spoonfuls. It’s another face of respect. It comes to you bit by bit, little by little, until it’s wrung out of you despite your will. When you’re won over, worn down until you have to believe, have to open up.

  Slowly.

  Nothing slow about this wild ride so far. No wonder my head is spinning and I can’t decide what to do next.

  I’m tired of running. But how can I stop?

  Storm.

  No, not Storm. Troy Jordan.

  All right. There lies the heart of the problem. I’m in Troy Jordan’s penthouse, looking down at the harbor, the sunlight glinting on the water. White sailboats float in the blue. Tall buildings rise around us. Damn, this place must cost a fortune.

  But he’s still Storm, I remind myself. Nothing has changed.

  Oh really, Ray? Keep telling yourself that. Self-delusion is a great thing. Up until now you chose to ignore the clues and were comfortable believing he broke into that mansion, just like you, that he’s just like you in every way. But he’s not. In any way. He belongs in a completely different world, one you have no hope of ever entering, or even understanding.

  You thought his life was similar to yours. That he’d get it when you told him every last secret you hide inside.

  And now…

  “A dollar for your thoughts.” He appears by my side and leans on the rail, dark hair falling in his eyes. He has unbuttoned his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. His tanned, corded forearms rest on the polished metal.

  My thoughts are a tangle. I’d rather not share them. “Only a dollar? Thought you were a millionaire.”

  He chuckles. God, I love that sound. I could drink it from his mouth, spread it on the floor and roll in it like a cat. “Still not convinced? You think I’m renting this place by the hour, just to show off?”

  I wish it were that. So much simpler. “Maybe.”

  He sighs. “Well, I haven’t got more than twenty dollars in cash on me right now. I didn’t dare use my cards because they could be tracked.”

  “In case someone was looking for you.” To kill you.

  Which I still am not sure I believe.

  “Yeah.” He lets out a long breath. “So how about those twenty bucks for your thoughts?”

  “My thoughts aren’t worth that much. Not even a dollar, in fact. I was shitting you. Storm…” I swallow hard. “I’m not worth that much.”

  “That’s where we disagree, baby. Told you.”

  Yeah, he did, didn’t he? And nope, I can’t trust he’d do that for me—pay millions to set me free, even less if it means putting himself in danger. I trust it even less than I believe his story about some mysterious guys after him.

  “You matter to me.”

  I want to believe that so bad. So I do what I do best: I ignore it as best I can. Just like I ignore every hope and wish I have for the future.

  He straightens, rubbing at his side that’s tangled up in the vines and roses inked on his skin. “It’s going to rain.”

  I glance up at the fluffy clouds, then back at him. “Does it hurt?”

  His hand stills. “Sometimes.”

  “I meant the tattoo.”

  “Sometimes, yeah. Because of the thorns, ya know.” He winks, and I snort softly.

  “Why the roses? What do they mean?”

  “Why the fuck do they have to mean something? It’s just ink.” He turns away, but not before I see his hands twitch. “I’m starving. I’ll order some food.”

  Secrets.

  I thought I saw a pain in his eyes that matches my own. A desperation that mirrors mine. A dark shadow that I could feel in my own chest, like a second heartbeat.

  But what do I know? I know nothing.

  So I shrug and follow him inside. I follow his lead, until I figure out how things will play out, and what role will be assigned to me in this new game.

  Chapter Thirteen

  STORM

  Raylin shrugs when I ask her what she would like to eat. She shrugs when I ask her if salmon is acceptable. She shrugs when I tell her she can shop for clothes from the online catalogues on my laptop, so she can wear something she likes.

  I’m this close to banging my head on the wall. Her face is blank, her voice flat, her defenses are all up and in my face.

  Why is she acting this way? I get that she didn’t expect any of this, but hell, a week ago I hadn’t, either. I hadn’t expected to find her, or bring her here. Much less hurry to sign in for my inheritance, so I can pay off the Chinese mafia.

  I’m doing this to help her. I didn’t want to come back here, goddammit. Not yet anyway. Not until I’d figured out a plan, and I’m not only talking about making sure I survive to see my twenty-second year.

  No, I’m talking about the secret I’m keeping, the one that’s been eating me alive all these years, the one I couldn’t do anything about—until now. Maybe. If I can work it out.

  I didn’t need any mafia on my back, too, but if that’s what it takes to keep her safe, to keep her alive… I’ll be damned if I let her parents fuck up her life any more, like my parents did with mine. She doesn’t deserve that. Nobody does, but least of all her. She’s sweet, she’d kind, she’s fearless, and she makes me feel…

  Like what, Storm? Come on, let us have it. Make you feel like what?

  No.

  So I open the door when the concierge pings me on the number I only use for such matters, and he carries inside the delivery boxes from my favorite restaurant, depositing them on the kitchen counter.

  “It’s good to have you back, sir,” he offers as he takes them out of the paper bags and goes in search of dishes. “Would you like me to serve you outdoors, on the terrace?”

  “No, Cyrus, thank you.”

  “You’re right, sir. It might rain.”

  “Yeah, it might.” Out of the corner of one eye, I catch Raylin’s slightly slack-jawed expression, and I’m torn between laughing and groaning out loud. “Thank you, Cyrus. I’ve got it from here.”

  “Of course, sir.” He gives a small bow in Raylin’s direction. “Madam.”

  As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, she leans against the counter and a choked sound leaves her throat. “Madam? Seriously?”

  Not sure how to interpret that, I pull out dishes and silverware. “Wanna eat here or by the pool?”

  She bites her lip, then turns around and leaves the room without a word.

  Know what? Fuck this. Enough waiting around for her to tell me what the matter is. I just drop everything and go after her.

  Because she’s mine, has been mine since I saw her on that beach, and I’ll make sure she knows it.

  ***

  She’s standing at the door of my bedroom, one arm over her face, dark hair spilling over her shoulders, shiny and soft. Damn, just looking at her, at the curve of her long neck, those pretty curves and shapely legs, makes me hard.

  And goddamn angry. Fucking pissed that she won’t tell me what’s wrong.

  “R
ay,” I say, but she doesn’t move.

  Her breath hitches, and her shoulders shake, a slight tremor that cuts through me, through my fury like a razor blade.

  Dammit. I take her arm and lower it, then pull her to me.

  “Why are you crying?” I whisper, my chest tight. “What’s going on?”

  She doesn’t speak for a while, but lets me hold her to my chest, so it can’t be that bad, right? I hate to admit it, but I’m glad she’s feeling something, that she’s showing me how she feels, because I’m shaken. Her slight body trembles in my arms, and it’s fucking crazy that I came back, that I brought her back with me, that I made her promises I intend to keep no matter the cost. That I’d do anything for her.

  That I need her as if my life depends on her.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” I say. “I’ll keep you safe, Ray. I swear I’ll do all that’s in my ability to protect you.”

  A joke.

  Fucking Christ, Storm. Even if you pay her debt, you’re the last thing she needs. She doesn’t need your dark secrets and the danger that follows you.

  “Can’t.” Her small fist hits my pec with a small thud. “Can’t believe in fairytales and a prince charming. Never have.”

  “That what’s bothering you? You’ve seen me. You know me.”

  “Do I?” she asks softly. “Do I call you Troy now?”

  “There is no Troy,” I explain to her patiently, because I know this sounds nuts, and if this is what’s scaring her… “He’s just a name. Storm is real. Troy is a ghost. Do you understand?”

  She’s clutching the front of my shirt, saying nothing, and I wrack my mind, trying to figure this out.

  Then she pushes off me, wiping at her cheeks, face closing off again.

  Fuck. This. Shit.

  The sting I feel in my chest can’t be fear, fear that I’m losing her already, before I even get a chance to really be with her… right? And yeah, I know I said she shouldn’t be with me, that I’m a danger to her, but dammit, I can’t.

  Can’t let go yet. Not ready.

  So I hem her in with my body, push her against the wall and brace one arm by her face, leaning in and kissing her. Tasting her anger, her fear, her need. Going back to what we know, what works for us. What brought us together in the first place.